Trufante stood back, not wanting to interfere. He knew her well enough not to discount her abilities. A few minutes later they were rewarded when he heard the cat outside. Pamela moved away from the crevice, but continued making the sound. A second later a paw tentatively reached through the hole. Sensing no danger, it entered.
“Well, well. We’ve got us some claws for a weapon now.”
Pamela looked worried. She reached down, grabbed the cat, and started petting it. “What if it gets hurt?”
“Shoot. If I know one thing for sure, it’s cats always land on their feet. Ain’t no thing for whiskers here.” He grinned, showing his infamous grill, but it was lost in the dark crypt.
Pamela continued petting the cat, who was purring loudly and rubbing its head against her arm. Finally, she nodded her consent.
“I’m thinking he’ll be back around dark. Hasn’t brought nothin’ to eat all day. Feeling a little hungry myself.”
She turned, as if to protect the cat. “It’s not food he’ll be bringing. I get a real bad vibe from that dude.”
Pamela had his attention now. Even Mac had come around to seeing her talents. Sometimes the divining part was off, but the girl could read people. With the crypt darkening as daylight faded, he started searching the tomb for any rocks or projectiles he could use as weapons. Finding a few loose stones, he filled his pockets, not yet sure what to do with them.
“Maybe we could spook him with his own voodoo.”
“It’s Santeria, not voodoo.”
“Heard they do sacrifices and shit,” Trufante said.
Pamela clutched the cat to her chest. “Let’s be ready. I like your first idea better.” She looked down at the cat, as if to apologize for its fate.
The adrenaline rush from the escape attempt had worn off, leaving Trufante and Pamela sitting in opposite corners of the room. It wasn’t like they were apart, as the confined space was small enough that their feet touched. It was dark inside the vault, and quiet enough that the only sounds Trufante heard was their breathing, and the cat’s continued purring. Even the constant background sound of palm fronds rustling in the breeze was missing. Trufante felt this, and knowing it would be flat-calm, had an overpowering urge to be on the water.
Between their hunger, the darkness, and the quiet, they were lulled into a coma-like state, and were almost too slow to react when a key scratched at the lock. Fortunately, it was so quiet that the sound was magnified.
“He’s back,” Pamela whispered.
Trufante held a finger to his lips. Not sure she could see the gesture in the dark, as he could only see her outline against the lighter-color wall, he whispered a soft “Shhh.”
Pamela rose and moved to the door. The crypt was so small the builder had designed the door to open out, leaving her standing directly in front of the threshold. With the cat held in front of her, she readied herself to toss it the second the door opened.
The sound of the bolt turning echoed off the interior of the chamber. Trufante crouched behind Pamela, ready to take out whoever was there as soon as the cat and its claws did their work.
The hinges squeaked as the door cracked open. Trufante heard two distinct voices and had to make a quick decision. Moving closer to Pamela, he whispered for her to toss the cat and move to the right. He would go left, hopefully taking out the second man.
A few more inches of light penetrated the crypt as JC opened the door. Trufante could see Pamela now, and touched her shoulder, signaling that he was ready. The door was half open when she tossed the cat at the man standing there. With a blood-curdling screech from both the cat and the man, the feline latched onto JC’s face. Trufante didn’t wait, he blasted through the door like a heat-seeking missile, trying to take down the second man. In slow motion he felt himself barrel past the man, who had seen him and stepped out of the way. Tucking before he landed, Trufante rolled several times, scraping every inch of his exposed skin on the rough asphalt.
His momentum had carried him several feet past the two men. JC was on the ground, wrestling the cat from his face, while the other man held Pamela. Trufante knew this was his only chance and, not sure if all his appendages worked, dragged himself behind a low fence guarding another crypt. Pamela’s scream tore through him, but freedom was the only chance he had to save her now, and using the cover of the graveyard, he crept away. By the time JC had removed the cat from his face and recovered, Trufante was several sites away.
“Goddamned son of a bitch, go to hell. Where’d that freakin’ Cajun get to?” JC yelled. There was no apology to the gods now.
