He remembered the last uncharted trip through the waters of Florida Bay with Alicia and their encounter with the tweakers led by the wannabe golfer who went by Bugger Vance. It could easily happen again if he got stuck in a dead-end canal. He picked up the microphone for the VHF radio and called out for TJ on channel sixteen. It was late, but he knew the dive shop would hear him on their base station. The tall aerial antenna mounted to the building drastically increased their range. A minute later, his call was answered and the young voice asked him to go to channel seventy-two.
TJ was on the radio a minute later. “Can you give me your location from the GPS?”
Mac read the position from the screen. “I need to get to Clewiston.”
“Roger. Easier by car,” TJ said, “but give me a few minutes and I’ll get to the war room. We’ll get you there.”
A few minutes later he heard TJ back on the radio. The signal was weaker. “What’s with the signal?”
“I’m upstairs on a handheld. I’m pulling your position up now.”
Mac envisioned TJ sitting in his captain’s chair manipulating the images on the large-screen HD monitors mounted on the far wall in a rectangular array. It allowed him to configure the units to display separate images on each screen, use the dozen screens as one, or a variety of combinations. Alicia had a space to the side that, although it was less ostentatious, had all the firepower the ex-CIA agent needed. “Alicia there?”
“She went out to the store. For now, it’s you and me, buddy.”
Mac could tell by TJ’s voice that he was excited. The gamer relished these real-life challenges. “It’s getting dark.”
“Just about have the course plotted out now. Start heading north on the large canal to your right. I’m looking for a way through Highway 41.”
“How far is that?” Mac asked. “At some point we’re going to lose reception.” He knew the VHF radio worked on line of sight, and he could already tell from the difference in signal between the base unit in the dive shop and the handheld that TJ was now using that the signal would not reach much further. “Let’s just get there for now.”
The canals were straight and, besides the occasional fishermen and the few gators sunning themselves in the fading light, he was alone. He stared at the GPS, trying to connect the dots.
25
Dusharde looked at Wade. “You know that woman?”
“What the hell is she doing here? I’ve been fighting her kind for decades. Damned save the earth do-gooders,” Wade said.
Sipping his drink, Dusharde studied the woman. “Go on. Tell me what you know,” he said to Wade while watching the new woman’s face for any reaction.
“Her name is Melanie Woodson,” he spat. “Worked for Davies and Associates in D.C. They were the firm trying to block the Feds from passing the land purchase deal back to the state. I don’t remember her being a part of that, but she’s been in and around the progressive camp for quite a while, first with the ACLU, then with Davies. Woman’s nothing but trouble.”
Dusharde could see it was true from the look on her face. Jane stared at her as well, obviously not knowing her background. This was troubling, and there was only one surefire way to deal with problems like this, and he didn’t hesitate. “Have another drink, Vernon,” he said, rising and moving back to the bar. He took the decanter, poured a generous dose into Wade’s glass, and added just enough to his for show.
“What do you want me to do with her?” Jane asked.
“Not sure why you brought them here. And who is the other one?” Phillip said, looking at the tall woman standing behind them. She was more his type and he could see from the look on her face that she would be a handful in bed. Instead of waiting for her to answer, he got up and went toward her.
“What would your name be, sweetheart?” he asked.
“Pamela,” she replied, with a fierce look on her face.
These two were getting him excited. It was like being in the lion cage at the circus, with Jane as the ringmaster, controlling the beasts with a gun instead of a whip. “Well, Pamela, can I get you a drink?”
He could see the fury build in her eyes and he became aroused.
“She shot my boyfriend. Tru’s dead because of all your greed,” she said, looking at Jane.
The Woodson woman moved in between them, sensing something was about to happen. She whispered something to Pamela.
“I hope you cleaned up your mess,” he said to Jane.
She shot him a look. Dismissing her attitude, but not her actions over the past few days, he asked for a rundown of what had happened.
“With them here?” Jane asked, looking at the two women.
Dusharde thought for a second. “Yes.” He wanted to use the women as a barometer to see if she was telling the truth. And the tall one had him intrigued. He turned to Wade. “Don’t know if you want to hear all this. Plausible deniability and all.”
The representative brought his glass to his mouth. “Wouldn’t miss this for the world. I’m thinking anything said here is never going past those doors.”
“Nixon thought the same, but suit yourself,” Dusharde said, looking at Jane to begin.
Trufante squeezed one eye open. He was not dead. Immediately, pain signals flooded his brain, and it took him several seconds to see the gunshot wound dripping blood from his thigh. Not sure how long he had been unconscious, he looked around. He was in the back of an SUV and moving. The squad must have heard the shots and investigated. The first Bayou Brigade had probably saved his life. Looking back at his leg, he could see the dressing was saturated, but the bleeding had stopped. He screamed in pain when the truck hit another bump. The roads were wide and straight, but the weather cycles fluctuating between rain and drought here were hard on the asphalt surface.
“Hang in there, commander,” Max said, turning from the front seat.
“Where y’all takin’ me?”
“We have to get you to a hospital. I think you lost a lot of blood back there.”
