by Jack Hardin
“Okay.”
Ellie got out of the truck and opened his door. “Let’s go. Hurry up.”
He stepped out into the rain. “Where're we going?” he asked, somewhat guarded.
Ellie ignored the question. “Stay next to me and look normal.” He was wearing a leather vest over nothing but skin, had a bloodied face and a tattoo of a purple parrot on his shoulder. Oswald looked anything but normal. They worked their way up the ramp, passed The Salty Mangrove, and headed for the marina beyond. The bar was shuttered, hunkered down against the upcoming onslaught from Mother Nature. If the storm hit the island dead on as a Category 4, the community would be unrecognizable for months, even years afterwards. The bar and the marina would be wiped out, homes on the canals in Saint James City, on the waterfront in Bokeelia, and all along the coast would be flooded, Ellie’s home included. It was one of the very few concessions one had to make for the privilege of living in paradise. The outer bands were bringing hard, intermittent rains and now, looking out at the water off the marina, Ellie was staring at four to five foot swells.
The steel pedestrian door leading into the dry dock was open, and Ellie led Oswald through it. “Ellie.” It was Tyler. He came out of the office wearing a black windbreaker and his red, sun-faded Hornady hat. Sizing up Oswald, he said, “This is him, huh?”
“It is.”
“You’re a real goober from what I hear,” Tyler said.
Oswald smiled. “Hey now, Jimmy Jangle. Nice to meet you too.”
“How did you get over the bridge?” she asked Tyler.
“Might have fibbed a smidgen.” He pointed to a chair in the small office. “Have a seat in there,” he said to Oswald.
Oswald looked at Ellie, as if asking permission. She let go of his arm and nodded to the chair. He did as instructed. Tyler walked Ellie several paces across the concrete and said quietly, “Ellie, you can’t go out there. Not with the water the way it is. Just call the Coast Guard. That’s what they’re for. The eye of the storm will be here in five hours.”
“Tyler, I can’t.”
“Why? You didn’t do anything wrong. You found a wanted man. They’ll probably give you a medal or something.”
The windbreaker was covering Oswald’s bad hand, and Tyler hadn’t seen the bloody gauze. “I just can’t. Not right now. Just trust me, okay? Did you get the boat ready?”
Reluctantly, he said, “I did. I found the battery and depth finder in the back and installed them. Your uncle had everything labeled back in the storage room. It should be good to go. But Ellie, this is stupid.” His tone wasn’t condemning. It was nervous, full of concern.
“You’re probably right, but if Dawson is still there he’ll drown in this storm, raft or no raft. I’m not leaving him out there, Tyler.” She looked back at Oswald who was sitting quietly where they had left him, staring at the floor. He reached up and scratched his cheek and as he did the windbreaker fell to the floor. “I have to figure out how to explain Oswald. I didn’t exactly arrest him, you know.”
“Whoa,” Tyler said, “what happened to his hand? It looks nasty.”
She stared blankly into his eyes.
He blinked. “Oh good Lord, Ellie. You didn’t—”
“I know where Dawson is, okay? We can talk about this later.”
“You actually—”
“I need to go,” she interrupted. “Now.”
Tyler blinked again and shook his head in disbelief. “Then I’m coming with you.”
“What? No. No, you’re not. You hate boats. This is the worst possible time to be out on the water.”
“Ellie. You’re not going out there with this guy alone on water like that. And what if you find Dawson and need help getting him on the boat? I’m coming with you.”
He did have a point. “All right.”
Tyler went back to Oswald, grabbed his upper arm. “Come on, Bozo.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Major’s 1978 Bertram 31 Flybridge Cruiser was a jewel at the marina, and other than a couple friends from his Rotary Club, Ellie was the only other person he would allow to get behind its helm. Four years ago Major had restored the vessel, adding a new teakwood deck to replace the glassed-over plywood, a reverse-cycle marine air conditioner to the cabin, and a transparent livewell at the transom. He had also repowered the vessel with Twin 315 Yanmar diesels. The Bertram had a remarkable design. Made of high-impact, multi-laminate fiberglass, its deep-v hull was what made the vessel unique, making it the perfect boat to navigate the choppy swells out in the Sound. The Bertram was still sitting in a slip at the marina. Major had run out of time to get it away from the island.
