Wood's Revenge

by Steven Becker

  Mel was about to ask what was up with the frosty reception, but once the door closed, the woman embraced her.

  “Just an act for anyone watching. The big bureaucrat can’t be seen hugging the infamous Melanie Woodson.” They both laughed.

  “Damn, Janet, you had me going there for a minute. How’s Jim?” Mel asked.

  “Retired now. Only reason I still work is to get out of the house,” she said, laughing. “And the insurance.”

  Mel thought that odd that a contemporary of hers, especially one in government service, could even think about retiring. After exchanging a few minutes of pleasantries, Janet pulled a legal pad in front of her and started taking notes. Mel explained what had happened since the storm.

  “So there was no ID on the body you found?” Janet asked, underlining something on her paper.

  Mel dodged the question. “Mac’s had some trouble with the local law enforcement from time to time. We’ve pretty much stayed away from the investigation.”

  “But you thought he was a scientist?”

  “From what we pulled off his phone, yes,” Mel answered, wondering why the questions were more centered around the dead body than the polluted water. Patiently, she answered Janet’s questions, becoming more wary and vague as she went.

  “What about the test sites? They were clearly tampered with,” she said, checking her phone again, hoping for some confirmation from Jen about the test results.

  “That’s more the National Science Foundation’s deal. They run the test sites,” Janet said.

  “I’ve done enough homework on the sugar industry and the travesties they’ve committed to both our health and the environment to know there’s a ton of blame shifting going on. I thought maybe you could help me make a difference. Let the doctors straighten out the medical stuff, and I don’t really care about the real estate, but the environment—”

  Janet interrupted, “What is it that you want me to do?”

  Mel wrung her hands in her lap, frustrated about how this was going. She had made a mistake trusting a friendship and coming in without a plan or expectations—she knew better, and had to watch how emotionally involved she was getting. She tried a different angle. “I have some property, from my dad, down there. If those fish kills reach the middle Keys, it’ll be worthless.”

  “Honey, I feel your pain. There’s some paperwork I can get you to fill out, it usually takes a while, but I can push it through. Let me see what I can do for you,” Janet said, rising from her seat.

  Mel was shocked she was being dismissed like this. Not only did she expect their friendship, dating back to their days at Virginia Law School, to carry weight, but Janet had a position of authority here and the means to help her. “Well, if that’s all you can do.” She got up and waited for the other woman to come around the desk. They embraced again, but this time Mel could tell it was not heartfelt.

  “I can find my way out. You look busy,” Mel said, opening the door. She wanted out of there fast.

  Stopping in the bathroom off the lobby on the way out of the building, she washed her face and looked in the mirror. What looked back was not the impression she wanted to give. It was the look of worn-out desperation. She wondered if she should have stopped at a store and bought business clothes and some makeup before her meeting and decided that wasn’t it. She had been routinely dismissed by an old friend and bureaucrat. It was hard to believe some of the claims about Big Sugar, but she was starting to get a taste of just how powerful they were. It looked like Mac was right, and the only way to fix it was to do an end run around the government.

  She got back in the car, checked the rearview mirror and backed out of the space. A dark blue four-door sedan, barely identifiable from the other million just like it, pulled out from behind the building. It stopped and waited. She thought the driver wanted her parking space, but instead the car followed her out of the lot. She didn’t think anything of it as the driver turned in the same direction as she did onto the road and quickly dropped several cars back.

  As she drove, she replayed the meeting in her head, looking for clues or reasons why Janet had been patronizing, allowing her to leave with only a vague offer of help. She had even steered her away from a written complaint. The other car was quickly forgotten as her brain shifted into overdrive, trying to solve the puzzle.

  19

  Mac tried to ignore Pamela’s attitude. Her impatience was gnawing at him, and in the tight confines of the boat there was no escaping it. He was anxious as well, but knew the only way to figure out what was going on and to rescue Trufante was to follow the string of test sites. The stop to check the next site would only take a few minutes. Using the GPS on her phone, he located the station and pulled toward the bank of the canal. The Everglades Conservatory’s web page had pictures of each testing station, and he scanned the area looking for the short boardwalk allowing access to the sawgrass marsh. The site was labeled inactive, and he soon saw why when the dilapidated structure appeared on his left. He turned to the shore and nudged the bow until it lodged in the soft berm.

  “Can you hold her here? I’ll be right back,” he said to Pamela, leaving the engine in forward.

  She nodded and took the wheel. Moving to the bow, he jumped onto the six-foot slope, hoping it would hold him. His feet slipped, but he regained his balance and was able to crawl to the top. From there he could see what the berm had hidden. Stretched out to the horizon and beyond was an endless prairie of sawgrass. Cutting through a section was a short boardwalk. Taking a tentative step onto the first board, he felt something crack under his feet and retreated. Since the walkway was short, he figured whatever samples he could get at the end he could also get here and reached down, pulling a handful of cattails and grass from the marl.

  Climbing back down the berm, he saw the boat had drifted into the center of the canal. “Hey! What are you doing?” he yelled across to Pamela.

