by Jeff Siebold
“Here we go,” said Kimmy, looking around. They skirted the gate and crossed the shallow ditch to the front yard. The truck was in the driveway, partially in the shade of a palm tree.
Zeke led the way, quickly and quietly around the side of the small house to the back porch after confirming the boat wasn’t in residence at the dock. They entered the screened porch and then the small house.
“No air conditioning,” he said.
“I can tell. But it’s no worse than when I was on assignment in the Gaza Strip,” she said.
Zeke stopped. “That’s Palestinian territory. What were you doing there?”
Kimmy smiled but said nothing.
“The other day the boat pulled in the middle of the afternoon, about 3:30. Probably be in around the same time today.”
“Creatures of habit?” she asked.
“Time and tides. And it has to do with when the fish are running.”
Kimmy nodded to a beat only she could hear. She sat on the edge of the small couch and waited.
* * *
The engine of the fishing boat was a diesel, and the breeze pushed the hot smell of it along like a dump truck with a leaky exhaust.
“Whew,” Kimmy sighed, reacting to the odor as she ducked down behind the couch to stay out of sight. Zeke had slipped into the bedroom.
“There’re two of them,” said Zeke. “Maybe father and son Parks. Let’s take them when they get inside the house.”
“I’ll seal off the rear exit,” said Kimmy, quietly.
The Parks took their time about it, unloading the boat, emptying the bait wells, offloading the cooler with the fish they’d caught, washing everything down and hosing it off. Owen Parks worked on the fish table, filleting their catch and saving the scraps in a bucket for tomorrow’s bait and chum.
When he was done, the younger man, who looked to be about fifty, picked up the oversized cooler and carried it up to the cottage. He set the cooler in a shady spot outside the back door and entered the small home. His first action was to turn on the air conditioning. Then he walked to the kitchen and washed his hands.
Owen Parks, the elder, followed him into the cottage and used the small bathroom.
Zeke stepped out of the bedroom and stood blocking the bathroom door. He had his Beretta M9 out, safety off and pointed at the younger man when he turned around.
“What the hell…?” the younger man said, loud.
“We need to talk,” said Zeke. Kimmy stepped up and covered the man. Zeke holstered his gun.
Suddenly Owen Parks stepped out of the bathroom, his fish knife in his hand, slicing blindly in a side-to-side motion. The leather knife holster hung empty on his belt.
Smart money would put him down quickly, thought Zeke. But I need him to be able to talk. And I need him shaken up.
Moving with practiced rhythm, Zeke followed the senior Parks’ slash to the left, grabbed his wrist with both hands and, still standing, rolled into the man. The effect was to create substantial leverage on the man’s elbow, hyperextending it. The knife fell to the floor with a metallic rattle.
Zeke released the man and immediately jabbed him twice, once in the solar plexus and once in the throat, then kicked the knife away and danced back a couple steps.
Owen Parks looked stunned. And then he sat hard on the floor, holding his throat and coughing in a raspy voice, trying to catch his breath.
The younger man looked on, stunned.
Kimmy said, “Be careful, you don’t want to kill them.”
“Sure I do,” said Zeke in an angry voice.
“Damn you! If I were thirty years younger…” started Parks, his voice starting to recover.
“That’s exactly why we’re here,” said Zeke.
* * *
Both men sat on the small couch, their wrists duct taped together behind them, their ankles crossed and taped. Kimmy stood to the side of the couch, her Jericho 941 held loosely in her hand. Occasionally, she moved the barrel back and forth between the two men, pausing at each for effect. Their eyes watched her cautiously.
Zeke had checked their wallets. It turned out that the younger man was indeed Parks’ son, Todd.
Zeke took a kitchen chair, reversed it and sat in it looking directly at the men, about two feet away. He held his handgun in his right hand, propped on the back of the chair, pointed at Owen Parks.
