Wood's Fury

by Steven Becker

  Moving under the cover of a restaurant’s awning, he watched the boat back into a slip, and pulled out his phone. The last three calls had been to Rusty—all unanswered. He hoped the fisherman was still asleep with his phone turned off, but JC knew there was another reason he might not be answering. When Travis and the woman stepped onto the dock empty handed the gnawing suspicion that had been building in his stomach rose into his throat. Travis didn’t have the drugs, and Rusty wasn’t answering.

  If Travis didn’t have the drugs, he was a dead end. He needed to find Rusty, but before he located the missing fisherman, he needed to feed his hostage.

  Twenty-Four

  Sloan ducked deeper into the alley where he had been hiding. Knowing the window for his delivery and payment was closing quickly, he had wandered toward the café, remembering stopping there was part of his father’s morning ritual. By the time his father arrived, the ball cap on his head was soaked through, ruining the last bit of his meager protection against the weather.

  Not much later, a boat arrived; one coming in this early, and in this weather, caught his attention. When he turned to check it out, he saw Mac Travis. Hoping either his father or Travis would provide him a clue that would lead him to the drugs, he waited, watching both men.

  He wasn’t sure exactly what he was hoping for, but any action was better than the stagnation he had felt since arriving here. Any moment, he expected a call from his supplier. The storm would only provide an excuse until it passed, and in the growing light he already could see the last of the squall lines blowing south past Key West. Small wisps of black clouds still blew through, providing a few sudden downpours, but the worst had passed, and that meant he was running out of time.

  After he saw Travis back the boat into a slip. Sloan looked down Front Street, desperate to find a cab in order to follow Mac after he left the boat. His eyes stopped at the Cuban coffee shop he remembered from his childhood. The door opened and an FWC agent left. He knew the man’s presence had something to do with his father. Moving closer, he looked through the window, and saw his father sitting alone at a corner table.

  Glancing back at the marina, he saw Pamela was with Travis. He wasn’t sure what to think. Despite, or maybe because of, her disinterest in him, he was still fascinated by her. He tried to put the sexual stirrings aside and focus on the reason the pair were together. Because with Trufante, his father’s hostage, it had to have something to do with the drugs.

  As if on cue, the rain stopped as soon as Mac got into the VW. One look to the north told him that the worst was over, although several patches of dark clouds remained. Just as he started the engine, his phone rang. He stared at the screen, knowing the call was local, but not who it was from. He had no choice but to answer.

  “Seems you show up in all the wrong places, Travis.”

  Mac didn’t need an introduction. He knew the voice. “Sounds like you’re into something you shouldn’t be, as well.”

  “Goddamned son of bitch…” JC started, then quickly mumbled something Mac couldn’t hear. “That Cajun boy mean anything to you?”

  Mac felt Pamela close the gap between them. The call volume was up and JC was speaking loudly. Mac could tell from the look on her face that she had heard. “What about him?” Mac turned to Pamela and gave her a reassuring look that also told her to stay quiet.

  “Seems like you were responsible for the loss of my product and I have your mate. A trade might be in order.”

  “I’m not paying off your drug bill.”

  “I had an interesting conversation with an FWC agent this morning. Name of Warner… “

  It was Mac’s turn to curse. “What does that son of a bitch have to do with this?”

  “I don’t know, other than he has an unusual interest in you. We can be friends here, Travis. Just cover my loss, and you get your boy back, and as a bonus, I make the FWC guy your new BFF.”

  Mac paused, wanting to string JC along for a few minutes to allow him time to think. Pamela misinterpreted his ploy, and went to grab the phone. “We need to find him—” she started.

  Mac simultaneously covered the mic on the phone and put a finger to his lips, silently asking her to be quiet. He could see Pamela was frustrated, but she complied.

  “You got a number in mind?”

  “Two fifty.”

  “A quarter million? Where do you think I’m going to get that?”

  “Rumor has it you know where some treasure is.”