Early yesterday, after the storm’s course had been updated by the National Weather Service, Major had recruited several friends to help him move some of the boats further north into Tampa Bay. They each ran a boat up to Tampa, moored them at a friend’s commercial dock, and rode back to Saint James City in another friend’s truck. A few of the boats were loaded onto trailers and taken away. Major’s marina down at Marco Island was forty miles further south, and, because of its close proximity to the storm, nothing could be done about the fleet down there.
Major felt a personal responsibility for the boats at his marinas, and this time of year many of them belonged to snowbirds who were still away for the season and couldn’t get down to Pine Island to move their boats themselves. The covered dry dock had forty-two dry slips and was built to withstand hurricane force winds. On any given month five or six slips were available to rent out. But when the update on Hurricane Josephine had come through, Major selected five boats from the dock and put them up on the racks. Ellie’s Bayliner was the last one he made room for. Ellie didn’t trust her boat lift not to snap or fall off into the canal. Most everyone else on the island, those who didn’t have the time or the means to get their boats to a safe spot, had cross-tied them off in the canals using double mooring lines, securing them into eye rings on the other side. From a view above, the canals now looked liked a giant spider had crawled out of a Tolkien or Brothers Grimm story and seen fit to begin a new web through the canals, criss-crossing back and forth between the seawalls.
Fu and Gloria had, for the first time in years, unmoored their Gibson houseboat and hugged the coast until they got to Bradenton, where a friend had offered for them to moor at his private dock further inland. That houseboat was all the Wangs owned, and, while they weren't planning to stay on it during the storm, they didn’t want to see it damaged.
It was during storms like this one, when hurricanes danced into coastal areas, that nearly half of all storm-related deaths could be attributed to boat owners trying to secure their boats at the last minute or deciding too late to leave the area in choppy or quickly rising water. Looking at the current state of the marina, it seemed that all preparations had been made in time. The boats that remained in their slips had been secured according to standard high-windage protocol. All movable equipment such as canvas, outriggers, sails, radios, cushions, deck boxes, and biminis had been removed and put into the rear storage room in the dry dock. Then the boats had all been carefully moored higher up on the pilings and, for whatever it might be worth, extra fenders hung.
Ellie, Tyler, and Oswald braced themselves against the lashing wind as they worked their way down the dock and stepped onto the Bertram. Ellie led Oswald through the narrow companionway and into the cabin. She cuffed him to the head’s door handle and said, “Try to be good, all right?” He sketched her a weak salute with a couple fingers from his bad hand and slumped down to his backside with his back to the door, his cuffed hand hanging loosely above his head. After assisting Tyler with the mooring lines, Ellie gave him the handcuff key and went up to the flybridge and started the engines. She slowly brought the vessel out of the slip and took it out of the marina and into the Sound, her bearing set southwest toward Sanibel Island which lay just two nautilus miles across the water. Ellie estimated the wind was coming out of the southeast at just over forty kno
ts, and she assessed the swells to be at four to five feet. Swells like these were never seen here, east of the barrier islands. The barriers—Sanibel, Cayo Costa, Captiva—generally took the menacing brunt of an angry ocean.
Ellie grabbed the wheel tightly as a sheet of spray rained down on her. The key to navigating these waters was to anticipate the next swell as it came toward them. Far ahead, to their port side, the Sanibel Island Lighthouse was faithfully keeping watch over troubled waters.