Trufante was good with that. He was done playing commander. All he wanted was a shot of morphine and Pamela. The thought stopped him. It surprised him how high on his priority list she was. Even after six months together he was interested, which was unique for him. He had always been a friends-with-benefits kind of guy, and the longevity and intensity of the relationship with Pamela was a mystery to him. He still hadn’t figured her out. Since finding her wandering the backstreets of Key West, dragging a suitcase behind her, he had discovered little more about her background than there was always a pile of money on the first, that usually lasted for a week or two, then she used a credit card until the last week of the month, when it disappeared and times got tough.
The SUV swerved, throwing him against the side of the truck and bringing him back to the present. He leaned back, trying to get comfortable, and saw the reason: a twelve-foot-long gator sunning itself on the road. Gradually, the natural landscape changed and they entered an agricultural area. Large fields were planted with laser-straight rows of small palm trees and other landscape bushes. Then the inevitable track homes became visible, first as small isolated areas between the fields and finally encompassing the entire landscape. Strip malls and traffic lights now made their appearance, finishing the transformation from pristine nature to the concrete jungle.
“Y’all just gotta drop me off. They ask questions about gunshots,” Trufante said as the SUV slowed and, with one last bump, pulled under the overhang in front of the Homestead Hospital. “Not here. Pull ’round to the side. I’ll get help.”
“You can’t walk,” Max said. “We’ll help you. The First Bayou Brigade doesn’t leave its own behind.”
Trufante looked at him sternly. “Look here. This is a bad bit of business, and y’all don’t need to be associated with it.”
Max started to say something, but Trufante cut him off. “And that’s an order.”
They left him by an abandoned wheelchair near the back of the parking lot.
&
nbsp; “Y’all been good soldiers,” he said, dismissing them. He hobbled to the chair and sat. A few minutes later, with blood dripping from the saturated T-shirt that bound the wound, he wheeled himself into the entrance and was immediately surrounded. With experience in these matters, he feigned unconsciousness to avoid the prodding questions and paperwork, and was careful not to show his grin when the IV was inserted in his forearm.
Mac ran the boat hard. He worked to the north, staying to the less-vegetated channels whenever possible. The GPS display was highly detailed, showing contour lines and other information for the ocean, but here the boat was displayed as a small icon in a field of nondescript green. With the GPS only useful for showing his proximity to the larger landmarks, he knew he needed help. He was coming up on Highway 41, and tried to raise TJ, but as he suspected, there was no answer. Having driven the route to the west coast, otherwise known as the Tamiami Trail, several times, he recalled all the airboat rides and small alligator venues along the way. There were few waterways underneath the highway, and he could only hope the course he was taking would lead him to one. Otherwise he could be delayed hours trying to find a path to the other side.
Night had already closed in on him, making it easy to see the headlights from the road and the security lights of the businesses ahead. He steered toward a large area with a halo of light around it and slowed the boat as he entered a small canal. The distinctive groan of gators surrounded him as he idled into the docking area for the airboat tour venue. Bugs swarmed around the security lights that reflected dozens of pairs of prehistoric eyes, all looking at him.
He tried to ignore the beasts and eased the boat into an open slip where he tied it off with a slipknot in case he needed a quick escape. He walked toward the venue. The docks and boardwalks were all lit by yellow-tinted lights, probably some measure of security that was also supposed to discourage mosquitos. They were partly effective at the former and worthless at the second. He swatted the bugs around his head and followed the signs toward the exit and saw a building ahead with a thatched hut for a roof. Just before he reached it, he encountered a locked gate. Probably there to keep outsiders away from the boats and gators, it was instead holding him hostage in the Everglades. He looked around, but the boardwalk was the only path. There was another section that looked like it served as an entrance, with a ticket hut blocking its path, but another yellow lights showed it had a gate as well.
Just behind him was a small display with a large-scale map of the Everglades that might guide him, and he turned back to the boat. He stopped when something moved in front of him on the boardwalk. A gator blocked the way, its eyes glaring at him from the shadows. Its tail slapped against the wooden decking as it inched toward him. There was no way around it, and with his back to the locked gate, he riffled through his pockets for anything that could help.
He came up with a few shotgun shells and flare cartridges, but without the gun they were useless. Desperate, he looked around thinking it might be safer to hop the rail and swim to the boat. That option was quickly discarded when he saw four more sets of eyes pop out of the water. He was surrounded.
Thinking he could stand on the wood railing to get above the reach of the gator, he grabbed for the top board, only to have it break away when the end grain of the post released the nail. The thick humidity in the brush could corrode even a galvanized fastener in months. With the five-foot piece of wood for a weapon, he waved it in the direction of the gator, who backed slightly to evaluate the new development. The rusted nail caught his eye and, just as the gator inched forward, deciding that the weapon or the man wielding it were no threat, he had an idea.
