The white rubber boots that were his father’s only footwear, save a pair of loafers he wore on formal occasions, had embarrassed him growing up. Watching him sitting in the bleachers at Little League games and other events wearing those damned boots had cast Sloan as the son of a fisherman. Now, hindered by those very same boots, JC slogged up Margaret Street, allowing Sloan to follow at a leisurely pace.
The men reached the cemetery and Sloan hung back while JC pulled something from his pocket. His first impression was that it was a gun, and he slid back against a trash can. Seeing it was a key, he relaxed as his father opened the gate and entered the cemetery. Sloan didn’t need to follow any longer; he knew exactly where they had stashed Trufante.
Ducking into the covered entrance of a church across the street, he waited until the men left. Once they were out of sight, he walked across the street and took a quick look around. Rain in the Keys was a regular event, especially in the summer, when it could rain every day. Mostly squalls and thunderstorms, the rain was intense, but of short duration and just a nuisance. This, however, looked to be a sustained rain, rather than a cloudburst. The residents must have felt it, too, for when he looked around, he saw the streets were deserted.
Once his father and his goons were out of sight, Sloan scaled the fence and walked directly to the family crypt. The decorative gate was locked, causing him to step over the low fence, where he landed with one foot solidly in a puddle of water. Bringing the other foot over, he moved to the door of the crypt. It, too, was locked, and that was okay. He didn’t want the Cajun freed just yet; he needed information first.
“Trufante,” Sloan called out.
He heard the hiss of a cat and then a scratchy voice. “Who that?”
“Sloan. The door’s locked, but if you tell me where to find Travis, I’ll get you out of here.”
“Hot damn.”
Trufante gave him directions to Ned’s house, and without a word, Sloan turned and left.
Mac and Mel stood closer together than either cared; wanting privacy, they were forced by the rain to huddle under the cover of the porch roof outside Ned’s back door. The small overhang held the water at bay, but their disagreement demanded more space.
“You go out there now, you’ll get shot,” Mel said.
Mac was well aware of the risks, but he deemed it safer to go out in the storm under cover of darkness than wait until daylight.
“There won’t be anyone out in this mess.”
“If it holds till tomorrow, they’ll be calling it a Rum Front, and every barstool in Key West’ll have a fisherman’s butt on it. You can just as easily go then.”
Mac knew better. The rain would cancel charters, but as a fisherman himself, he knew that the rain brought better fishing. Anyone who had traps set would want to pull and rebait them. Most set their traps in shallows up to about eight feet, and these flats would be stirred up by the rain, making for a good bite.
Mac pulled out his phone and opened the weather radar app. He had to zoom out to where half the state was visible to see the backend of the green mass now over them. It was going to rain awhile.
“I’d just as soon get it done now. You know if your dad was still alive, he’d be out there tomorrow. Rusty will, too.”
“What about a boat?” she asked.
He had won the battle. “We’ll take Tru’s center console.”
“Ned has an armory in there. Take something and do what you have to.” Her eyes softened and she touched his arm. “And, be careful.”
They went back inside and Mac walked over to Ned and quietly asked him for a weapon. Leading him back to the gun safe in his office closet, Ned proudly unveiled his arsenal. Choosing a nine-millimeter semiautomatic for its durability, ease of use, and stopping power, Mac took the pistol and a spare magazine.
Ned handed over the keys to the VW, and with the pistol tucked in his waistband and the shotgun under his arm, Mac let himself out the back door. When he turned toward the driveway, he was shocked to see Pamela already there.
“You’re not going out there without me.”
He was beyond asking how she knew he was leaving. “It’s pretty crappy out there. Could be dangerous,” Mac said, trying to discourage her, though he knew it was probably useless.
“Not on your life, Mac Travis.”
Mac turned back to Ned. “Maybe need something for her.”
Mac followed Ned back into the office. Remembering that Pamela had used a shotgun before, he eyed the four long guns standing side-by-side in the rack.