Tyler climbed up the leg ladder of the tuna tower and stood next to Ellie, keeping a firm grasp on the back of her seat for balance. Ellie took her eyes off the water long enough to steal a glance at him. He didn’t look so well. Coming out on waters like this was sure to make him nauseous, especially swaying up on the bridge as they were. If he got sick he would be in no position to help. Nausea sucked energy straight from your innards and left you weak for hours afterwards. “You need to get below!” she yelled over the wind. “And keep your eyes on a fixed point ahead! Don’t turn your head.” He didn’t answer. “If you’re going to lose it─”
Tyler turned and scrambled back down the ladder, back to the deck. He staggered to the gunwale, then he yanked his hat from his head, leaned over, and emptied the contents of his stomach into the churning waters.
Ellie steadied her feet as the bridge pitched hard to starboard and more spray rained down on her.
She kept on.
Chapter Forty-Eight
The J. N. "Ding" Darling National Wildlife Refuge was located on the north edge of Sanibel and consisted of over sixty-four hundred acres of cordgrass marshes, mangrove forests, submerged seagrass beds, and West Indian hardwood hammocks. The location Oswald had given her was tucked deep within the refuge, west of McIntyre Creek. The wind had begun to taper down just as the Bertram exited the sound and entered the thick coastal vegetation that made up the refuge. Behind them, the water was calming too.
Ellie turned and yelled down to Tyler. “I need Oswald up here!”
He nodded silently and struggled into the cabin. Oswald took one look at Tyler and whistled. “Hot diggity dog there, Jimmy Jangle. Looks like somebody done forgot to bring their sea legs with them.”
“Shut up,” Tyler said weakly. He handed him the key, and Oswald came to his feet. “Uncuff it from the door and then cuff your other hand. No funny business.”
Oswald winked at him. “You got it, boss.” After he did as instructed, Tyler grabbed the key and then his arm. “Come on.” They exited the cabin, and Oswald went up the ladder and stood next to Ellie. “I think your boyfriend is allergic to the water, honey.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
Tyler came up and stood next to Oswald, his face ashen, his eyes nearly swimming in their sockets as if he’d been poisoned. His stomach lurched, and his mouth opened like it was trying to rid him of some vile creature that had taken up residence within his guts. Nothing came out.
“Tyler, get down from here.”
He nodded and, without any argument, slid back down.
“Now, where am I going, Oswald?”
“Hmmm...well, let me see if I can remember. It’s been a few days now. Allow me to get my bearings.” He licked his lips and looked Ellie up and down. His confidence had returned, his swagger, his apparent zest for conversation.
She reached over and grabbed his blood soaked bandage. She squeezed.
“Whyyyyy?” he howled, “...would you do thhhhhat?”
“Where am I going?” she repeated calmly.
Now he was breathing heavily against the pain. Looking out over the narrow, winding inlets, he jutted his chin. “Over there, to your right. What is that, Starbucks or something?”
“Starboard.”
“That’s the one.”
Ellie brought the Bertram to the mouth of the small inlet and moved into it. A half minute later Oswald told her to go left where a cluster of mangroves forked the water into separate directions. The inlet was getting more narrow. Ellie only had a couple feet on either side before she brushed up against the reaching branches of the thick vegetation.
Oswald squinted down on the water. “Now am I crazy or is the water going down just a tad bit?”
Ellie looked down and frowned. “You are crazy, but you’re not wrong.”
“Now I am not much of a seafaring person myself, but aren’t we still a bit from slick tide, or slack tide? Whatever it’s called. The voluminous waters should still be rising if my mental facilities continue to serve me well.”
Oswald was right. Storm aside, the tide was still coming in and the water should be trending upward, not going down. The wind had nearly vanished altogether.
Oswald looked around, took in his surroundings. “Turn in there,” he said. “It’s kinda hard to see, but there’s a grove out front that you’ll have to get around to see the entry point.” Ellie followed his directions and a minute later he raised his cuffed hands and pointed. “There. Right over there. Go around that cluster and cut a hard right.”
