Rising Water

by Wayne Stinnett

  The cops arrived at the clearing none too soon, as several people from the compound came rushing out into the clearing, shooting.

  Lettsome’s men fired back. So did we. Most of DJ’s shots were merely for effect, as we were more than 100 yards from the group coming out of the woods. But he emptied the handgun’s magazine and quickly inserted another. Lettsome was at least twice as far away as we were, but he had three men with rifles with him, plus John and Jerry.

  The Onayans quickly realized they were not just outnumbered, but outgunned, and flanked between two forces. They were sitting ducks, and they knew it.

  DJ and I moved quickly to cut off any retreat as the Onayans began to lay down their weapons. In minutes, it was over, and the cops began taking people into custody.

  “Detective Lettsome,” I called out, as DJ and I approached the group.

  The police force numbered ten men, not all in uniform. One of the cops started to raise a rifle, but the detective put a hand on it.

  “Ah, Cap’n McDermitt,” he said, grinning. Then he nodded toward Jerry. “Your policeman friend told me you were out dere. I see dat he had things in hand before we got here.”

  “Well, before those others came out of the woods,” Jerry offered. “I’m glad you got here when you did. I’ve never discharged my weapon in the line of duty.”

  Off to the north, another—much larger—boat was approaching the tip of Norman Island. Lettsome tapped one of his men on the shoulder. “Contact di boat and have dem anchor in dat little bay we found. Den start transporting dese people out to it.”

  Amazingly, none of the Onayans had been hit by the massive barrage they’d stumbled into. I know I was shooting at the ground in front of them, not wanting to hurt anyone who might just be an innocent person, brainwashed by the Onayans. As it turned out, Lettsome had given the same orders to his men.

  “Four shot,” Lettsome said, as he and I walked over to the edge of the cliff, where the man’s body lay

  The eastern sky was lightening, and the night vision was no longer necessary. I put the goggles away and looked down. The woman had gone over the cliff. Her body lay broken and twisted on the rocks below.

  Detective Lettsome knelt beside the man and rolled him over. His lifeless eyes stared up at the stars as they winked out, one by one.

  “Three dead,” Lettsome said. “Dis one and di woman down dere were shot by di short blond woman over dere.” He pointed toward his prisoners, Sunna standing at the front. “My men must have shot dose other two. Di ones with di rifles.”

  “That what the report’s gonna say?” I asked.

  “I know dis man,” he said, standing and ignoring my question. “He is wanted in di Bahamas and in di States.”

  “Derrick Coleman,” I said, hardly believing it was him.

  Lettsome looked at me curiously. “You know him?”

  “Not really,” I replied. “Only met him once, many years ago. He was a slick, Southern lawyer then.”

  “I see,” Lettsome said, as he looked over the edge again. “Dat woman down dere is probably Chandra Knowles. Di two were arrested here for running drugs, along with dis man’s wife, Annabelle Coleman. From what I heard, she claimed innocent spouse status in di States, testified against her ’usband, and divorced him. Coleman was disgraced and disowned by his family. He escaped bail and dese two have been on di run since.”

  Savannah’s ex-husband, I thought. I should contact her and tell her. Everything.

  Savannah Richmond was the name I’d known her by. We’d had an affair many years ago, and she’d never mentioned a husband until the day she took off and went back to him, leaving me a note. I’d only met the guy once, briefly, outside a federal courthouse, where she and I had both been called to testify in a kidnapping trial. Many years later, I learned Savannah was also the mother of my youngest daughter, Florence. I’d debated for some time whether to tell Savannah that I knew the child was mine. Then about two years ago, the dead man at my feet had kidnapped Florence, thinking she was his. Fortunately, Charity Styles had been with Savannah that day and they’d gotten her back, exposing Derrick Coleman as a low-life smug druggler.

  Lettsome and I returned to the group. The sun was beginning to peek over the eastern horizon and I suddenly felt immensely old and very tired.