“One of those, too?” Ned asked.
“The 410’ll work. Twelve-gauge might be too much for her.”
“You’re gonna give Pamela a gun?”
“You’d be surprised what’s in there,” Mac said to Ned, nodding his head at Pamela, and reaching for the shorter of the guns. Ned handed him a box of shells and two tactical flashlights. With his arms full, he walked into the living room.
The unlikely pair dodged the rainwater dripping from the gingerbread molding as they walked to Ned’s VW.
Twenty-One
Not wanting to be seen, Mac parked the VW in a dark corner of the marina. Though the streets were deserted, he remained cautious, and with the pistol stashed in the waistband of his shorts and the shotgun held parallel to his leg, he followed Pamela to Trufante’s center console.
They were quickly aboard. Finding the key was the next priority, and he reached into the console, searching for the battery switch. Wood had always stashed the keys to a boat here, and Mac had continued the tradition. It wasn’t a great, or even good, hiding place; in fact, it was rather obvious. But boats, for a variety of reasons, weren’t often stolen, unlike cars. Mac knew that if you wanted to prevent a stolen craft, the best method was to put a sturdy lock on the battery switch—something generally not worth the effort.
Thankful that he didn’t have to use a light, he found the rubber float attached to the two keys. Easing his body out of the small console, he made sure the battery switch was set to “both,” and stood by the helm.
Mac turned to Pamela. “Can you get the lines?”
He immediately noticed that she evaluated the conditions before going to the bow. When he had first met her, she had been new to boating, but since buying the boat for Tru, she had apparently learned. Many boaters just dropped their lines unaware of the strength of the tides and winds that waited to damage their boats. She removed the slack line first. With the wind pushing the nose of the boat forward, the bow line was doing little work. After untying the line from the cleat, Mac nodded to her and she went to the stern. A properly tied dock line will have the first wrap all the way around the base of the cleat, allowing the boater to use the line to leverage the boat without removing and retying it. Pamela undid the knot, leaving the last wrap, and looked over her shoulder at the helm. Mac nodded to her, and she released the end, then pulled the line into the boat.
They were clear now, and as far as Mac could tell, had not been seen. With the twin engines purring quietly behind them, Mac steered the boat at an idle out of the dock and into the turning basin. As he exited the marina, he glanced at the docked boats as they passed. There was something about a good-looking boat that drew his eye, and just before he was clear, he noticed a sailboat tied near the end of the dock. He could tell from the wide beam that she was a motorsailer. The self-furling sails were concealed in the mast, and what looked like a retractable tailgate was in the lowered position, exposing the deck of the boat, which looked to be all one level. On top of the wide cabin was a rack with two paddleboards secured.
Moving his attention back to the water, he navigated out of the Bight. At an idle, the rain was a slight nuisance, but once he accelerated, the drops were like pellets, stinging his face and body. Pamela was able to hide in the shadow of the console with her back to the elements, but Mac was exposed. He grit his teeth and plowed forward, looking to the dark sky for any sign that it was going to stop. The moon was shapeless, its lig
ht barely bleeding through a thin patch in the thick layer of clouds. Devoid of most moonlight and with no stars at all, the night sky blended into the horizon.
Mac knew these waters and had left the chartplotter off, not wanting the glow of its light to be seen from land. Now that they were offshore, he turned on the instruments and navigation lights. Out here, he would look more out of place running dark. Trufante had the boat rigged for catching bait in the predawn hours, and had mounted spreader lights fore and aft. Mac flipped the switch for the forward-facing light. The bright LEDs lit the water ahead, and he had to decide between losing his night vision, or being able to see any hazards in their path. He judged sight as more important, cut the light off, and reducing speed slightly, sent an unhappy Pamela to the bow to look for trap buoys.
