Wood's Reef

by Steven Becker

  Chapter 14

  “Would one of you two tell me what the hell is going on here?” Jules asked as she wheeled Trufante into the emergency room. She had called for backup to take the two thugs to the station, and was now wheeling Trufante, leg extended, spear standing straight out from his leg. Shot at close range, the barb traveled deep into the leg, making a quick removal impossible. She’d cut off a large piece of it with bolt cutters from the trunk of the police cruiser, leaving about a foot still extending from his leg, the barb deep in muscle.

  Trufante started to explain, but she cut him off. “Don’t give me that bar fight crap. Maybe you,” she looked back at Trufante, “but Mac here is not going to get mixed up in this kind of thing. Now, give it to me straight.”

  Trufante winced in pain. “That guy I was after, we think he was the one that crashed his boat at Wood’s place.”

  “Good of you assholes to take the law into your own hands. That’s what we need here — vigilantes, avenging all kinds of shit.”

  “We were just trying to scope the dude out. Then we were going to call you,” Trufante said. “Didn't want no trouble. The guy just comes in the bar and sits down next to me. I recognized his hat. Knew he was the one watching the other day when we were with Wood. So I called Mac.”

  “There's this piece of paper called a police report.” She turned on Mac. “You may want to consider filling one out next time. If that guy hit Wood and then ran, like you say he did, I have half a mind to take you in for obstruction of justice. I’ll let him suffer the pain he's in as his punishment.” She thought back to the look on his face when she had cut the spear.

  The ER nurse took control of the wheelchair and pushed Trufante through the double doors, leaving Mac and Jules behind and effectively ending the conversation.

  ***

  Behzad checked his email, not sure if he was hoping for an answer or not. Thoughts of martyrdom aside, he liked his life, and figured he would for the next ten years or so … until the inevitable decay of old age set in. The screen answered him with a new message in the draft folder. He opened the message and realized his life was about to take a turn.

  My brother in God. So good of you to contact me. I had feared you left our cause. But now I am assured that you will indeed seek paradise. Pick me up at Miami Int Airport tomorrow morning. American flight 745 arrives 8:15.

  Behzad entered the flight info in his phone and deleted the message. He glanced at the time on his screen and realized he would need to leave now; the drive, including the inevitable rush hour traffic in Miami, would take over four hours. He would have liked the convenience of meeting Ibrahim at Key West Airport, but knew security in the smaller airports was more secure, and he and his friend would stand a better chance of being noticed here than in the turmoil of Miami International. All the same, he loathed venturing off his island.

  With his schedule now defined, he decided to make a productive night out of it and see if he could move some product to friends in Miami before the pickup. He went upstairs to his closet, cleared the top shelf, and removed the false panel disguised as wallboard. Inside the compartment was his scale and stash. He weighed some of the product, placed it in small scraps of magazine paper folded into envelopes. These went carefully into a baggie. He carefully sucked the air out of a corner before sealing it. He looked at what was left and decided he might get lucky and move it all. He shoved it into a separate baggie. Product in hand he replaced the panel and went to shower.

  An hour later, he was cruising through Marathon, thankful for what looked like a bar fight with two police cruisers in attendance. That would occupy all the cops between here and Islamorada, which lay forty-five minutes closer to his goal. Comforted that there would be no speed traps to impede his progress, he stepped on the gas.

  An hour and a half later, he felt fatigue set in on the lonely stretch of road from Key Largo to Florida City. The anxiety of driving US1 at night through the Keys left his adrenalin waning. Needing a bump, he pulled over on the shoulder, turned on the interior light, and pulled the baggie out of his pants. He hadn’t intended to dip in, but he never did. Last night’s party had cost him a big chunk of the profits from this last shipment. If he could move the rest tonight, he might just get out intact, able to pay off the Mexican. But he needed to actually get to Miami, and for that he needed to stay awake.