“Hell if I know.”
Pumped full of adrenaline, the men were speaking louder than they realized, allowing Trufante to hear the conversation.
“Bitch got some claws.” JC held the stunned cat by the scruff of its neck.
“Don’t you hurt that cat,” Pamela shrieked.
Trufante moved slightly and could see her now. Clawing at her captor, he rooted for her to escape, but the man was much larger and, with a blow to her head, subdued her. He turned to JC and Trufante saw it was Rusty. Cursing under his breath, he waited. A light, probably from one of their phones, swept the graveyard, forcing Trufante to duck down lower. It passed over his head, but he remained frozen in place. As long as he had eyes on them, he had a chance.
“She’ll do,” JC said. “Screw that goddamned son-of-a bitchin’ Cajun. Is the boat ready?”
“Fueled up before I came over. Just like you asked, but you didn’t tell me where we’re going?”
Trufante cringed when JC reached for Pamela’s face and grasped her jaw with his hand. “She knows.”
Trufante cursed to himself as the two men walked Pamela toward the street. When they were a hundred yards away, he started to follow. He was too far away to tell what had happened, but before they reached the gate leading to Margaret Street, he could see Pamela slump and Rusty take her weight. They left though the gate, which JC locked behind them, but that delayed Trufante only a few seconds as he quickly scaled the fence and followed them down Margaret.
With Pamela still limp, they moved slowly. Several passersby must have inquired about her, but whatever JC told them appeared to reassure them. In most places, two men dragging an unconscious woman through the streets might have been cause for alarm; in Key West, it was far from unusual. Trufante figured that JC had explained that she was just passed-out drunk, and here, there were few who would question him.
Reaching the marina, Trufante saw Rusty’s boat tied off by the fuel dock. If they were taking her by boat, he needed to move quickly, and took a chance of exposing himself rather than losing them. If they reached open water before he was in a position to follow, the game was up. Crouching slightly, he started running toward the other side of the marina and the slip assigned to his center console. Reaching it, he chanced a look back and saw the running lights on Rusty’s boat flash on.
The night was his friend. There were more reasons for Rusty to follow the rules of the sea than not. Getting pulled over by the Coast Guard or sheriff, both of whom patrolled these waters, would end badly for them. Trufante, on the other hand, had no choice but to run dark.
Once aboard, he reached into the console. The keys were where he’d left them, and after retrieving them from the hiding place, he turned on the batteries, went to the helm and started the engines. Looking back, he saw Rusty’s boat moving out toward the end of the seawall. Trufante dropped his lines and backed out of the slip.
Rusty’s boat, with its unique profile, and running light placed high above the wheel house, was easy to identify and follow. As Trufante expected, he kept his lights on. Trufante followed, giving him plenty of space. The boat passed the breakwater. After a few more minutes when he turned to the south, and then after passing Sunset Key turned west, it was clear to Trufante where he was going.
Trufante’s calmness concealed what he felt inside as he watched Pamela taken farther away. But with the seas flat, and Rusty’s boat clearly v
isible, he knew he had to control his emotions. Unarmed, it was the right play to stay well back. Making his move too soon would only result in harm to her. As long as JC only held one of them, there was an advantage, however slight.
As they moved away from Key West, they entered a dark abyss. Aside from the lights from a few private residences on the smaller keys, there was no sign of life. Once they passed Crawfish and Man Keys, even those few lights fell behind, and the only thing ahead, besides a bunch of shallows and deserted islands, was Fort Jefferson, fifty long miles away.
In search of better fishing, he and Mac had made this trip many times, and he thought about running out to sea and cutting in front of the slower boat. He surmised the only reason for their heading to the Tortugas was that Mac was already there. Trufante had been there when the diving bell was found, and knew where it was. Without the ability to call on his cell phone or the VHF, the only way to warn Mac of what was coming was to get ahead of Rusty and beat them there. He decided once they reached the Marquesas Keys, if they still held the same course, that was what he would do.