They were around the cruise ship pier, currently vacant and under repair after heavy seas had slammed a liner into it. Soon the silhouette of Fort Zachary Taylor came into view. The chartplotter confirmed Mac’s planned path, and he steered further offshore to avoid the shallows. Once they were around the southernmost point, he searched the shore for the crumbling tower at the West Martello fort. There was no longer a light there, but he hoped the shape would be visible. Besides the White Street Pier, it was the only landmark he knew.
Typical of the squally weather, the rain stopped and the moon poked out. Mac knew he would only have a minute until the next rain cell was overhead. Scanning the shore, he found the tower, and then the pier.
Steering just offshore of it, he turned the fore spreader light back on and, with one eye on the depth finder, started searching for the red and yellow buoys. He found the line, and dropping to an idle, watched the depth finder as it ticked from six to eight feet. This was the area where he had been forced to stop his search the day before.
“Can you get the gaff? We’re coming up on the first pot.” Mac called back to Pamela. He looked around, feeling exposed. A light rain had started again, and a new band of clouds now covered the moon, but with the spreader light on and this close to shore, they stood out like the cherry on top of an ice cream sundae. With his nerves already frayed from being up for almost twenty-four hours, his anxiety ratcheted up another notch when Pamela swatted at the trap line, missing it entirely.
There is an art to gaffing, whether a fish, or a line. Beginners instinctively use the gaff as a club, trying to impale the fish or grab the line by force. By placing the gaff in the water and lifting up on the fish or the line with little effort, the tool worked well. It was actually easy, but required patience. Mac was about to explain the mechanics to her when he saw the green and red running lights of a boat coming toward them. From its unwavering course, and Mac knew they had been spotted and that it was probably Rusty. Hoping that he could avoid being getting caught in the trap line, he cut the spreader lights, and pushed the throttle down.
Careful not to add too much pressure to the control, he motored at a fast idle away from Rusty’s traps, slowing then stopping in an area clear of buoys. His only defense was to make it look like he was chasing bait; poaching traps was something you could get killed for.
Rusty saw the boat ahead, and guessed exactly what it was doing. Rain was both auspicious and a nuisance for fishermen; those brave enough would wait until daylight, when the hardcore (or desperate) captains would be out. The current dark, cold, rainy conditions were tolerable by themselves, but all three together were an excuse to stay home.
The alarm on Rusty’s phone had gone off at its usual time. Hearing the rain smacking against the metal roof, he rolled back over, thinking four thirty was too early to be up this morning, but had been unable to fall back asleep. In fact, he had tossed and turned so much last night that his wife had abandoned him for the couch.
His decision to leave the drugs in the trap was on his mind. Even with the coordinates recorded, stuff happened out there. Neither the surface or the bottom of the ocean was the same two days in a row. Despite the snowbirds’ claims, winter was still a season in the subtropical latitudes. Most days were postcard perfect, but every week or so a front came through. Many systems were too weak to do more than knock a few percentage points off the humidity level, but the stronger ones, as this was, had an impact. Sixty degrees was pretty damned cold here.
That much money sitting on the ocean floor was too uncertain for him. He had regretted not taking it as soon he got back last night; now he knew he had to retrieve it.
After sliding into the top and bottoms of his wool long underwear, he pulled up his rain pants and put on a thick pair of socks. Cold was the enemy of anyone on the water and there were few, if any, enclosed wheelhouses with heaters this far south. After a lifetime spent at sea, he knew what to wear for every temperature and condition. Downstairs, he grabbed his jacket and, deciding not to wake his wife, went out to the truck. She knew that fishing in the rain was often profitable and would think nothing of him being gone.
The rain continued on and off as he drove down Atlantic Street to Stock Island. Out of habit, he kept a weather eye on the ocean to the right, and just before he reached the White Street Pier, he saw a light.
Glancing at the clock on the dashboard, he saw it was just short of five o’clock. Fishermen were creatures of habit, and unless they were heading far offshore, planned to be on the water at daybreak. A boat out there now, in these conditions, could only mean one thing—a poacher.