The gator took another few tentative steps, his primitive brain trying to decide what his dinner was doing and moved forward again. Mac waited. His best chance for success was to get the gator as close as possible. When it was ten feet away, he wound up, figuring if it didn’t work, he would still have time to hop on the rail. Swinging the board with as much force as he could garner in the awkward position, he ran forward and smashed the nail into its head. At first he thought nothing had happened and was about to leap for the rail, but then he heard a groan and the gator dropped to the dock. With a tight grip on the board, he tiptoed past the remains.
Glancing back every few feet to see if he was being followed, he made his way to the small kiosk where he had seen the map. It was dark and he ran his hands against the rough-sawn cedar poles in search of a light switch. Finding one, he flicked it on and a minute later he could hear the ballasts of the fluorescent lights buzzing, and finally he was bathed in cool white light. If the yellow lights were made to deter bugs, the fluorescents were like honey. Between the light and the sweat covering him, within seconds he was attacked by every manner of flying insect.
With black flies and mosquitos swarming around him, he swatted aimlessly and stared at the detailed map. The scale map of the Everglades had the mandatory “You are Here” symbol marking his location, but as he studied it, he saw the blue lines he was looking for and started tracing a path, following a series of canals all the way to Clewiston.
He would have taken it if he could, but the map was laminated onto the wood below it to prevent the moisture from rotting it. Instead, he studied the route. Moving backward from the bottom of Lake Okeechobee, he decided on the well-marked canal running parallel to Highway 27.
He reached the boat without incident and climbed back aboard. Releasing the slipknot, he let the current move the boat away from the dock, started the engine, and reversed away from the massacre. In the channel he found the bridge he had seen on the map and steered into the darkness below the highway. Emerging on the other side, he saw a sign for the ValuJet Memorial and the L-67 canal. He steered into the wide canal and followed it north. A half hour later, he saw lights ahead.
The headlights from Highway 27 became visible ahead of him and he turned left into the canal running parallel to the road and settled in for the seventy-mile ride. At thirty mph, it would take him just over two hours, and he glanced down at the fuel gauge, thankful that TJ had filled the tank. It would be close, but he should have enough gas to get there and back if needed.
26
Mel watched the faces of the two men, looking for any opening she could get. Not expecting any help from Pamela, she knew it was on her to get them out of this. Dusharde was obviously under Pamela’s spell, and she tried to think how she could use that to her advantage. The other man she knew by acquaintance, and her previous opinion of him was only reinforced by his presence here. He was lucky she dealt mainly at the federal level, or she would have relished taking him down.
Jane started to describe the day’s events in the Everglades, but Wade interrupted her.
“What are you into, Dusharde?” he asked. “I think I’m going to take your advice. This is way over my pay grade. You’re right—I need some plausible deniability here. I never saw any of you.” Red-faced, he got up.
“That’s a good idea, Vernon. If I may be frank, there’s nothing I can do for you either. Perhaps the best thing is to vacate your office and keep your head down,” Dusharde said.
This was unfolding faster than Mel’s brain could process. The representative had hate in his eyes as he walked out of the room. She had seen that same look in the faces of opponents she had beaten in court, and it was not something to be ignored. Dusharde had a reputation for buying political influence, but she couldn’t figure out what Wade could do for him. Just by his voting party lines, Dusharde would get what he wanted from the representative. From what she knew of Big Sugar, they were too smart to make individual donations, channeling most of their influence through PACs. In theory, the political action committees were independent of their individual donors, but, in fact, they executed their agendas behind a legal shield.
There had to be another answer. Turning the question upside down, she asked herself what Dusharde could do for the representative. Often politicians came begging to large donors or influential patrons
for favors, offering votes in return. With no way to run a background check from her current circumstances, Mel relied on her experience and decided that this was the likely scenario and it had failed.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Jane and Dusharde going back and forth, bickering like old lovers. She renewed her focus on the argument, realizing their fates were being discussed in plain language. Her lawyer brain was churning, searching for anything she could say to keep them alive, and was surprised when it was Pamela that did it.
“I thought you wanted to spend some time with me,” she said coyly. Dusharde’s ears raised like a dog and color flooded to his face.
“One has to separate business from pleasure, but you are a unique specimen, maybe worth keeping alive,” he said.
Mel was disgusted at the way he referred to her as an object and bit her tongue. Whatever was happening was to their advantage, and she would take her revenge later.
“Let’s make a decision in the morning.” He thought for a minute. “Put them in the wine cellar.”
Jane marched them out the door and down the hallway. Mel memorized each room as they went. Passing a bathroom and bedroom suite, they turned and headed down a wide stairway. She could tell from the coolness that they were moving underground, and that made sense for a wine cellar. A large room with a well-outfitted gym was at the bottom of the stairs. Jane opened a closed door and pushed them into a concrete-lined hallway done in the style of some of the wineries she had seen on a trip to Napa. The concrete floor was stained a dark brown, coated with a glossy finish, and the ceiling was made to look like a mine shaft with rough-sawn exposed beams. The faux finish on the plaster made it appear the walls were sweating. Which after touching them, she realized they were. Basements in Florida were rare and expensive. The unstable and moist soil making subterranean construction difficult.
Wood's Revenge Page 17