Thirty-Three
Trufante decided reaching the Tortugas before Rusty and JC was a risk, but his best option. Aside from Cuba and a handful of small Bahamian islands, there were no other viable destination for Rusty to be heading. Trufante had always been a gambler, several times to his detriment especially when hurricane Katrina had uncovered some of his bad bets when the storm slammed into New Orleans.
That same weakness to cut corners had gotten both him and Mac in trouble before, and although Mac was always patient and gave him another chance, Mel would sooner or later put her foot down. He knew she had tried before, but there are some things you just don’t force on a guy like Mac—firing Trufante was one of those. Mac’s stubborn streak had saved Tru several times.
Trufante liked to think of the risks as opportunities, and he saw one now. Faced with the choice of following Rusty, and having to be reactive when they reached their destination, Trufante decided it would be better to be proactive and get there first, talk to Mac, and make a plan. After checking the fuel gauge, he determined he had enough gas to reach the Tortugas, but not enough to get back, something he’d deal with later, even if he had to beg fuel from the park service at Fort Jefferson. Pushing down on the throttle, he turned to the south and headed at a forty-five-degree bearing away from Rusty’s course.
Running offshore would mean more miles, and hence more fuel, so once beyond the line of sight of the lobsterman, he flicked the switch, turning on the navigation lights, and cut his speed. With just enough RPMs to stay on plane, he turned again to parallel the projected path of the trawler. He judged Rusty’s speed at twelve knots. Glancing down at the tachometers, he saw that even at this conservative speed, he was running twenty knots. Adding a little pressure to the twin throttles, he worked the engine up to 4400 RPMs and watched his speed go up close to thirty. That was fast enough to get him to Mac with enough time to plan.
Trufante’s penchant for trouble often had people overlook his unique skill set. His cat-like agility and uncountable lives were well known, and in addition to his mechanical abilities, he could find fish when others failed, and run a boat like it was an extension of himself. The new electronics made a captain’s job much easier—under normal circumstances. Besides the now-commonplace chartplotters and color depth-finders, the engine controls showing fuel consumption in real time took some of the mystery out of running a boat. But there was a sense that enabled a gifted few to do all the above better with their innate senses than with the electronic counterparts.
It was this skill that had Trufante within sight of the fort a little over an hour later. He estimated he was an hour and a half ahead of Rusty—plenty of time to find Mac. He’d gotten here with mere glances at the electronics, but in these notoriously dangerous shoal-ridden waters, and without the aid of daylight to show him the water’s color, he, too, depended on the use of electronics. In the Dry Tortugas, knowing your destination in no way implied there was a straight course to it.
Stooping slightly, Trufante studied the chartplotter, adding more waypoints for the last few miles than he had used in the previous sixty. He set the route to reach the area that Mac called The Tongue. Two anchor lights appeared; one much higher, and likely a sailboat. The other he recognized as Mac’s trawler. Thinking that the sailboat was Sloan’s added a layer of complexity to the situation, but he chose, as he often did, to ignore the unintended consequences of his actions, and continued the circuitous route to Mac’s boat.
Cutting the engines, he coasted up to the port side of the steel-hulled trawler, using the bulk of its hull to conceal him from the sailboat. To his surprise, the deck was deserted, something very unusual for Mac, who was one of those guys who slept with one eye open. It was the early hours of the morning, but he’d never known Mac to let down his guard—unless something was wrong. Nudging the controls to offset the current’s effort to separate the boats, he utilized one of his own freakish skills, holding the boats together by setting one leg on each hull and bracing against the gunwales while tying off a line to hold them. Once secure, he hopped onto Mac’s boat, where he found and set the fenders over, then adjusted the lines, properly securing the boats together.
Looking into the wheelhouse, he saw no light under the cabin door, or any sign of life at all. He was about to enter when he heard his name whispered from the deck of the sailboat.
“That you, Tru?”
“Ned?” Trufante recognized the voice and sought out the old man.
“Yeah. Stay there.”
