Backwater Tide

by Steven Becker

  There was no point trying to talk over the engines. We had been through a lot tonight, but it was not the first time. Both of us knew this was going to end tomorrow; there would be time to process everything later. Justine expertly slid the boat to the dock and just as I dropped the fenders and jumped up with the bow line, I heard Zero barking and the screen door to Ray’s house slam behind him. I wasn’t sure if he had some kind of radar that told him Justine was here, or whether it was the unfamiliar boat that had drawn him, but seconds later, and panting heavily, he skidded to a stop on the concrete dock. My reactions were either slowed, or he was moving too fast, but we ended up in a pile on the dock

  “That you, Hunter?” Ray called from his deck.

  “Yeah, sorry about that.” I brushed myself off, got up, and slid the line over the cleat.

  I silently cursed when I heard the wooden steps creak under his weight as he came down to talk. He would want to know what was going on and I was tired and in no mood to relive tonight’s adventure. Instead, I told him about our plan to dive with Mac in the morning. He readily accepted the invitation that had not been really offered. Wondering whether I should tell him no, I decided against it. There was plenty of room aboard and another able body might be of value. In addition, my wobbly legs made me worry about my ability to do anything. “We’ll be leaving at six to get Mac.”

  “Good deal. I liked that dude.”

  I smiled at the compliment. A reference from Ray was about as good as it got. After securing the boat, we said good night and started toward the house. Zero followed and I looked back for Ray, who had disappeared. With no one to call him off, I guessed we had a guest for the night.

  My head was banging and ringing and I wanted to go to bed, but there was one more thing I had to do. Sitting at the bar, I opened my computer and typed out a quick message to Martinez. I knew how to push his buttons and embedded several lines about Miami-Dade handling things that were sure to get a reaction from him.

  The bait was in the trap; now I had to hope the dominos fell like I had planned.

  Several months ago, I would have been in a tired but wired state, but I dropped off as soon as my head hit the pillow. Justine waking me up every hour to check on me only reminded me that I wasn’t getting used to the stress of my job, but had been hurt worse than I wanted to admit.

  The alarm went off and I looked over as Justine opened her eyes and smiled. I felt a tingly feeling that I knew, unless I got out of bed right now, would only delay us. As it was, I heard a knock on the door. Apparently Ray was from the on time is ten minutes early school.

  I sat up and got both feet on the ground with no ill effects from the head injury, starting toward the door with Zero behind me. He bolted out when I opened it. With toenails clicking down the stairs, he made a beeline across the freshly cut lawn to his food bowl. He at least had his priorities in line.

  “Y’all comin’?”

  “Be right down. What’s the weather?” I asked.

  “Another beautiful day in paradise. Now we better scoot before the boss gets up. He’s not going to be happy about this.”

  I knew the pressure was on to make an arrest and if my plan worked, we would. “Okay, go fire her up. We’re almost ready.”

  I could envision him shaking his head as he walked down the stairs. We had apparently not met whatever his criteria was for being ready. I wasn’t too worried about Ray’s opinion, but knew we better get moving. Justine walked toward me with a small cooler hung from her shoulder. She leaned in and kissed me. We paused for a minute, enjoying the contact, but I broke it off. I could almost hear Ray tapping his foot on the dock.

  A few minutes later, we slipped the lines and let the current move the boat from the dock. The tide was pushing in Caesar Creek, and Ray pressed down on the throttles once we were in the middle of the channel. With the offshore breeze that usually came with the dawn here opposing the current, small whitecaps had formed in the cut. He spun the wheel, deciding to take the inside route. Now, with the current behind us, he started to accelerate. After belching a small cloud of smoke the engines started to purr. Ray pushed them harder and we came as close to plane as the heavy boat could maintain.

  Mac was waiting on the back dock of Alabama Jack’s when we pulled up. Without a word, he grunted and slung his dive bag over the gunwale and followed it onto the deck. I introduced him to Justine, which got one side of his mouth to curl up. He went directly to the helm and talked to Ray for a minute before coming back to the cockpit.