“Thirty years ago,” he started, “you were stranded in your fishing boat near the Seven Mile Bridge. On a sandbar. Does any of this sound familiar?”
No one spoke.
“A motorsailer rescued you and gave you a lift to Boot Key Marina.”
Parks looked down and away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He’s lying, thought Zeke. The aversion of his eyes and the change in the tone of his voice were the clues Zeke was looking for.
“Look, you can’t break in here and rob us like this. It’s illegal. I have friends, you know,” said the senior Parks. “Friends with the Sheriff’s Department…”
Zeke reached over and swatted Owen Parks’ temple with the barrel of his gun. Then he hit him again, hard, in the same place.
“Ow!” said Parks, drawing his head back in pain. His eyes were watering.
“Pay attention,” said Zeke. “You were there. I remember you.”
Owen Parks stopped. He narrowed his eyes and looked at Zeke, as if for the first time. “You remember me?”
Zeke nodded. “You caused the explosion that killed my parents. I’ll never forget that.”
“Sorry, kid, it wasn’t me.”
His son said, “What’re you, crazy?”
Zeke decided to let the elder Parks think about it for a minute.
“You’re his son,” said Zeke. “You’re Todd Parks. Said so on your driver’s license.”
Zeke had looked through both men’s wallets while Kimmy secured them with the duct tape.
“So?”
“You’re forty-seven. That means you were in your teens when it happened. I’d bet you were the one who picked your dad up at Boot Key Marina after the explosion. Helped him escape.” Zeke was speculating now. But it made sense. Besides, accuracy didn’t matter. This was about intimidation.
“What? What’re you talking about?” asked Todd Parks.
At the same time his father said, “You’re crazy!”
Zeke leaned forward and rapped Owen Parks smartly on the temple. “Shut up.”
“What I want to know is who was behind it. Who paid you to leave the bomb on the West Wind?”
“What?” asked Todd. “A bomb?”
“Did you think it was an accident?” asked Zeke.
“Yeah, an explosion. They said gas pumps or something.”
“Who said?” asked Zeke.
Todd looked at his dad, then looked away. “You know, the newspapers…”
Zeke shook his head. “This man,” he pointed at Owen Parks with his gun barrel, “left a duffle bag on the West Wind after we’d rescued him. A few minutes later, it exploded and killed two people.”
He paused.
“My parents.”
The older Parks looked away, reacting to the intensity in Zeke’s voice and eyes.
“Why would I do something like that?” he asked the floor.
“You tell me. Now. Or I start shooting your boy, here. I’ll ruin his knees first.”
“Man, you’re crazy. I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
Zeke cocked the gun and pointed it at Todd’s left knee. “I’ve got nothing to lose.”
Kimmy intervened. “Wait, hold on. You didn’t say anything about torture…”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Zeke, his voice intense with anger. “Step outside if you want. It’s going to be knees, ankles, elbows and shoulders, to start.”
“Then what?”
“Then I’ll reload and…”
She turned to the Parks. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. If it were me, I’d be inclined to tell him what he wa
nts to know.”
Chapter 16
“It wasn’t supposed to be like that,” said Owen Parks. “No one was supposed to get hurt.”
Zeke was listening, his face turned to Todd Parks, who at that moment had the barrel of Zeke’s handgun in his mouth.
“Let the boy go,” Parks continued. “He wasn’t a part of it.”
Zeke said, “Keep talking.”
“OK, look, I was just a fisherman. I fished these waters for years. My people were conchs. They came down to help build the overseas railroad and they stayed. I was born in the Keys ten years after the Labor Day Hurricane in 1935. Lived here all my life…”
“Not interested in history just now, Parks,” said Zeke.
“I’d seen the West Wind plenty. Always goin’ in or out of Boot Key. Didn’t know it was your family, though.”
“And the bomb?” asked Zeke, staying on point.
“I didn’t know it was a bomb. You’ve gotta believe me,” said Parks. He looked at his son, still obviously scared with the gun barrel in his mouth. He was shaking badly, and sweating, his eyes now closed.