  The first big mouth who came to his mind was Billy Bones. Whatever the king of sleaze knew, the island knew.

  “It’s in the National Park. Why do you think I left it?” His friend Kurt Hunter knew the location, but Mac hadn’t heard from him since they had found it. The silence was nothing more than both men’s natural inclination of not to talk to anyone, unless there was something both current and important to say.

  Mac had left the treasure alone for several reasons. Because it was inside the boundaries of the Dry Tortugas National Park, and in waters under the State of Florida’s jurisdiction, obtaining a permit to explore the area, much less recover the treasure, was an impossible task. Mac knew the government’s game, and from reading Nick Van Doren’s journal, he recalled that there were several of Jean Lafitte’s ships wrecked in the same area. He could only imagine the archeologists converging to fight over the Holy Grail of a pirate ship or three.

  “Anyway, it can’t be done,” Mac said.

  “So, it is there.”

  Mac sensed that JC had been bluffing. He looked over at Pamela, who was biting her nails. He had no intention of paying off JC, even if he could recover the diving bell or find the money some other way, but he needed to buy some time. “These things take time. I need to know that Trufante is okay.”

  “A couple of days is all you get. You know where that treasure is, and how to get it. Remember, it’s not just Trufante. That FWC guy looked pretty impatient. Wouldn’t be surprised if there was already a warrant out for you.”

  Pamela looked like she was about to come unglued. “I need to hear his voice. I think he’s among the dead.”

  “I’m not doing anything until I hear his voice.” Mac looked at Pamela, who appeared relieved.

  “Start making plans, Travis. I’ll be in touch.”

  Mac was already deep into a plan, even before knowing Trufante was okay. The mention of the treasure by JC gave more weight to the number one thing on his list—discovering what Mel and Ned were up to.

  A cloudburst got his attention. His natural reaction was to check the boat, and he glanced backward, surprised to see Sloan standing behind the car.

  JC dropped off the food and drinks at the cemetery and headed toward Stock Island. Dealing with with Rusty was next on his list. When he turned into the site of the old fish plant, JC was relieved to see Rusty working aboard his boat, which was tied up to the seawall.

  JC approached the boat and in seconds was hands on hips and inches from the fisherman’s face. Rusty’s fists opened and closed as if he wanted to strike him, but JC ignored him, knowing there was no danger. As expected, Rusty restrained himself, probably not wanting to incur any further wrath. Even without the fish plant, JC was a powerful man in the fishing community. If not for the rain this morning, the back of his truck still would have been stacked with white plastic bins filled with fish and ice.

  The muscles and veins stood proud on JC’s neck. “What happened?”

  Rusty backed away. “It was a mistake. The other boat came up on me and I rushed. Prop slashed through the bags when I put it in reverse.”

  JC’s hands remained on his hips, but his right foot moved in front of his left, like a boxer preparing to launch a blow. “All of it’s lost?”

  “Every damned last bit.” Rusty’s hands relaxed and he took another small step backwards. “I was trying to look out for you. Shit happens to them pots when the wind blows like this.”

  JC realized at this juncture the fisherman was powerless to do anything.
Rusty had screwed up enough, and it was JC’s standard procedure to eliminate those who failed to perform. For smaller infractions, he would render them outcasts in the community; this was quite a bit more serious and no one who knew what had happened would be surprised if Rusty was soon involved in an accident.

  “It was Travis,” Rusty pleaded. “I’ll take care of him for you.”

  “Goddamned, mother f-ing, son of a bitch, go to hell,” JC yelled, then muttered, “My pardons to the gods.” He collected himself. “Travis has his own problems. Seems the FWC is after him, too. And I got some leverage, if you know what I mean. He’ll come up with the money to replace what you lost.”

  That brought a bit of relief to the fisherman’s face. “I owe you, man. If there is anything I can do, you just let me know.”