  Ray had no interest in our conversation and pushed the throttles to their stops. The sun was just below the horizon now and the low clouds and red sky told us some weather was coming. I could see Mac’s lips move as he tried to talk and inched closer. It was futile, and as Ray cut through Old Rhode’s Bank and headed to the outside of the barrier islands the noise increased, as did the boat speed.

  We sat, each in our own heads, for the forty minutes it took the boat to cover the fifteen-odd miles to the wreck site. When Ray finally dropped speed, my ears rung from the noise and my body vibrated, but I was wide awake now. Slowly as my hearing returned, so did my headache. Mac went back to the wheelhouse, spoke to Ray, and came back to the cockpit with a large buoy.

  “Toss it,” Ray called out from the wheelhouse. “Kurt, go up and get the anchor ready.”

  Mac dropped the buoy over as I went forward. The line, with a four-pound dive weight attached to its end, unwound. It went slack, and with the aid of the current, slowly paid out the rest of the line. With the wreck marked and the buoy telling Ray the state of the current, it was only a minute before he had moved upwind and called for me to drop the anchor.

  I felt it grab and tied the line off to the bow cleat to take the pressure off the windlass. When the boat swung, I looked back and saw the buoy fifty feet behind us. Slowly, I released the line, careful to keep a wrap around the cleat and let the line slide through my hand until Mac snagged the buoy with a gaff. After securing the line, I went back to the cockpit where Ray, Justine, and Mac were waiting for me.

  My phone rang and all eyes turned to me. Mac was wary; Ray and Justine worried that Martinez had found us. I hadn’t had a chance to enter any of my contacts besides Allie and Justine, but when I looked at the display, I recognized the number as Grace Herrera’s.

  She and the Miami-Dade Contender were in position outside the Boca Chita harbor. They had a clear radar signature on the Reale and there were no other vessels within the five-mile ring. We were alone for now. It was time to set the trap. But before I made that call, it was time to find out why we were here.

  Twenty-Eight

  My plan was for Susan McLeash to be the patsy and trigger the chain of events I needed to bring the killer to us. I could always trust her to do the wrong thing, especially if she thought she was going to benefit from it. The strong possibility that she had a hangover from the potent drinks served at the fundraiser last night should keep her reasoning skills low enough that she wouldn’t question me. I just had to get Martinez to send her. Coming from me, an order or even a request for help was going to be suspect.

  Taking a deep breath, I pulled my work phone out and turned it on. I could almost see the invisible beacon broadcasting my location to the mothership. I fully expected Martinez to be in a near-panic state by now after reading my email report of the incident last night and seeing the pictures of the Miami-Dade Contender getting credit for Maria Gross’s rescue all over the news. I was pretty sure one of the first things he did every morning was to locate me anyway; the report would just push his buttons. After a few minutes, I turned the phone back off in an attempt to make it seem as if I was purposefully trying to deceive him, but for some reason I’d had to use it.

  I felt the boat vibrate and turned to the transom. While I had been setting my trap, Mac and Ray had lowered the mailboxes and now, with the engines running, the prop wash was being redirected to the bottom. Seconds later a sand cloud started to form. If my location didn’t g
et Martinez to act, the reports he was surely going to get about the silt cloud would. Over the next few minutes it turned from a cloud to a storm. The wind and current were in our favor and took the silt toward the mainland. Just to make sure it was brought to his attention, I texted Grace from my personal phone that it was heading toward her and asked her to anonymously call the Coast Guard.

  After about fifteen minutes, Ray shut down the engines. “What’d you figure out?” I asked Mac. He had estimated it would take about thirty minutes before the visibility would return. Now was as good a time as any to hear what he had found.

  “She’s a Civil War-era ship. Belonged to the Confederacy. I’m betting it’s the Sumter we have down there. Launched in 1859 as a raider, she was commanded by Raphael Semmes. He penetrated the blockade around New Orleans, so I would suspect at that point the ship would be heavily loaded and worth taking to risk those odds. We know she made it through because she took out a slew of Union ships on her way around Key West.”