“You’re wasting my time. I think I’ll just finish this,” said Zeke. He tightened his hand on the pistol grip.
The older Parks saw the tension in his hand and said, “No, wait!” The younger Parks, hearing the tension in his father’s voice, wet himself.
Zeke looked at him, then back to his father. He said, “You thought you were really something thirty years ago, didn’t you?”
“I was part of the gang,” said Parks. “They’re mostly dead now, but it was something years ago. We had each other’s backs. We protected each other. We kept commercial fishermen from fishing our waters.”
“A gang of thugs,” said Zeke. “Spin it any way you want.”
“We joined together to keep the Keys for the conchs. They passed a law, wouldn’t let us use gill nets to fish anymore. Between the tourists and the commercial fishermen from the mainland, we were all losing money. So we joined together.”
“And, back to the bomb,” said Zeke.
“It was supposed to be a warning, a dud. They told me it wouldn’t detonate. It was supposed to give off smoke and make some noise. It was supposed to scare them, that’s all.”
* * *
“Why the West Wind?” asked Zeke.
“It was an opportunity, not personal. I ran my workboat, the Ellen Sue, aground under the bridge and waited for someone to come by and help.” Owen Parks looked away.
“And the plan was?”
“To scare people, to create publicity. I don’t know, to make them go away and stay away, I suppose.” Parks was grasping now.
“You’re saying that it was random? That whoever had stopped to help you would have been blown to bits?” asked Zeke. “You think I’ll buy that?”
“Look, I was the soldier. I didn’t plan it. I was told what to do, and I did it. I didn’t know it was a real bomb! I didn’t!”
“So who targeted the West Wind for you?” Zeke asked.
“You’ve gotta believe me, I didn’t know,” said the fisherman.
Zeke relaxed. “Who gave the order, Parks?”
The fisherman hesitated. His eyes flicked up and away from Zeke.
“The truth, Parks.”
“Ah, hell,” said Parks. “It was Billy.”
* * *
“Billy Forester?” asked Zeke. “The Monroe County sheriff?”
“Back then, yeah.”
“Also a conch?”
“Yeah. Billy was in charge. I mean, we didn’t hold an election or anything, but somehow Billy emerged as the guy in charge.”
“Let me be sure I get this,” said Zeke. “You local guys, you conchs, decided that the best way to get the Keys back was to scare people off? Make them think twice about coming down here?”
Parks nodded slowly. “That’s what they said. It sounded right…”
“Did it work?” asked Zeke.
“Not really,” said Parks sourly.
“That wasn’t long after the Keys seceded from the USA, was it? Five or six years?”
“Yeah,” said Parks. “Hey, would you take your gun outta his mouth now?”
Zeke looked at the younger Parks, nodded and removed the gun barrel.
“Tell me more,” said Zeke, quietly.
* * *
“It was a muck up, is what it was,” said the elder Parks. “When the bomb exploded, I about had a heart attack.”
“Where were you when it happened?” asked Zeke.
“Todd was driving me up US 1, heading back here. You were right that he picked me up at the marina. I hopped off the boat and got out of there fast. He’d just turned onto the highway when we heard the explosion.”
Kimmy, standing behind Zeke in the living room of the small house, shook her head.
“Doesn’t ring true,” she said.
Parks said, “I’m not lying. I had orders to get off the boat fast and get outta there, so I wouldn’t be associated with any of it.”
* * *
“Why don’t you tell me who all was involved in your gang,” Zeke said, his voice flat and empty. He sounded dangerous.
Owen looked around the room, as if for help. He said, “Well, there weren’t that many.”
He’s already minimizing, trying to control the situation, thought Zeke.
“It was Billy and me and a couple others.”
Zeke reached across the back of the chair and smacked Parks on the temple. Same spot as before.
“Hey, ow, crap,” said Parks.