  JC looked pensive, already thinking of something beyond the man in front of him. “Yeah, gonna need some tails and claws—whatever you can bring in. Gotta pay for this.” He glanced back across the canal at the ruins of his business. “Tell all your buddies. No questions asked. ”

  Twenty-Five

  Mac got out of the car and headed directly to Sloan.

  Pamela was right behind him, and with desperation in her eyes, turned to Mac. “Maybe he can help.”

  Ignoring his gut, he looked at Sloan, wondering what this Ivy league preppy could possibly hope to accomplish. From the comical whales on his Vineyard Vines short-shorts, to the almost dainty V-neck, too-soft T-shirt, if there was a look that said incompetent, it was standing in front of him. Mac had not dwelled on Sloan’s motives back at the IV place.

  Continuing his survey of Sloan, Mac noticed the boat shoes, and gave him one point—from the salt stains around the circumference, these shoes had actually been on a boat. Nevertheless, his observations and assumptions left little to trust about the man.

  “Tru’s missing,” Pamela told him.

  Sloan was focused on Pamela, but watching his face, Mac saw no concern there for Trufante. His attraction to her and his Ivy league appearance told Mac all he needed to know about Sloan’s moral fabric. Thinking back to the IV place, he wondered if Sloan hadn’t drugged Trufante to get Pamela away from him. Mac tried to look inside a person before judging them, but in this case the facade was the man. Mac had never been attracted to Pamela, although he could see why most men were. Sloan certainly was.

  In the instant he made his evaluation of Sloan, Mac noticed the look on Pamela’s face. He knew her smitten look, which she usually reserved for the Cajun, but it was clear she was wearing it now. He just wasn’t sure if it was genuine or a feline ploy to recruit Sloan to help. Under other circumstances, Mac would have let her walk her own path, but with his freedom and Trufante’s life on the line, he needed to rein her in. This was not the time for her to indulge in her fantasies, even if Sloan could actually help. There were already too many people involved for Mac’s taste.

  “We need to get back to Ned’s,” Mac said. Figuring the best way to pry the two of them apart was to move on, he started to walk back to the car.

  Sloan followed them. “I grew up here. I know people. Maybe some high-placed officials with the Fish and Wildlife Commission.”

  Wondering how he knew about Warner, Mac clenched his fists and turned on Sloan. He stopped short, trying to get his brain to override his primal instinct to pound the man into the sidewalk. If he was to rescue Trufante, and solve his own problems, he needed to work with people, not against them. There was no doubt that Sloan’s offer to help was laced with self-interest, but Mac decided he had no choice but to use him. It wasn’t only the fishermen who were a close-knit community here. The politicians, judges, and dealmakers were thick as thieves. Mac started to think that Sloan might have some value if he had access to them. Before he could answer, Pamela cast the die.

  “But the treasure, Mac.”

  There are few words in the English language that have the same instantaneous effect on people as treasure. Mac could see it in Sloan’s eyes. Now that the word had been spoken, Sloan would probably follow them anyway, and Mac decided it was better to know where he was rather than have him plotting in the background. The feeling that he couldn’t trust the man resurfaced, and he wondered why Pamela’s radar, usually so precise at pinpointing lechers, was jammed.

  Without a word, Mac started forward. Sloan took this as invitation, and followed Mac and Pamela toward the VW. Once they were underway, Mac had to roll down the windows to evacuate the smell of the fruit-juice cologne Sloan was wearing, another strike against the man he already disliked. It was still early, especially for Key West, and traffic was light. Mac cruised the VW through the flooded intersections that would have been impassable if there were oncoming traffic.

  Arriving at Ned’s, the uneasy trio unloaded. Inside, Ned and Mel were drinking coffee and poring over documents. Mac moved over to where Mel was sitting, leaned over, and kissed the top of her head. Lingering there for just a second, he was about to ask if she had slept, when he noticed the familiar handwriting on the pages in front of her.

  “That’s Van Doren’s writing.”

  “Don’t be so surprised. You found the rest of the journal the other night.”