  He opened the larger baggie and dipped in his pinkie nail. The nail was left long and manicured for just this purpose. He loaded it with white powder and inhaled, then sat back and waited for the rush. Eyes closed, he heard the boom of a loud subwoofer from a passing car. He didn’t notice that the sound didn’t fade, and opened his eyes to a tapping on the windows. The barrel of the gun motioned for him to roll the window down. If the gun didn’t scare him, the figure wielding it did. A shirtless 6-foot Haitian, bandana pulled over his face, scar across his right eye and trucker’s hat cocked on his shaved head looked down at him.

  Not realizing the baggie was still open on his lap, he rolled down the window.

  “This a dangerous piece of road here, man.” The accent was hard to decipher, but the meaning was not. The Haitian held him in place with one hand and checked out the baggie with the other. “What we got in the bag there?” he asked as he removed a switchblade from his pocket and lifted the bag off Behzad’s lap with the tip of the blade.

  Behzad almost peed himself when the gunman turned back to his own car and mimicked a throat-slicing motion with his gun hand. The music and lights went off immediately, and two men exited the car. Mosquitos made the only noise now as they zeroed in on the only fresh meat for miles. One man came around to the driver’s side, the other stood behind the car.

  “Pop the trunk, turn off the lights, and get out of the car,” the first man said as he stepped back to allow the door to open. “What you shaking for? We’re not going to hurt you.” He clocked him on the head with the gun.

  Behzad was slow to move as he recovered consciousness. He sat up carefully, one hand on his head where the gun had struck him. Acknowledging this as his only injury, he got to his feet and took inventory. He was alone on the warm asphalt. His car was gone. They had checked his pockets and taken his wallet, but hadn’t checked deep enough to uncover the second baggie that was carefully placed in his underwear. If that was his silver lining, it wasn’t much of one. The baggie they took had most of his product in it.

  Scenarios of how to cope with this disaster swarmed through his mind like snakes in a pit. He sat down on the desolate stretch of road to Florida City, swatting at the mosquitos feasting on his neck, and extended his thumb out to every passing vehicle, hoping for a ride. The accelerated martyrdom scenario was starting to appeal to him over what Cesar, his Mexican supplier, would do to him. His knowledge about the bomb was the last card left in his hand. He hoped that in return for his help finding the bomb, Ibrahim would make his problems dissapear.

  Chapter 15

  Behzad sat by the side of the road, staring into the black water of Lake Surprise. Intermittent lights from the vehicles entering and leaving the sole route in and out of the Keys illuminated the two-lane stretch of road. Most of the traffic at this time of night was tractor trailers hauling goods down US1 to Key West, or returning empty.

  He had no idea what to do. No way to reach Miami to pick up Ibrahim or phone to call. The loss of the cocaine weighed heavily on his thoughts. ‘Run and hide’ seemed like a really good option. The Haitians had taken his assets. There wasn’t much left. All he had was the baggie in his pants, a few hundred worth, if he could avoid temptation and sell it. Not very likely, since he’d started to dip in already, and was tempted to take another bump to change his head. And why not? What was he going to do, walk to Miami? No money, no phone, no car, and stranded on one very lonely and often-dangerous stretch of road … his options were few.

  He was due to make a payment in two days. The Mexicans would be unforgiving when he didn’t. He skirted the edge of the sup
plier’s patience in good times. He came up with their money, but never the whole amount when promised. It was no secret he used too much product, but he moved a lot, so they tolerated him. He had no cash, but the Mexicans fronted him the drugs on credit. The volume and higher price they garnered made the risk worthwhile. Particularly because they took lives when the payment wasn’t right. Which was what worried him now. Risk management in the drug world was a little different than it was on Wall Street.

  The adrenaline from the car jacking and robbery was waning; in contrast, his paranoia, elevated by the coke, was peaking. Every sound reminded him that he was alone and defenseless. A splash caused him to jump. There was no telling what inhabited these dark, brackish waters. He wasn’t sure if the bulge in the water was an alligator or a figment of his imagination. His solution was to reach into his pants to pull out the baggie. He dipped his nail twice and leaned back, waiting for the powder to perform its magic.