“How about some names?” asked Zeke.
“Snyder. Darrell Snyder. Everybody called him Snyder,” said Parks. “His family owned the Holiday Motel, and he ran his fishing boat out of the inlet behind it. He was a drunk.”
“He’s still here?” asked Zeke.
“Naw, died of lung cancer about ten years back,” he said.
“Who else? And I’d prefer names of people who are still alive…”
“Well, Crabby Cabot was one,” said Parks, grudgingly. His eyes were following the gun barrel on its erratic path.
“Crabby? What’s his real name?”
“Jerry, I think it was Jerry. He fished. His people made their money fishing and building lobster traps and selling them to the fishermen. Made crab traps, too.”
“Where is he now?”
“I think he’s in a nursing home in Miami. He’s got the memory loss.”
“He’s your age?” asked Zeke.
Parks nodded.
“Who else?” asked Zeke. He smacked Parks’ temple again.
“OK, OK, geez,” said Parks, ducking his head. “That hurts.”
“It’s supposed to,” said Zeke.
“OK. There was Skinny Gonzalez. He was there, in the gang. He had an attitude, I’ll tell you.”
“First name?” asked Zeke.
“James, it was James Gonzalez.”
“Where’s Skinny now?”
“He lives on Little Torch Key. He had one of those conch houses, you know, concrete block, one-story thing on a canal with a lot of land. Maybe three acres. So when the developers came looking, he got rich.”
“But that would be later, after 1989…” said Zeke.
“Yeah, Skinny sold it to some guys from Miami. Probably around 1997 or ‘98.”
“Who else was involved?” Zeke looked at Todd Parks and said, “Open. Now. Or I break your teeth.”
Todd opened his mouth, and Zeke shoved the gun barrel back in it.
“Well, the Sheriff, of course,” said Owen.
“Where can I find the Sheriff?” asked Zeke. “Billy Forester?”
“Oh, he’s around. Has a house on Marathon and a big fishing boat. Had to do something with all the money he took…”
“He took?” asked Kimmy.
“Sure. Everybody knew it. If you wanted to get something done, Billy Forester was the one to talk to. He was slick, made enough to buy that big boat with cash, and the hous
e is oceanfront. Has to be worth a couple million dollars,” said Parks.
“Anyone else I need to know about?” asked Zeke.
“Captain Brown,” he said. “He’s up in Key Largo, I think. Lives with his daughter up there. He was sorta half in and half out.”
“Meaning?”
“He’d get worked up when he’d see the commercial fishing boats from up the coast coming in. Then he’d get cold feet when it was time to do something about it. Only reason they let him stay around was that his family are conchs, been here longer than mine.”
“What’s his first name?” asked Zeke.
“That is his first name. His folks named him Captain.”
“Who else?” asked Zeke.
“Nobody, man. Most everyone else is dead,” said Parks. His son, beside him, nodded carefully. A small nod around the gun barrel.
Zeke relaxed a bit. “I’ll be heading out of town,” he said. “But I’ll be back soon.”
He took the gun out of Todd Parks’ mouth and slipped it in his pocket. “If you’re lying to me, we’ll visit again,” he said. “Plan on it.”
* * *
He remembered the moment as if it had just happened.
“We have much to do, Otaktay,” his grandmother had said.
He’d been watching television and drinking a Coke. He’d nodded in her general direction.
“Are you listening?” she asked. The woman disliked television as much as she hated the drugs. They were distractions that interfered with important things.
“Yes, Gramm,” said the young man.
He was sitting on the sofa in the living room of the small house, the Coke can on the coffee table in front of him, the local newspaper spread out on the table beside the Coke. He wore a vest over a white t-shirt, jeans and plastic shower sandals. His black hair was pulled back into a ponytail and held with a green rubber band.
“We must look forward,” said the old woman. “There’s not much time!”
“What would you have me do, Gramm?” he asked.