They came out into a tiny cove. Then Ellie saw it. Forest camouflage netting flapping in the breeze, tethered against a cluster of mangroves. A dark brown, rigid-hull inflatable raft floated beneath it. Oswald had finally come through, and her heart rate quickened. Now she could only hope that Dawson Montgomery was still there and, if he was, that he was still alive.
Ellie idled the Bertram just past the raft and put the engines into neutral. She pressed the power button to engage the windlass, and the anchor moved down into the water. Then she backed up the Bertram while still letting out more rode. When she stopped the windlass, the line tightened as the anchor hooked into the sandy bottom and held them true. The raft now sat hard on the Bertram’s starboard. Ellie turned off the engines and told Oswald to get down to the deck. She followed him down. Tyler was sitting on an engine box with his head between his knees. He pushed himself up and came to unsteady feet. “Hang in there,” Ellie said. “Can you cuff him to the tower leg?”
Tyler nodded weakly, and Ellie looked toward the raft now just a couple feet off the starboard. It was well hidden. The camouflage wasn’t a perfect color match against the brighter greens of the mangroves, but it was probably unnecessary anyway. No one would find their way out here. Perhaps a straying kayaker exploring in detail, but no one would have been out here these last couple of days.
Ellie slid onto the gunwale and surveyed her drop point. The camouflage netting made it impossible to see what might be underneath. There was only one way to find out if Dawson was under there or not. She slid off from the Bertram and landed on the bulbous edge of the raft. She held onto it with her knees and brought out the butterfly knife that had been resting in the seam of her shorts. She grabbed the netting, opened the knife in a single motion, and slid the blade through the material, cutting it back to give her access underneath. Ellie pulled up, and, seeing nothing beneath, continued slicing. She moved along the length of the raft until she had cut through the entire length of camouflage. Once she had gotten to the end, she turned, grabbed the edge, and flung it back, exposing everything beneath.
What she saw next took away her breath.
Dawson Montgomery lay at the far end, curled up into the side, his back to her, wearing jeans, a white t-shirt, and tennis shoes. The shirt was stained with blood and torn in several places. Ellie stepped into the raft and made her way over to him. His wrists were bound behind him with black zip ties, and his ankles were under the same fate. She kneeled down and called out. “Dawson!”
Nothing.
“Dawson, I’m a friend and we’re here to get you out of here!” Still nothing. She set her index and middle fingers on his neck and pressed firmly over his carotid artery, checking for a pulse. Still nothing. She positioned her fingers and pressed down more firmly.
A faint pulse.
She sliced through the plastic ties and slowly brought him up so his back was resting against the edge of the raft. His head swung loosely on his neck, and his chin came to rest on his
chest. During their investigation Ellie had reviewed several photos of Dawson. What was in front of her resembled nothing of the likeness she had seen. His face was caked with dried blood that been wettened by the recent rains. His eyes were nearly invisible under puffy, purplish skin. An untreated, obviously broken nose had swelled and now leaned heavily toward one side. Dawson’s hands were loosely bound in red-stained gauze that was starting to slip off his wrists. Ellie lips curled when she saw his shoes, the fabric panel above the toes also red. They had put his feet back into his dirty shoes.
Tyler called out from the boat. “Is he alive?”
“Barely.” They had to get him to a hospital. The man had been severely wounded and then left here for the last three days with no water, no medical treatment. He had clearly lost a lot of blood.
Ellie reached down and hooked her hands under Dawson’s armpits. She pivoted and pulled him across the raft. Tyler leaned over the gunwale and put his arms out, Ellie slid Dawson’s weight over to Tyler, and he heaved the heavy, limp body into the boat. Ellie scoured the raft for anything else Oswald’s people may have left behind. There was nothing. She got back on the Bertram and looked up. Dark, wispy clouds mixed with ominous greens were stirring overhead. The wind, oddly enough, was still down considerably from what it had been earlier.