  “Do you know what she was carrying?” I asked.

  “Interesting times back then. There were no manifests or sailing instructions recorded. They sank a whole lot of boats in that war, and when brothers are fighting brothers there tends to be some embellishment. Even the records available tend to be more fiction than fact.“

  “Okay, so how does that help us?” Knowing what was below us was interesting but not a game changer. Apparently, I was the only one who hadn’t figured it out.

  Mac went to his duffle bag and pulled out several papers. “This here’s the layout of the ship. If there were to be anything down there …” he stopped as if worried about being overheard if he said the words. Instead he pointed to two spots on the drawing. “I’ll check this area, why don’t you two have a look over here.” He made sure that Ray and Justine understood and replaced the drawing in his bag, looked into the water, and started to gear up. “I’d say about fifteen minutes and we’re good.”

  Justine and Ray followed his direction and soon the deck was cluttered with dive gear. While they prepared for the dive, I looked over the side. The water had cleared. Hopefully the mailboxes had moved enough material for the divers to recover something. That would only be a bonus. I moved my gaze to the horizon, scanning for the familiar red T-top I expected to see at any moment.

  Checking my watch, I saw it was almost nine. Mac, Ray, and Justine were about ready to dive and I gave them the thumbs-up. I wanted to be going with them, but the head injury grounded me. Now, as I watched them check each other’s gear and walk through the transom door to the dive platform, I hoped the concussion was not going to affect my ability to handle what I hoped was heading our way on the surface.

  Justine turned and gave me a worried look. I gave her another thumbs-up and watched her take a giant stride off the platform, following Mac and Ray into the water. I was alone now and started to pace the deck, staring toward Miami where I expected to see the profile of DeWitt’s boat appear at any minute.

  After a half-hour, I started second-guessing myself. Maybe the plan was too complicated. I had worked it all out in my head, but anticipating the reactions of three people, even if they are known entities, was not exactly hard science. I also had to hope that the party had not taken anyone out of commission. Martinez would surely take the bait. By now, he knew I was out here and that there was something wrong. With my phone off, he would have no choice but to send Susan out to check on me. If her brain wasn’t still saturated with alcohol from the party, she’d be shrewd enough to figure out what we were doing out here.

  Confronting us alone wasn’t her style. She would want backup, and after seeing her and DeWitt together last night, I was planning on her calling him to do her dirty work. Anyone that was anti-Kurt Hunter would be her friend, and I was sure the state archeologist had bent her ear about me.

  The minutes ticked by and I was starting to worry that Mac, Ray, and Justine would surface. For my plan to work, I needed them to be under. I thought about using the underwater horn on the boat to call them up, have them do a quick surface interval and go back down, but just as I was about to push the button, I heard my personal phone ring.

  “Got them inside the five-mile ring. Looks like the boat you described,” Grace said.

  I quickly calculated their speed. The twin-engine boat would be running close to forty knots in these conditions. That would put their ETA inside ten minutes. As if on cue, I looked toward the west and saw a boat heading directly toward us. “I have a visual. You ready?” I asked Grace. She confirmed and I disconnected. With my pistol in hand, I went to the helm and pushed the button for the underwater horn. This was the agreed-upon signal and would give the divers a heads-up of what was happening. I then ducked down into the dark cabin to wait.

  Within minutes, I heard the sound of the twin engines approach and then drop. The bow wake pushed under and lifted the larger boat. I quickly hit send on my pre-written text: Contact.

  I could feel the boat shift as someone moved on the deck. Sliding into the head, I closed the door and locked it. There would be no reason for whoever was on deck to suspect someone aboard and if they did happen to check the door, it was not uncommon for latches to jam on older boats. Less than a minute later, I heard the engines stop.

