Rising Water

by Wayne Stinnett

  Copyright © 2019

  Published by DOWN ISLAND PRESS, LLC, 2019

  Beaufort, SC

  Copyright © 2019 by Wayne Stinnett

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or

  distributed in any printed or electronic form without express written permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Library of Congress cataloging-in-publication Data

  Stinnett, Wayne

  Rising Water/Wayne Stinnett

  p. cm. - (A Jesse McDermitt novel)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7339351-1-1 (Down Island Press)

  ISBN-10: 1-7339351-1-8

  Cover photograph by B. Campbell

  Graphics by Wicked Good Book Covers

  Edited by The Write Touch

  Final Proofreading by Donna Rich

  Interior Design by Ampersand Book Designs

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Most of the locations herein are also fictional or are used fictitiously. However, the author takes great pains to depict the location and description of the many well-known islands, locales, beaches, reefs, bars, and restaurants throughout the Florida Keys and the Caribbean to the best of his ability.

  I’ve taken a few literary liberties in this story. For those who have been paying close attention, you will know there is a significant time jump over the last few novels. When I wrote my first one, I intentionally set it in 2005 at the time of Hurricane Wilma. My thought at the time was that by setting it eight years in the past, I could jump ahead in subsequent books and be caught up to current time at some point. Well, that didn’t work out so well.

  After five years of writing, and more than a dozen novels later, I’d gained only seven years in the overall story. Knowing that I would be in my hundreds before the stories became current, I moved ahead with big sweeps of time between stories, but with the same four to six months of writing and publishing time.

  So, this story is set in late 2017 when Hurricane Irma ripped through the BVI and the Florida Keys. While some of the characters have changed a little in this work—you can’t stop children from growing—Jesse seems to be the same guy he was in Fallen Out, which starts the series in 1999, when Jesse retired from the Marine Corps at the age of 37. That was nearly twenty years ago in Jesse’s life.

  Sure, Jesse now has some lines on his face, and there’s some gray in his hair and beard, but keep in mind; this is a guy who trained hard for twenty years as a Marine, and has since lived off the grid, catching and growing his own food. He swims at least three times a week, which I agree is one of the best forms of exercise. So, at the age of 56, he hasn’t slowed down very much.

  So, now that we’re almost current in time, I find myself doing something I’ve never done before; writing about the future. The next book leaps ahead two years to the fall of 2019. Now there’s a scary prospect. I’ve always weaved real events into my stories. What if events in the next story come true?

  In the early part of this book, Jesse encounters a couple of dive masters off the coast of Saba, Boone and Emily. These are characters from my friend and audiobook narrator, Nick Sullivan’s first tropical adventure, Deep Shadow. The action and dialogue are identical in both the scene in his book and the one in mine. But with the change from third person narrative in his, to first person from Jesse’s point of view in mind, the scene is different. It’s fun doing these little mini-collaborations with friends.

  You can buy Deep Shadow Here.

  Many thanks to our team of beta readers who tear apart what it took me months to create, in just a matter of hours. Then they help me put the pieces back together again. Thanks Dana Vilhen, Katy McKnight, Debbie Kocol, Thomas Crisp, Ron Ramey, Torrey Neill, Mike Ramsey, Alan Fader, Charles Höfbauer, John Trainor, David Parsons, Drew Mutch, Deg Priest, Glen Hibbert, and Debbie Cross, for helping to polish up the manuscript.

  We’d also like to give our appreciation to those who followed in the process of turning a story into a book. Thank you Marsha Zinberg, of The Write Touch for another excellent and timely job of editing and fine tuning my story. Thanks also to my final proofreader, Donna Rich, who has been the last eyes on all of my books, I’m pretty sure. Narrator extraordinaire, Nick Sullivan, always has a few suggestions as he records the audiobook; they say reading aloud is the ultimate test of a story, and I agree. But, even after all these people, dozens of readings, it’s still just a manuscript. That’s when Colleen Sheehan of Ampersand Book Design molds it into a real book, along with my cover designer Shayne Rutherford of Wicked Good Book Covers.