  She shrugged and he knew he had to calm down, knowing he was dealing with a child in a woman’s body. He and Mel had speculated endlessly, trying to figure out this woman who had attached herself to Trufante. There was a stream of money coming in, and Mel went as far as to run a background check from her credit card. What should have revealed at least her real identity or where she came from came up blank. It was as if she didn’t exist. The mystery remained unsolved.

  He motioned her over, waiting impatiently while she worked the boat toward him. Finally, she slammed the bow into the earth and he jumped onboard. After stowing the samples in the fish box, he used the fresh water wash-down to clean up.

  “What are we going to do about Tru? I can feel him. He’s here.”

  “Whoever took him is at the end of this road somewhere. We just need to keep working north. Why don’t you call Mel and see if she’s found anything?” He pushed the throttle forward and steered around a bend.

  “She scares me,” Pamela said.

  Mac couldn’t dispute her there. His attention turned back to the waterway as they approached another barrier. Turning the boat parallel to get a better look, he saw a dam-like structure with two steel guillotine-style gates, controlled from above. One was closed, restricting the flow of water, the other gate hung ominously overhead, about eight feet above the water. Pushing the throttle forward, Mac squared up the bow and using just enough power to retain steerage he crept into the opening. A surprisingly fast current took the boat, slamming it into the concrete abutment. There was no need to panic, but he needed to act quickly before the hull struck the other wall. With the choice of dropping power and letting the current pull the boat back, or pushing forward, he decided he would have better control under power. Mac pushed the throttle down. Anticipating the fishtail from the propeller, he cut the wheel to starboard, barely missing the edge of the structure. Once clear of the floodgates, he steered out of the current and slowed to an idle. He looked up at the parking area and saw a crowd of fishermen watching the action and applauding.

  He knew he had been luck
y and looked down at the phone. More floodgates lay ahead, and he knew sooner or later there would be one he couldn’t handle.

  Trufante laid out a simple pincer maneuver in the dirt. Splitting the group into two teams, he led one and assigned the other to Max. “We need a diversion to take them off guard so we can get in position,” Trufante said, looking around the abandoned building. To his right he saw an old pipe hanging from the ceiling. “Y’all get on that. Pull it down. It should make enough racket to scare those boys off for a minute. As soon as it goes, we move out.”

  With a boost, one of the taller guys was able to reach the pipe. He dangled from it, swinging his body back and forth, trying to break it free of the remaining straps. Suddenly it moved, dropping him to the floor and sending a screeching sound echoing through the building as it hit the concrete floor. After checking that he was all right, both teams headed for the entry and split up.

  Trufante took his squad to the right, while Max moved to the left with his. Covering each other, they ran to the large steel building fifty yards across the parking lot. As planned, each group took one side of the building. Now he needed to draw the other club inside.

  “We gotta make some noise so they think we’re inside,” he said.

  “Come on. I have an idea,” one of the boys said.

  Trufante signaled the rest of the team to wait, while he and the other guy slid inside. A big grin spread across his face as they reached a steel grate cut into the floor.

  “What’s in there?” he asked, peering into the darkness.

  “A rocket,” the guy said, taking a tactical flashlight off his belt and shining the beam into the void.

  “What in the hell!”

  “Largest solid-fuel rocket ever built.”

  “I’ll be damned.” Trufante turned toward the entrance. “So, what’s your idea?”

  He pulled a bundle of paracord from his cargo pocket. “Tie this on the grate and loop it over that beam.”

  Trufante saw where he was going, but was mesmerized by the rocket. Sunk into a concrete-lined culvert was the biggest engine he had ever seen. “You think that sucker’d still fire?”

  The boy nodded his head. “Solid fuel. No reason why it shouldn’t. Come on.”

  Together they rigged the cord. With one end tied to the grate, Trufante tossed the bundle over an overhead beam. The boy caught the extra line and they both took hold of the end, pulling until the grate creaked and rose a few inches. “All you got. Let’s make some noise,” Trufante said. “On three . . .”

  They pulled the grate several feet above the opening. “Go,” Trufante said, and they released the line, sending the grate down with a large crash. Running toward the side door, they looked back and saw the other team approaching. With their weapons ready, they marched single file into the trap. Trufante watched the last man enter and signaled Max. Both squads simultaneously entered the building from the side doors and surrounded the unsuspecting team. Without a shot, with their backs to the huge hole in the ground, they surrendered.

  The two teams stood together around the silo, shaking hands and talking about the game when they suddenly went quiet as a vehicle approached. Scattering like flies, Trufante was left alone in the center of the room. He heard a door slam and thought about running when he saw Jane standing in the entry with a gun pointed at him.

  Orange and blue splatters appeared around her as both teams shot. Real gunshots streamed blindly toward the shooters and into the dark interior. Trufante heard panic in the voices of the teams as they faced live fire for the first time. Another stream of bullets sent them scrambling out the back door, leaving Trufante alone.

  There were three figures in the opening: two men and a woman. “Leave the paintball nerds and get the tall, dumb-looking one,” Jane ordered her accomplices. The two men, both holding what looked like automatic rifles, moved cautiously toward him. To leave cover now would only expose him. Suddenly the soft splats of paintball rounds rang out and color appeared on each man’s vest.