  The blond woman, Sunna Johannsdottir, stood with several others, all of them dressed in blue and hands cuffed behind their backs. She watched as we walked toward them, her eyes assessing me. They fell to my right forearm, adorned by the masked skull tattoo of my previous life as a recon Marine.

  “You,” she said. I turned to face her. “You were the one who was watching us. I recognize that tattoo.”

  She was shorter than most women and her robe did little to hide her abundant curves. A beautifully sculpted example of womanhood. Fair skin and hair, with pale blue eyes, the color of the tropical shallows. But her beauty stopped at the outside.

  “And you’re the one who grows pot,” I said. “And makes MDMA for high school kids.”

  “I hope you got your enjoyment watching us.”

  “Not really,” I said, as John and the others approached. “I just thought you were a bunch of really weird people.”

  “Can we go now?” John asked the detective.

  Lettsome motioned us to follow him. I turned my back on the Icelandic beauty and walked away. She began to spew words so vile and disgusting, it would make a sailor blush.

  In a blur, Alicia wheeled around, her arm extending outward, back-fisting Sunna and knocking her to the ground, while unleashing her own torrent of expletives.

  Jerry grabbed his wife and pulled her away before she decided to kill the woman.

  “Please,” Lettsome said, “come dis way.”

  Jerry wrapped an arm around Alicia, leading her away. “I’m sorry,” she said to the detective. “My kid sister died of an overdose. I… I just lost it.”

  “Do not worry about it,” Mitzi said. “We have lost people to dat evil, as well.”

  When we were far enough from the Onayans, all now sitting on their mats and being guarded by nearly a dozen armed men, Lettsome stopped and turned toward us. “Thank you,” he said to John. “But you know what has to happen now.”

  John nodded and turned to Mitzi. “You’ll take care of my things? I’ll let you know where you can ship them.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  Mitzi hugged John and whispered something to him, then John motioned the rest of us to follow him.

  “What’s going on here?” I again asked Lettsome.

  “You must go now,” he replied. “Take one of der carts and never return to Norman Island. Nobody here knows who you are and it must remain dat way.”

  “C’mon, Jesse,” John said. “This ain’t the first time and it probably won’t be the last. You need a first mate?”

  Half an hour later, we arrived at John’s house in two carts, where John grabbed a few things. Once outside, he hugged Mitzi again. “Why don’t you stay at your little shack down on the beach for a few days,” he said, nodding toward the Snyders.

  She released the older man and he turned to Jerry, handing him the keys. “Stay here and enjoy the rest of your honeymoon, son. You can plug the cart into an outlet under the steps there.”

  “I don’t know,” Jerry said. “This doesn’t seem right.”

  John shook the younger man’s hand. “Sometimes it don’t, son. Learn to embrace the suck. I own this house, free and clear. You and your new wife stay here for as long as you want. It might grow on ya.” He gave Jerry a satellite phone. “I’m going to call you one week from today, okay? We’ll talk about your future then.”

  Mitzi, John, and I took the Onayans’ cart and drove to Pirate’s Bight, where Mitzi hopped off the back without a word. Minutes later, John and I were climbing aboard Floridablanca.


  “I don’t get it,” I said. Things were happening too fast for my exhausted mind to keep up with. “They’re kicking us out of the BVI?”

  “Not the whole country,” John said. “Just Norman Island. It’s an agreement we try to negotiate with host countries where we ‘do business.’ Bryce has asked me to leave Virgin Gorda, too. No big deal, Mitzi will handle the sale of my house.”

  I started the engine as John activated the windlass to retrieve the anchor. “So, where are we going?”

  “Don’t matter to me,” John said, as he turned on the weather radio. The monotone voice recited local weather conditions for the Virgin Islands, then began the extended forecast.

  At 0600 UTC, the National Weather Service upgraded the depression to Tropical Storm Irma.

  “Ever been to Grenada?” John asked.

  Mother nature made our plans for us. John and I headed south, moving Floridablanca out of Irma’s path, should she head for the northern Caribbean.