  Without all these people, experts in their fields, this story would be far less entertaining. Thank you.

  One Human Family

  This book is dedicated to the men, women, and children of the Florida Keys, both Conch and Newcomer. It takes a special breed of person to live and work on islands connected by miles of bridges and a single ribbon of highway. Even more so, when tragedies happen like Hurricane Irma. That’s when you see the worst of nature and the best of humanity.

  “The world breaks everyone, and afterward,

  some are strong at the broken places.”

  - Ernest Hemingway

  If you’d like to receive my newsletter, please sign up on my website:

  www.waynestinnett.com.

  Every two weeks, I’ll bring you insights into my private life and writing habits, with updates on what I’m working on, special deals I hear about, and new books by other authors that I’m reading.

  The Charity Styles Caribbean Thriller Series

  Merciless Charity

  Ruthless Charity

  Reckless Charity

  Enduring Charity

  Vigilant Charity

  The Jesse McDermitt Caribbean Adventure Series

  Fallen Out

  Fallen Palm

  Fallen Hunter

  Fallen Pride

  Fallen Mangrove

  Fallen King

  Fallen Honor

  Fallen Tide

  Fallen Angel

  Fallen Hero

  Rising Storm

  Rising Fury

  Rising Force

  Rising Charity

  Rising Water

  There, you can purchase all kinds of swag related to my books. You can find it at

  www.gaspars-revenge.com

  Smooth white sand glistened in the hot Caribbean sun. The pristine beach stretched the length of the island’s southern shore, unmarred by civilization. Glittering sand gave way to clear water, which changed in color from gold in the shallows to turquoise and aqua as the water deepened.

  A young couple walked along the shoreline, both wearing swimsuits, the man carrying a small cooler. He was tall and fit, with sandy hair and brown eyes. She was nearly as tall, with long hair the color of summer wheat and a blue bikini that matched her eyes.

  They’d walked the length of the island’s southern shore and had made love in a hammock on the eastern tip, just a quarter mile from the island of Tortola and the entrance to Soper’s Hole. The couple had found the spot and the hammock the night before, christening it “their spot.”

  “I can’t get over how beautiful this place is,” Alicia said to her husband of just three days.

  Jerry Snyder took his bride’s hand. The two strolled through the shallow water al
ong the unspoiled beach, simply relishing the sun, the beauty around them, and each other.

  “Doesn’t compare to you,” Jerry replied, pulling her close and kissing her.

  Little Thatch Island, one of the westernmost of the British Virgin Islands, was privately owned. Jerry’s cousin had gone to college with the owner, and they’d gotten a great deal on their honeymoon stay.

  The couple held each other close, their kisses becoming more passionate. The odds of anyone watching them were very slim so they were without inhibition.

  There were only a handful of resort homes on the island, which measured half a mile long and a few hundred yards in width. Summer was the slow season, so Jerry and Alicia had it nearly to themselves.

  There was only one other couple on the island, also newlyweds. They were staying on the north shore. Jerry and Alicia had met them on the ferry ride over from Tortola. Unlike themselves, the other newlyweds were fair-skinned and Jerry figured they’d spend the whole week indoors, screwing their brains out. That left the rest of the sixty-three-acre island to him and his new wife, both tanned Californians.

  Jerry pulled his wife closer, cupping her bottom and pressing her against him. He could feel the heat rising in his groin once more. Alicia slid a hand into his board shorts, gently tugging at him.

  Suddenly, she jumped away, pulling her hand free and sidestepping quickly. When she looked down, she screamed. Jerry stared at her; it wasn’t the reaction he’d been hoping for.

  He started to move toward her. “Are you—” Then something bumped his leg. “What the hell?” He lunged to the side, joining his wife.