Feeling for the shotgun under his seat, he pulled it out and accelerated. Flying down Atlantic, he passed the airport, then crossed the bridge to Stock Island. Several minutes later, he was aboard his boat, engine running, and lines dropped. Motoring out of the inlet, he turned back to see the pile of rubble that until yesterday had been the fish house. The rain had extinguished the last of the smoldering embers, and the site looked vacant and dead.
He reached the channel and pushed down on the throttle. The lobster boat was not made for speed, but without the weight of the traps, he was able to get up on plane as he passed the last marker. Ahead, he could see the spreader lights of the boat and grabbed his shotgun. Placing it within easy reach, he continued toward the light.
At first, he was confused when he saw the boat was a center console, but as he approached he could see the outline of a man and woman. Just before they extinguished their spreader light, he saw the man turn in his direction. It was Travis. With one hand on the wheel, Rusty set the barrel of the shotgun on the windshield.
Rusty was well aware of how inaccurate gunfire was on the water, and did his best to settle into the rhythm of the seas before he exhaled and fired.
Twenty-Two
The sight of the fish house burning to the ground haunted JC, and he barely slept. He questioned his gods, asking them how this could happen to such a loyal follower, but there was no response. Seeing Sloan had bothered him. Knowing the black cloud that was his son was involved turned the situation from bad to dire.
He’d been a proud father, supporting the boy, in the hope he would break the mold and change the dye cast on his family. To some extent he had. On the rare occasions that JC took off the white rubber boots and put on his loafers, the Key West crowd was always interested in what Sloan was doing.
It had become more important after Sloan’s mother hightailed it out of the Keys with some lawyer from the Midwest. He had never been sure if it was him or the island that made her run. Key West could have that effect on people. For the few, the seas opened up the island; for others, being surrounded by water closed them in. Once his first wife had left, he felt the need to become legitimate to meet the second Mrs. Cristobal. Looking back at the woman who had turned into the witch he was currently married to, he realized the money was all for naught.
He threw a nasty look at her as he got out of bed and set his feet on the old wood floor, and smiled for the first time in two days. His boy was in for a rude awakening.
More worrisome to his plans was Travis. It had been when he showed up things went off the rails. Looking once again at the woman a
dorned with her scented face-mask on the other side of the bed, he left the room and climbed down the old stairs, staying to the outside of the treads so they wouldn’t squeak. Reaching the kitchen, he pushed the power button on the coffeemaker and looked out the window as the machine worked its magic.
The trees swayed back and forth, and rain dripped from the eaves of the metal roof. With deluges common here, gutters were close to worthless. What rain the ground could not handle flowed to the side streets, which became tributaries to the larger ones, which ultimately dumped the brown, silted water into the ocean. The greenies were all about stopping the sediment from reaching the ocean, but JC thought otherwise. Tourists might come for the advertiser’s claim of crystal-clear waters, but the fish bit better when it was murky. Cursing the weather, he grabbed the coffee pot, filled his insulated mug, and stepped outside.
The witch would not allow his white rubber boots on her floors, allowing them no further than a rubber mat by the door. Sitting on the bench by the side door, he reached for them. Looking at the sky, he knew dawn would be slow in coming this morning. It was still dark, the cloud cover concealing the moon and stars. Instead of a brilliant tropical sunrise, the sky would slowly lighten to a charcoal color, and that would be it.
He sat for a minute, wondering what he should do. His morning routine, etched into his soul over the preceding four decades, had ended with the fire. That fueled his growing anger even more, and revenge took center stage in his mind. First, he would find the priestess who had taken his money and misled him, then he would find Travis.
The first shot startled him, but missed the boat. Instinctively, after hearing the retort, Mac started to take evasive action. He swerved to port and then starboard, hoping the serpentine movement of the boat would throw off the shooter’s aim.
Wood's Fury Page 14