  Situated only twelve degrees above the equator, Grenada and the southernmost islands of the West Indies are considered to be outside of Hurricane Alley, the path across the ocean from the coast of Africa that most Atlantic hurricanes follow. The southern islands rarely experience tropical storms.

  At over 400 nautical miles, I thought it was a bit of an extreme move, but John said he had a nose for trouble and thought it might be a good place to stage the boat. It was about as far from the Florida Keys as you could get in the Caribbean Basin.

  As we motored south, John listened to the forward-scanning passive sonar, as he usually did. Remembering the explosion of the sub and how the sound seemed to pulse, I asked him about it.

  “It’s all about differing ambient pressures and distance,” he explained. “When something explodes underwater, it doesn’t just blast outward against the water pressure. It pulses. If you slowed the explosion way down and could watch it, the gases would expand beyond ambient water pressure, then the water would push back against the still- expanding gases, shrinking them until that ambient pressure is passed and the gases push back out again. Slow it enough and you might see hundreds of micro-pulses within ten or so big ones. The pulse is far too fast to see or hear, but distance separates the different wavelengths of the sound the pulse makes, so passive sonar from a distance will register an explosion as a pulse. A good sonar operator can estimate the distance to the explosion based on the pulse rate.”

  John had spent a lot of time underwater at great depth, so I had to take his word for it. I filed the pulsing sound I’d heard in my memory as an underwater explosion, in case I ever heard it again.

  By running the twin auxiliary engines, we made the crossing in a little over two days. On Guadeloupe, we stopped to refuel and stay the night, and had a surprise visit from Sara. John got a room in town.

  Sara was gone when I woke up. But that’s the way our relationship was. We made time whenever and wherever we could to just enjoy one another’s company.

  I called Jimmy and told him I’d be home in a few days, at least by Sunday. He was happy, since the dive trip with Peter and his photography crew and models had grown to include six divers, and Mac Travis wasn’t available to help out.

  Once we had Floridablanca secured at Port Louis Marina on the southeast side of Grenada, John left immediately for the airport. I knew he owned at least two other homes; I’d been to his little house in Coconut Groves. Or he’d said he owned others. For all I knew, Armstrong Research might own them. I didn’t think it was the last time I’d see John. Nor Jerry Snyder, for that matter.

  When I finally got to the airport, I’d already missed the last flight that would get me to Miami in time to connect to Marathon, so I got a one-way ticket to Key West through Orlando.

  You could probably fill volumes with the names of people who’d bought similar tickets to that destination, but most were flying out of a far less hospitable location than the West Indies. Many of those same names could be found in other volumes of those who hitchhiked out of Key West, broken in wallet and dreams.

  When I finally reached the Rock, as everyone calls the last island on US-1, it was nearly midnight. At the very least, you could say I was a bit cranky and my nerves were on edge.

  It being a Saturday night, there was no shortage of people on the island, and since it was close to midnight, most would be highly inebriated and stumbling along Duval Street.

  Leaving the airport terminal, I had several options. I could walk a few blocks to one of the resorts on the east side of the island, take a cab to a hotel near the docks on the west side and wait for Jimmy, or I could take a cab all the way up to Marathon, where I’d left the Grady at the Rusty Anchor, and sleep in my own bed. In about two hours.

  I hadn’t slept much in the last four days and my ankle was still sore, so I chose the fourth option and took a cab to the nearest bed.

  The first hotel was full up, as was the second. At the Doubletree, they had two rooms left.

  “How many nights?” the desk clerk asked.

  Jimmy wasn’t picking up the divers until Monday morning, so I told the man two nights. Why complicate things by going up there, when we were picking the divers up here?

  “The only room available for two nights is a king suite.” He looked disparagingly at my unkempt appearance and single backpack. “Will that do?”

  “Yeah,” I replied, sliding my AmEx Black Card across the counter. His attitude changed instantly.