  When he looked down, Jerry saw what had startled them both and laughed. He first assumed it was a blue trash bag, with a pair of discolored boat fenders sticking out of it.

  “What is it?” Alicia asked, backing away.

  “Just a bag of garbage,” he replied, smiling and reaching down to grasp the bag’s far side and flip it over.

  When it rolled, he recognized the unmistakable form of a woman’s body, the right arm now draped across the torso, but no hand attached.

  A mannequin. That was Jerry’s second thought.

  Then a crab crawled out of the place where a head would be and scurried across the breasts, dropping into the water.

  Jerry involuntarily convulsed as the reality of what lay in the water at his feet finally hit him.

  u

  Jerry and Alicia sat on the sand in the shade of a grove of coconut palms. The Royal Virgin Islands Police had arrived an hour earlier and secured the area, surrounding the beach with yellow crime-scene tape.

  Two police boats were beached not far from where the couple had found the decapitated and mutilated body. The police had moved it to the beach to prevent it floating away in the slow, northwesterly-moving current.

  Another boat was patrolling The Narrows, a natural channel between Little Thatch and Saint John, less than a mile away to the south.

  One of the police officers, who’d earlier identified himself as Detective Sergeant Bryce Lettsome, broke away from the group that had been examining the body. With notepad in hand, he started toward the couple sitting on the white, powdery sand.

  Jerry stood and offered a hand to Alicia.

  “Thank you for your patience,” the detective said as he came nearer.

  “Have you found—the rest of her?” Alicia asked, rising to stand next to Jerry.

  “Not yet. Is dere anything you would like to add to your statement?”

  “Like we said, there’s not much we can tell you,” Jerry offered. “We were standing in the water when something bumped against us. At first, I thought it was a trash bag with a couple of boat fenders in it. When I rolled it over, I thought maybe it was a store mannequin, or something.”

  “That’s when we noticed the bloody stumps,” Alicia added. “It was ghastly.”

  “You said you rolled di body over,” Lettsome said to Jerry. “Why?”

  “I thought it was a garbage bag,” he replied. “I was going to drag it to shore and dispose of it.”

  “Do you think a boat propeller cut off her head, hands, and feet?” Alicia asked.

  “It is too soon to tell,” Lettsome replied. “You heard no commotion last night?”

  “We were walking right here,” Alicia said, her voice cracking slightly. “On this beach. We could hear music coming from over on Tortola, and a couple of boats passed by.”

  “But nothing unusual,” Jerry added.

  “You will be staying here until di end of di week?”

  “Two weeks,” Jerry replied, now beginning to worry about having gotten involved. He had to be back at work a week from Monday. He’d been hired by the Newport Beach Police Department just over a year ago. He pointed to his right. “The first house. The one with the red roof. We’re here for two weeks.”

  “Thank you,” Lettsome said. “If I have more questions, I will call before I stop by. We have your cell number from when you called dis in.”

  The detective turned and ducked under the yellow ribbon, which fluttered in the breeze.

  Jerry took his wife’s hand and they turned to walk back to the rental house.

  “There’s no way that was done by a boat prop,” Jerry said, his voice low.

  Alicia looked over at him. “No?” she asked.

  “Think about it, babe. The head, or an arm or a leg, maybe. But the head, both hands, and both feet?”

  Alicia stopped dead in her tracks. “You mean—”

  Jerry pulled her along. “Without teeth, fingerprints, or footprints, the body isn’t identifiable. That woman was murdered.”

  The air felt sticky against my skin; it was dense, almost constricting in its closeness. While it wasn’t terribly hot, the humidity was well above ninety percent making the air feel so thick that it seemed as if I’d need a sharp machete to hack my way through it.

  The sun was only a few degrees above the eastern horizon, but it already felt intense, searing exposed flesh. That heat combined with the high humidity meant it was going to be another oppressive day. In other words, a typical late-summer day in South Florida. It wasn’t a matter of if it was going to rain, but where and how soon.