  Mac noticed Sloan scanning the papers, books, and maps scattered on the table. Placing a firm hand on Mel’s shoulder, he directed her attention to Sloan, silently encouraging her not to reveal anything.

  “Is it worth $250,000?” Pamela broke the ice.

  “A good deal more than that,” Ned said, without looking up.

  Mel must have been more tired than he thought. It took her computer-like mind a long second to process what Pamela had said.

  “What’s going on?”

  “That man has Tru,” Pamela said, starting to cry. Sloan moved close, and placed an arm around her.

  Again, Pamela surprised Mac by allowing Sloan’s touch to linger.

  Mel looked up and took her glasses off. “And he wants a quarter mil for him?”

  “We don’t seem to have a choice.” Mac picked up the photocopies of Van Doren’s journal. “The bell’s still down there. If Kurt reported it to the state, they haven’t announced anything. We all know there are no secrets when the government’s involved.” Mac thought this was confirmation that Hunter had yet to divulge the location.

  Mac picked up his phone to call Kurt. A conversation was the only way to stop the speculation. He heard it ring, then, thinking the call should be conducted in private—at least away from Sloan’s ears—stepped into the office. It didn’t matter, as the phone went to voicemail. Mac was about to leave a message, but stopped. He was sure the voicemail had been personalized before, with Kurt giving his name and message. Now, it defaulted to the standard carrier’s response. Hoping nothing bad had happened to his friend, Mac disconnected.

  “Something’s odd. The voicemail’s not his. Just the standard one.”

  “I can try and reach Justine through the Miami-Dade forensics lab.” Mel’s thumbs started working her screen. “Okay, the best I can do right now is to send an email to her work account.”

  A second later, a ding came from Mel’s phone. Mac waited while she checked it.

  “Out-of-the-office message. Kind of strange for those two to go off the grid.”

  Mac thought for a second. “Call me paranoid, but maybe we should make sure Bugarra is still locked up. Slipstream and DeWitt, too.” Vince Bugarra, the disgraced CEO of Treasure Salvors, knew where the gold-filled bell was, but he should have been serving his sentence for kidnapping Kurt’s family. Slipstream, Gill Gross’s deckhand, and DeWitt, the state archeologist, had been in prison when Mac found the diving bell, but they, and Bugarra, all had connections in the salvage community. Mel turned to Ned’s desk. “Worth checking, but easier done on a computer.”

  While Mel searched the state’s database, Mac did what all boaters do when they had a free second, and checked several weather apps on his phone. If the gold was still out there, he could end this.

  “The bad g
uys are all still where they ought to be,” Mel said, turning away from the computer.

  “Doesn’t mean they don’t have their tentacles out. Slipstream’s a follower, but I wouldn’t trust that DeWitt, or especially Bugarra, isn’t operating from behind bars.”

  Bugarra had the resources to make a deal from behind bars to have the treasure recovered, but Mac suspected his paranoia would prevent it.

  “We still don’t have a choice, do we?” Mel asked.

  Mac didn’t answer right away. He quickly reviewed his limited options, and coming up with nothing besides going to the Dry Tortugas himself, he nodded. “Ghost Runner’s up in Marathon.” Mac knew most of the commercial vessels in the Keys, as well as their captains. Off the top of his head, he could think of none who had both the equipment and integrity to allow into the circle.

  Sloan leaned forward, as if to say something.

  “What about pretty boy there? Doesn’t he have some fancy sailboat?” Mel jumped in.

  “Damned if he does.” Mac counted heads, trying to sort out who should go where. “Looks to be about a fifty-foot motor-sailor. Suitable for diving, too. Could take it for just for a day trip.”

  Mel picked up on the reluctance in Mac’s voice. “We don’t have much choice, Mac.”

  “What about the legality?” Mac asked, wondering why she hadn’t brought it up.

  “Just bring up enough to pay off JC, get Trufante back, and get yourself off the hook.”

  “You’re saying it like you’re not going.”