  Slightly restored, he got to his feet and decided the only way out was north. Ibrahim seemed his only hope. Knowledge of the bomb had to be worth something to him. He thought about the money he needed to pay back for the drugs - surely a pittance for a high level terrorist. The question was how to get him to help. He moved slowly down the shoulder of the road, weaving slightly, thinking martyrdom was going to come a little early.

  ***

  Jerry Doans, head on a swivel, cruised north on US1. He cleared Key Largo, ever vigilant for State Troopers. He imagined the scene in the courtroom as the charges were read: poaching, reckless endangerment and maybe manslaughter if the old man died. It was late, going on 4am, but it was still hot out. He turned the AC to high and opened the windows, hoping the cold air mixing with the humid night would keep him awake. He had to shut the windows, as the combination of refrigeration and humidity quickly created its own weather system, fogging up the entire car. He would feel a lot better when he crossed the Dade County line, he knew. With any luck, the Monroe County sheriff hadn’t identified him yet, and he could blend into Miami or cross over to Ft Myers and lay low for a while. His Keys career was likely over for now, so he was already thinking about his next move.

  The fog was clearing in the cab when he thought he saw a lone figure with his thumb out by the side of the road. He thought about speeding up to pass, but the road was narrow here. Water butted up to both sides of the highway as it ran like a land bridge. If he didn’t stop he might hit the man. He didn’t want to add vehicular homicide to the list of charges. Why not? he thought. He slowed down and stopped on the shoulder, waiting for the figure to move toward the truck.

  The stranger leaned into the vehicle from the passenger side. “Need a ride or something?” Doans asked.

  “Please, I got carjacked by some freakin’ Haitians. I'm stuck out here,” the man answered.

  “No problem. Hop in, I'm heading to Miami,” Doans said, hoping the good samaritan act would change his karma.

  “Miami's good. I was heading to the airport to pick up a friend.”

  “I’m good with that,” he said. “I can drop you there.”

  They drove in silence. Jerry started to nod off. The car started to swerve, the buzz of the tires hitting the centerline bumpers startled him awake.

  “I could give you a little bump, if you want.”

  “Really? That would be cool.” Doans felt that karma swing. Pretty impressive that he’d managed to hook up with someone who had that sort of thing available. And was willing to share.

  “Names Behzad,” he started to get chatty as he got more wired. “What kind of business are you in? You a fisherman or something, with all those coolers in the back?”

  “Kind of a part-time thing. I do a lot of real estate work. Financing, repos, flips, that kind of thing. Always looking for something new. Thinking about heading over to Naples or Ft Myers and try my luck there. It’s about run out down here.”

  Their friendship solidified with another dip in the bag. “Yeah, I think I’m in the same boat. My Key West days look numbered. Those Haitians took my stash and I can’t go back without a fistfull of dollars for the supplier.” Behzad loved the old movie clichés.

  “Maybe we can help each other out,” Doans probed.

  Chapter 16

  Mac sat in the waiting room, slumped in a chair, eyes closed, when Mel came storming in. She took one look at him and thumped him in the chest with both hands.

  “Where's my dad?”

  “Good to see you too. He’s in intensive care. They say he’s still critical but stable right now.”

  A nurse turned the corner then, and glanced at Mel. “Can I help you with something, ma'am?”

  “My dad, Bill Woodson. He just had surgery. Is there a doctor or someone I can talk to?”

  “Give me a minute and I’ll see what I can do. Are you two alright?” She looked at Mac for an answer.

  “Yeah, thanks, we’re good.” He wasn’t really sure if that was the case. Their relationship was uneasy on a good day. They’d known each other for years. Eight years older, he’d first been a big brother and later a crush. Mel had been incensed when he married when she was 16. Her feelings weren’t on his radar. An unhappy teenager, stuck without a mom in a place she didn’t want to be, she used Mac’s marriage as another excuse to turn against anything to do with the Keys. He’d noticed her as something different after his divorce, but the years of bitterness had taken their toll. The rage had subsided slightly, and Mel set her sleek frame into a chair. “Start talking, Mac. I want it all.”