Trufante heard some activity across the deck and a minute later Ned stood next to him. “What the hell? This ain’t like Mac—not at all.” Ned moved to the transom, motioning Trufante to follow. His throat parched from the ride, Trufante grabbed a beer from the cooler by the helm and followed.
Even this far removed from the cabins of either boat, he whispered. “He’d tell you otherwise, but I’m thinking he got a concussion earlier. Diving accident.”
“Shoot. Figured something was wrong.”
“Guessing he’ll be alright come morning. What brings you here in the dark of night?”
Trufante was surprised it had taken this long for Ned to get to the point. The two men had known each other for several years, but had scant more than an uneasy acquaintance. The clash between academia and backwoods bayou left little common ground, not enough in either man’s eyes for trust. But when Mac or the Woodsons were involved, they put aside their differences.
“That fish dude, JC, he took me and then Pamela. I got away, but he’s got Rusty bringing him and Pamela down here now.”
“Slow down and give me the whole deal. Mac’s been secretive lately.”
“Where’s Mel?” Trufante asked.
Ned glanced in the direction of the cabin. “She’s keeping an eye on him.”
Trufante had to decide if he wanted to face her wrath or let her be. Ned made the decision for him.
“Lemme fetch’er. Had about enough of all these secrets.” He walked toward the wheelhouse and entered the cabin.
A minute later, when he emerged alone, Trufante breathed out in relief, but that was short-lived when he saw a light go on. Keeping his focus on saving Pamela, he steeled himself. The light shut off, the door opened, and Mel came toward them. Realizing the beer in his hand was not going to do him a bit of good with her, he leaned back and set the can on the dive platform.
Mel ran her hands through her bed-head. “What’s up, Tru?”
“JC and Rusty are coming down here to see what y’all are up to. They’ve got Pamela, too.”
Mel thought for a minute, which surprised Trufante. Despite her intelligence, she more often than not went off half-cocked with him. Ignoring her silence, he continued. “We’ve got to do something.”
She ran her hands through her hair again. “Would you give me a minute, please.”
“Right,” he said, stopping himself from reaching over
the transom for his beer. The silence was unnerving, but with Mac injured, she held all the cards. Before she could reply, all three heads turned toward the cabin, where a light had come on. The door opened and Mac appeared. He walked to the cooler and pulled out two beers.
“Anyone else want one?” he asked. Crossing the deck, he handed one to Trufante and took the other for himself. “Thought it was you.”
Mel gave him a look, but remained quiet. Trufante respected the fact that she wouldn’t embarrass Mac in front of him and Ned. They moved back into the wheelhouse, both for the comfort and to make it harder for Sloan to eavesdrop if he was listening.
In fact, Sloan was. Hearing Ned get up, he thought at first the old guy had gone on deck instead of using the head, but after he didn’t return, Sloan had crept out of his stateroom and climbed the stairs to the deck. Trufante’s drawl was unmistakable and the worried tone of his voice had Sloan creeping closer. The fold-down transom on the Surfari allowed for a slightly higher freeboard than many sailboats had that were tapered lower toward the stern. Sitting on the deck, with his back against the gunwale, he had no worries about being seen and clearly could hear the conversation.
Overhearing that JC had taken Pamela unsettled him and he realized the strange attraction the woman held over him had a tighter grip than he had been willing to admit. Sending Eleanor off was far from a permanent split, nor was it because of Pamela. He had needed his girlfriend out of the way until he could take care of his problem. But it had forced him into a position he hadn’t planned, and he had to consider his options. Between Tru’s boat arriving and the movement of people on deck, appearing on his own boat would raise no red flags. Then he heard Mac’s voice, and when the group moved into the wheelhouse, he decided that deception would be the better choice.
The trawler’s enclosed wheelhouse covered their conversation, forcing Sloan to climb onto the foredeck and position himself near one of the small windows that vented the space. Cursing his father for further complicating everything, he listened to Trufante retell the story. Static from the VHF radio broke a silence that had fallen over the group. In these quiet waters it was an unexpected sound, made even more so when Sloan heard the voice hail Mac Travis.
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