  Trufante didn’t wait. Staying low, he ran toward the back of the building, feeling the paintball rounds fly over his head. Just as he stood, he heard the automatic fire again and the paintball rifles fell silent. Another round sprayed, and bullets ricocheted around him. Sparks flew from where they hit steel. He jumped to the side as one hit the concrete by his right foot.

  “Over here!”

  He heard Max yell over the shots and looked toward the back door.

  “Come on, we’ll cover you!”

  Trufante looked toward Max and then to the entry where the two gunmen stood, one on either side of Jane. All three were shooting real bullets at him. He knew there was no choice and yelled to the back that he was coming. The building erupted in paint splatters as both teams opened fire. What they lacked in real bullets, they made up for in volume, and when Trufante chanced a look back at the opening, he saw the three figures were gone. Sprinting, he took off toward the back door.

  Mel left the office park and drove west. For lack of any other plan, she took I-595 and turned south on the Florida Turnpike. She needed to find Mac and let him know what they were up against. She set her phone on her leg and pressed his name in her contacts list. With the speaker on she listened to the shrill ring, composing a voicemail in her head. She didn’t expect an answer, and left a message to call her back. Before she turned away she saw a small map with a pin in it below the phone number. Slowing, she pressed it, remembering she had configured Mac’s phone to share his location. There were too many times where he disappeared. It was not for lack of trust—he was as dependable and ethical as any man she had ever met. It was more for insurance. Things always seemed to be going wrong around him.

  A button that said directions appeared below the map and she pressed it. A dark blue line showed the route, taking her farther south and into the Everglades. She braked hard, almost causing a collision, and slid into the right lane, which exited on Highway 41. Glancing in her rearview mirror after changing lanes, she saw a dark blue sedan that looked familiar, but then discounted it as paranoia. Half the cars on the road looked like that. But she caught a flash in her side mirror as the car cut off a truck and swung in behind her.

  She turned onto Highway 41 west, hoping it was a coincidence, but the car stayed with her. The neighborhood started to change after she passed Florida International University. At a red light, she looked back to see the car stopped at the previous light. She thought about making a quick turn, to either confirm she was being followed, or lose the car if she was, but the signs were all in Spanish now and the increasingly Cuban neighborhood made her uncomfortable. The best thing to do was to stay to the security of the main road and find Mac.

  After the next few lights, the neighborhood thinned out and she found herself entering the Everglades. Billboards for airboat tours littered the sides of the road, and ahead she could see the Miccosukee Indian casino. As she drove she tried to figure out who was behind her, and the only solution she came up with was Big Sugar. The bad feeling she had gotten from Janet now started to make sense, and, remembering her and her husband’s early retirement, she recalled the millions of dollars in political donations Big Sugar had passed along to political action groups and the legislature directly. Some of the PAC money must have found its way to Janet’s pockets.

  As she approached the turnoff to the casino, she thought about seeking refuge there, but quickly dismissed the idea. Big Sugar and the tribes could easily be connected. Instead she accelerated, heading toward the red dot.

  20

  Trufante stood behind a deserted building with Max and the blue team, who it turned out was the Florida International University paintball club. Several structures separated them from Jane and the shooters, and Tru leaned against the hot steel siding, trying to catch his breath. The Miami University team they had been competing against had run the other way, and he could hear several vehicles pull out of an adjacent lot and head toward the main road.

  “That was rad
, man,” Max said.

  Trufante looked at him wondering if he knew those were real shots fired at him. “We gotta get out of here before the she-devil finds us.”

  “Our way out’s in that building,” Max said, pointing toward a concrete structure adjacent to the silo.

  “Y’all saved my ass. Best that you disappear before they find you,” Trufante said. “I’ll figure out how to distract them.”

  “We can’t leave you like this,” Max said. The team looked at each other, then to their leader. “First Bayou Brigade, reporting for duty.”

  “What y’all talkin’ about? I just made that up. Y’all know those are real bullets?”

  They all nodded and stood like they were waiting for orders. “I think we need to recon and see what these cats are up to.”

  He split the group into three teams and instructed them to fan out to see what Jane and the two men were doing. “Careful, that woman’s got the devil in her.” He sent two of the groups out, instructing them to stay wide of the silo and slowly work their way in. The last thing he needed was casualties.

  “One of you guys got a phone?”

  Mac continued his search for the origin of the flow of brown water bringing the fish kill to the Keys. He wondered if other explorers had the same feeling on their quests—that what they sought didn’t exist. The canal here was straight and wide with no floodgates nearby, and he turned the wheel over to Pamela. While she drove, he plotted the remaining test stations. Stations two and three were inside Everglades Park and outside the network of canals they were in. With every mile he was feeling more pessimistic and out of sorts. It felt pointless stopping at each site and collecting samples that he already knew were contaminated. He decided to go straight to the beginning and the first site.

  At the chart plotter he traced a straight line between their current location and the site. The map was sketchy, showing the canals starting and stopping seemingly at random. That meant they would have to go cross-country through the Everglades, and although the cuddy cabin only drew a few feet of water it might be too much. This was airboat country. He was out of his element, and he considered turning around and calling for help.