  Mac recounted the events of the last two days. He started with the discovery of the bomb, then encounter with the Navy Captain and the crash. He watched her face as he spoke, hoping for some indication of sympathy, but got a stone cold stare instead. He saw the imminent explosion coming before she opened her mouth.

  “Did you have to get him involved? Couldn’t you handle it yourself? He’s seventy if you haven’t forgotten.”

  “He was in the service when the Cuban Missile Crisis was going on. The piece we picked up sure looked like it was from that era. How was I supposed to know some idiot would be following us?”

  “That's the trouble with you, Mac. You don’t think things through, or realize how your actions affect other people.”

  “Enough of the holier-than-thou crap, Mel. You’re a lawyer. You comment on stuff after it’s happened. You live your life in hindsight.”

  “Oh, big talk from the only guy who didn’t get hurt.” She pushed him again.

  Mac told her about the skirmish outside the bar. Her eyes narrowed, not with the comfort that he hoped, but rather with scrutiny.

  “You know they have police for that, don’t you? Trufante is sitting next to the guy that almost killed my dad and he calls you?”

  “Yeah, I already got the speech from Jules.”

  “She’s probably the best thing that’s happened to this rock since I left.”

  “Your patience for all things Keys related is duly noted. How was your flight?” he asked, hoping to diffuse her.

  The nurse came around the corner then, saving him. “The surgeon will meet you outside his room. I don’t know if you’ll be allowed to see him yet, but the doctor will fill you in.”

  “Thanks,” Mel said as she took off down the corridor.

  “Can we just bury the hatchet for your dad’s sake? You know he means a lot to me.” He took off after her.

  “You can come, but there’s nothing you can do or say to undo this.”

  ***

  They arrived at the door to Wood’s room, and Mel looked through the observation glass at her prone father. The surgeon approached as she turned away, a loan tear in her eye. “Hello, I’m Melanie, Wood’s daughter,” she said.

  The surgeon glanced at Mac and, not receiving an introduction, went on. “He’s doing alright. We’ve got him stable, but only time is going to tell how he pulls through this.”

  “What's wrong?” Mel asked. “I just got here
. No one has told me what the deal is.”

  “Lacerated liver. He took a chunk of fiberglass deep in his side. It’s going to be touch and go for a few days. Then it’s up him to let it heel. In someone his age, especially with a little wear and tear, the liver doesn’t always recover well.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” she asked emphasizing the ‘I.’

  “Like I said, we need some time to see how he’s going to pull through.”

  “Thanks Dr. Hanson,” she said, catching his name tag as she gave him a long look.

  The doctor walked away, and she walked back over to the observation window. Wood was on his back, a breathing tube in his mouth, wires and tubes connected to various instruments. He looked peaceful, but the IV drip was a clear signal it was drug induced. “Dammit, Mac, what am I supposed to do now? I can’t just sit here and watch him.”

  “No, that’s not what he would want,” Mac answered. “Look. You might not like this, but I’m right in the middle of this. Let Jules find the guy that ran the boat up on him. We went and saw this Navy captain yesterday. Wood didn’t trust him with the disposition of the bomb, and the guy gave me the creeps, too. He’s playing a bigger game. You want to hang with me, maybe we can figure out what’s so dammed important about this bomb.” He glanced at Wood, “He said something about Joe Ward, the VP, being involved. I don’t care much about that angle as just making sure the damn thing doesn’t go off.

  “What’s Ward got to do with this?”

  He repeated as much as he remembered of Wood’s rant.”

  ‘That could be as big as the actual bomb exploding. Do you have any idea what would happen to the election if this got out? There are already accusations of him covering up things. He’s been able to get past all the scandals so far, but this is big. You have the key to deciding an election and the future of the country here.”