  I intended to sleep through the next day if possible. When I got into my room, I dumped my backpack on the bed and turned the TV on while I got ready for a shower.

  The default guide channel on the TV had a small corner screen showing a satellite loop of what looked like a very big storm.

  I found the Weather Channel and turned up the volume. The same loop was playing there and the reporter said Category-3 Hurricane Irma was still traveling west-southwest and was centered 689 miles due east of the island of Antigua.

  Stripped of my shirt, and with one shoe still on, I sat down on the bed and watched. If Irma continued on its course, it would pass within a few hundred miles of Grenada and Floridablanca.

  Hurricanes rarely move south of a westerly course for very long, and eventually they all turn north. So, I wasn’t overly concerned; it was still hundreds of miles from making landfall.

  The current conditions report changed abruptly to the projected path, or the cone of uncertainty, as the forecasters liked to call it. The cone spread out, curving more westerly, then turned toward the west-northwest. The Virgin Islands was in the middle of the cone, but the storm was still at least three days from making landfall there.

  There was no doubt that Irma was going to strike land, and it would do so somewhere in a 400-mile stretch of the island chain I’d just left. As at least a Cat-4 storm, with sustained winds exceeding 130 mph.

  In dramatic fashion, the illustration zoomed out, with the twirling red dot representing Hurricane Irma moving to the bottom right of the screen. The forecaster drew a straight line from the end of the cone to Key West, then faced the camera. “After that, it’s anyone’s guess, but as you can see, south Florida may feel the effects of Hurricane Irma before this is all over.”

  Irma. It had that kind of name. The bad ones always did. A name that’s heavy on the tongue; Hugo, Camille, Andrew, Katrina. Ominous-sounding names. Or did the names become ominous in the collective consciousness of those who live by the sea because of the devastation brought by the storms that bore those names?

  I continued to watch as I absently kicked my other shoe off. The forecast predicted favorable conditions for further intensification, and the Hurricane Center had already sent out reconnaissance aircraft, recording a barometric pressure lower than any storm in the last ten years.

  My whole body slumped and my eyes grew heavy as I watched the satellite loop again. I didn’t need anyone to tell me this was
going to be a bad blow. Wherever Irma ended up, death and destruction would be left in her wake.

  After fifteen minutes of watching the reports, I turned off the TV, showered, and went to bed. I turned on the radio, knowing the background noise outside would be a distraction come morning. I moved the knob around until it landed on a song I recognized; Eric Stone singing the classic Crosby, Stills, and Nash song, Southern Cross. Good to hear that Eric was getting airtime. As I fell asleep, the station identified itself as Pyrate Radio.

  When I awoke, I was still tired. And starving. I looked at my watch, and even though it was close to noon, the room was dark, thanks to the heavy drapes over the sliding glass door to the balcony. I called room service for breakfast and turned on the TV.

  The storm forecast hadn’t changed much, except the turn to the west had begun, and the cone now turned more northerly. The forecaster last night hadn’t been far off the mark; if Irma followed the course they were now predicting, it would definitely bring bad weather to South Florida.

  After a noon breakfast, I opened the drapes and looked out on the courtyard and pool far below. There were a few people in the water, and several more lying on chaise lounges around it, all enjoying the late summer sun.

  My phone rang and I dug around in my backpack until I found it. The ID said it was Jimmy, so I answered.

  “Where are you, mi capitan?”

  “I’m in Key West,” I replied. “Couldn’t catch the shuttle to Marathon yesterday.”

  “Heard about this storm?”

  “Yeah, it doesn’t look good for the Leewards.”

  “You made a plan for if it heads this way, man?”

  I sat down hard on the bed. “I was just thinking about that,” I replied. “It’s still way too far away to implement any plans—you know that.”

  “Yeah, man. Probably a week or so.”

  “You won’t have any trouble getting the Revenge here on your own?”

  “No problemo, dude. I’ll be at Key West Bight Marina to fuel up at five o’clock. Peter said they’d be there no later than six.”