  The boat settled and I relaxed. My watch said that five minutes had elapsed and I slowly unlocked the door and cracked it a few inches. I had only a partial view of the deck from here, but I knew I would have to be patient. Looking out the small hatch, I saw the bubble streams of the divers as they rose to the surface.

  My heart was beating hard enough that I felt it in my ears as I waited. Fighting a wave of nausea, I stood ready by the door. Then I heard a loud noise that sounded like something was being dragged across the deck. Slowly, I opened the door another few inches to see what was going on.

  Slipstream and DeWitt were clearing the deck. I didn’t understand their purpose until I saw them reach for the access handles and slowly raise the hatch that exposed the twin engines. Slipstream then climbed down into the space and I wondered what they were up to. There were easier ways to disable the boat. When I heard the gurgling of water coming through the open seacocks, I knew I had misjudged them.

  The clock in my head started ticking faster now that the boat was sinking. I wasn’t sure how long it would take, but I could already feel it listing toward the port side. Slipstream climbed out of the engine room with a smug look on his face and they dropped the cover back and scattered the gear on the deck.

  Bubbles breaking the water moved my attention to the stern. I couldn’t see what was happening through the transom, but I could see Slipstream pull a gun from his waistband and point it at the water. I moved quickly, hoping to reach him before he fired, but just as I burst through the door of the head, DeWitt inadvertently crossed in front of the companionway and together we fell to the deck.

  My head hit something and I felt the warmth of blood as my wound reopened. It took a second to clear my mind—a second too long. Slipstream, figuring I was now the bigger threat, had turned and pointed his gun at me.

  “You meddling prick,” he said.

  “We gotta go. The boat’s sinking,” DeWitt got to his feet, grabbed my pistol from the deck, and moved to the gunwale adjacent to his boat.

  Before he could reach it, I heard another boat coming toward us. “Drop it. Another murder isn’t going to get you any richer.” I heard myself say. It was as if it came from another person and made little sense, but I needed to buy some time.

  “Hurry up, it’s the police,” DeWitt called to him and climbed onto his boat.

  Slipstream looked around and fired several shots at the water. I hoped the divers, especially Justine, had descended to a safe depth to wait this out, but knowing all three of them, I wondered if the plan was still the plan. With his back turned, I looked around for a weapon.

  Slipstream turned back to me, but just before he could pull the trigger the Miami-Dade Contender slammed into the port
side. We were both thrown off balance and rifles were quickly leveled at Slipstream who dropped his weapon. Seconds later, two of the crewmen jumped over the gunwale and had him prone on the deck.

  While they were occupied, I heard the engines on DeWitt’s boat fire up. He had hoped to use the distraction to make his escape. I was back on my feet now and my heart leapt into my throat when I saw Justine clinging to the dive ladder on his boat.

  Before DeWitt accelerated he turned toward us and paused. I found myself looking down the barrel of my own gun. I quickly ducked behind a fiberglass support for the flybridge, taking myself out of his sights. Mac and Ray were still in the water, and he hadn’t seen Justine. That left only Grace and the captain aboard the Contender as targets. The captain was busy working the throttles and wheel, trying to keep the boat stationary. Grace lowered her weapon when she saw the barrel of his gun pointed at her and instead of dropping it, she ducked and jumped onto DeWitt’s boat.

  I could see the look in DeWitt’s eyes. He was cornered and he knew it. There would be no escape unless he finished their plan to sink the Reale and kill the divers. Now there were a few more bodies to add, but he still seemed to think he had the advantage.

  The muscles in his arm tensed and I felt helpless. I called out to him to no avail and hoped for a rogue wave to throw off his aim when I saw his finger twitch. I thought it was over for Grace, but it was Justine who, still hanging from the dive ladder in the instant before he pulled the trigger, jumped onto the deck. In one fluid movement she swung the air hose from her regulator around DeWitt’s neck. She pulled him off his feet and the gun flew into the air. A second later, all eyes turned as it dropped into the water.

  Twenty-Nine