  From the trees on shore, a staccato of cicada calls rose and fell, the sound moving around the island’s fringing mangroves like an undulating wave. They’d come just about the same day every year, so we were ready and had erected screens over the garden area to keep them out.

  A light breeze carried the scent of rain to my nostrils and I turned to face it. The familiar, yet difficult-to-describe odor was there all right; that earthy, musky smell you sense just as the first fat raindrops splatter onto the ground, kicking up dust.

  I’d always assumed the smell was steam, from the instantaneous sizzle of hundreds of individual water droplets on sunbaked concrete, asphalt, or sand. But I’ve experienced the odor many times out on the water. The smell was being transported on the wind. I’d since learned that this “rain scent” had nothing to do with the hot ground. At least not directly. It was caused by plants. When it starts to rain after a long dry spell, many plants will secrete tiny bacterial microorganisms.

  The breeze was out of the southeast. I couldn’t see any clouds in that direction, but most of my view was blocked. There were only a few puffy white clouds far to the south, down over Big Pine Key, which wasn’t visible from my low dock.

  The view of the horizon from my island was quite limited all around. The island itself blocked any view to the north. Half a mile to the west and southwest, two small, unnamed mangrove keys obscured most of the water view that way. Cutoe Key, a mile away across Harbor Channel, stretched out to the south, with Big Spanish Key beyond it. Together, they blocked most of the southern horizon where the clouds had formed. The only clear view from my south dock was to the east across skinny water, and straight up
Harbor Channel to the northeast. In that direction, the horizon was three miles away. Up on the deck that surrounded three sides of my house, you could see almost twice as far, even over the tops of some of the smaller keys.

  Summer storms had a way of sneaking up on a person in the backcountry of the Middle Florida Keys. It was always a good idea to keep a sharp weather eye.

  Finn raised his big yellow head, his black nose twitching. He’d been asleep, soaking up the warm mid-August sun, while I washed down one of my boats. He looked up at me, his head cocked a little off-center. It was his typical curious expression, one he used quite a bit. His bright eyes were asking a question.

  “You smell it too?” I asked.

  Finn crossed his forelegs and laid his head on them, his big amber eyes closely watching me. He was in the prime of his life and knew that the rain smell didn’t always mean rain was coming. Finn loved a good summer rain. But during the hot summer months, he spent a lot of time napping; Finn’s high speed was very laid back. When it was this hot, I’d learned to take a page from his book, to work slower and pace myself. His idea of pacing himself was to be comatose. We could learn a lot from our four-legged friends. A dog’s life wasn’t without its appeal.

  Hearing footfalls on the steps going up to the deck, I turned and saw Jimmy heading down.

  “Hey, Jesse. I heard the engines. You taking her out, man?”

  “Thought about it,” I replied. “Maybe after I go down and clean the bottom.”

  He looked down at the green slime along the boat’s waterline. “Dunno how that stuff grows so fast when she’s inside all the time.”

  “Reflected light,” I said. “There isn’t much on the inboard side. One day, I’ll put some steel caisson sections around the bottom of the boathouse.”

  Jimmy sat cross-legged next to Finn, scratching the thick fur around the dog’s neck and ears. “She hasn’t been out on the blue in a while, man.”

  He was right. Gaspar’s Revenge had been my primary fishing vessel for many years. She was a forty-five-foot convertible, built by Rampage Yachts and the perfect offshore fishing machine for me. But my new job had kept me away a lot lately. After submersible training, I’d worked aboard Ambrosia as chief mate to get the required sea service time to qualify for my Master Unlimited papers, which would allow me to command just about any commercial vessel. I still had another six months to go there. During that time, we’d crossed oceans and hemispheres. Ostensibly, we gathered research data, mostly for ocean engineering projects. On occasion it’d been a little more than that.