Mac travis adventures bo.., p.49
Mac Travis Adventures BoxSet, page 49
part #4 of Mac Travis Series
“Let me know when we get to four hundred. Ain’t nobody diving that deep for us losers,” he said.
A minute later, Jeff nodded to him and he released the line. “Best run a wide circle around her. I’ll start getting rid of the fish.”
“No. We can still salvage something out of this and sell them,” Jeff said.
“Haven’t you had enough of this?” Trufante said.
“Got a guy in Key West that’ll take them. No point coming back to Marathon. We’re dead—remember.”
Just as the words were out of his mouth, the bomb blew.
10
Jane looked at the plume of smoke to the south, then at the two brothers, laughing and slapping each other on the back. She would have been happy to be speeding north on US 1 and pulling into South Beach in time for a cocktail—but there were still loose ends.
“Clean up this mess. Get rid of any trace of those fish and those two idiots,” she scolded them. “Then forget you ever saw me.”
They moved away quickly, which did nothing to calm her down, almost preferring one of them to mouth off and give her an excuse to expel some of her pent-up anger. Murder at a distance was distasteful. In this case it was the best way, but that didn’t mean she liked it. She looked at Edgar, wondering how much satisfaction she could get from poking a hole through his fat stomach. The thinner one would be more challenging. Maybe a simple garrote. He talked too much anyway. She smiled thinking of the irony. Still, she was not satisfied.
“Is there a boat here I can use?” she asked.
“Couple of old ones and that hot rod over there,” Hector said, pointing past two run-down fishing boats.
The reflection of the sun on the polished chrome was the first thing that caught her eye. She surveyed the twenty-foot boat, knowing it would be fast. “Whose is it?”
“Owner of the place, Manuel,” Edgar said. “He’s particular about who even touches it.”
“Never mind him. Where are the keys?” Her adrenaline was flowing just looking at it.
“You sure? He can be a mean hombre,” Hector said.
She stared him down. Yes, she was sure, needing it to verify that those two idiots had died properly and that the fish and the boat were gone. He came back a few minutes later with a key ring.
“If anyone asks, tell them the Audi’s there for collateral,” she said, taking the keys and walking toward the boat.
“You need any help? One of us to go with you?” Edgar asked.
She really wanted to poke him, but restrained herself. “No, thanks. I got this.” She had to sit on the dock to climb down into the boat because of its low freeboard. Once aboard, she settled into the bucket seat. Checking the gauges and controls, she couldn’t wait to get going and put the key in the ignition. At first it didn’t start and she saw the brothers coming toward her. Too proud to ask for help, especially from these two, she racked her brain for what could be wrong. The answer came and she looked back at the transom and saw the chrome plated carburetor cover. She went back toward the engine, lifted an access cover, and primed the fuel line. Back at the helm, she smiled at Hector and Edgar and turned the key. The roar of the engine and the vibration of the hull beneath her were like foreplay. She couldn’t wait to get out on the open water.
Leaving the engine idling, she released the lines and expertly dealt with the wind and current, letting them assist her in pushing the boat away from the dock. Once clear, she pressed the throttle forward and the boat moved into the canal. She knew boats, but not this area, and took her time navigating out of the harbor. Once clear of the markers, she turned toward the plume of smoke and accelerated.
Dancing across the small waves, the boat flew up on plane. Grinning, she looked down, scanning the gauges. The tachometer was still well below the redline. Slowly she increased power, watching the speedometer climb to fifty knots. At this speed, she needed to steer each wave as the lightweight hull bounced on the crests. If she misjudged one, it could flip the boat. Several times the propellor came out of the water as the boat became airborne, but that only made her smile. The bad taste she had in her mouth from watching the explosion from afar was fading as the boat quickly crossed the reef line.
The smoke from the explosion had long dissipated, and she had only a vague idea of where the explosion had occurred and could find no sign of it now. The wave action distracted her momentarily as she had to slow for the rollers, increasing in size when she passed the reef line. There were two other boats nearby, circling around an invisible spot, and she guessed they had been fishing the reef and responded when they saw the explosion.
It took her only seconds to reach them. “Hey, guys,” she yelled over the throaty idle of the engine to one of the boats as she approached. “What happened?”
“Don’t know. We were fishing off the light and saw something blow. Can’t see any sign of it now,” one of the men responded. “We called the Coast Guard. They should be here any minute. Maybe they can figure it out.”
“Thanks,” she said, smiling at him. She cast an eye toward shore, looking for any other boats heading their way. The last thing she needed was to be seen by law enforcement. A second later, she heard one of the men on the other boat yell that he had found something and she idled toward him.
“What do you got?” she asked.
He held up a life preserver and a piece of wood. Something was not making sense here. Neither had any sign of fire or damage—they were too clean. She wanted a closer look, but a quick glance showed several larger boats heading their way.
“See you around, boys. Looks like the cavalry’s here,” she said, cutting the wheel to starboard and spinning away from them. She accelerated, steering a wide loop to avoid being seen by the approaching responders. When she felt she was a safe distance away, she stopped and watched the scene. Bobbing on the waves, she didn’t expect the low profile of the boat to catch the attention of the sheriff and Coast Guard vessels now on site. They appeared to be asking the other boats questions and then started working a search pattern. A few minutes later she heard the thump thump of a helicopter approaching and knew it was time to go.
Running back, she tempered her speed. As much as she wanted to open up the throttle, she knew it would only attract attention. Deep in thought, she almost missed the first marker for the harbor. Finding only the two pieces of debris was troubling, and she expected that something was not right. Thinking about the old lobster boat, and feeling the power beneath her feet, gave her an idea.
She slowed and pulled out her phone. She could easily outrun the old boat if it was still floating. “Hector?” she yelled into the phone. The engine was too loud to hear, forcing her to slow to an idle, where it was barely audible. “Where would they have gone, if the boat didn’t blow?”
“What do you mean? We saw it,” he said.
She was not going to debate him. “Tell me,” she ordered.
There was silence on the line for a minute and then he answered.
Trufante yelled over the roar of the engine. “Wait a minute!”
Jeff slowed. They were just past the opening in the middle of the Seven Mile Bridge, several miles from where the bomb exploded. “What?”
“Just thinkin’,” Trufante said.
“That’s never good.”
Trufante ignored the barb. He looked back at the site of the explosion and saw several boats on their way. It looked like two were already in the area. “Look there.” He pointed his long arm at a silver flash in the distance. It was moving at twice the speed of the other boats. “I know that boat.”
“Not too many hot rods out here,” Jeff said.
“Too much of a coincidence. You got binoculars?” Trufante asked.
Jeff shrugged and reached into the compartment below the wheel. “Use them for spotting birds when the dolphins running,” he said, handing them to him.
Trufante cleaned the dirty lenses with his shirt and put them to his head. “Damn if that ain’t the lady. She’s got Manuel’s boat.”
“What’s that to us? We’re dead, remember?” Jeff asked.
“You’re not getting the gravity of the situation. Just tossing a few life preservers and a couple of pieces of wood ain’t gonna satisfy anyone with half a brain,” Trufante said. “Especially right after it blew. Another few hours, they would have wrote it off to the seas spreading the debris, but not this soon.”
“It was your idea,” Jeff said.
Trufante scratched his forehead and ran a hand through his long, stringy hair. “Wasn’t expecting the she monster to come looking herself. Coast Guard or sheriff would take it as if the boat sank, but she planted the bomb. She’d know there was not enough damage.”
“Well, what do you expect we should do?” Jeff asked, taking the binoculars back and focusing on the site.
“If there was a beer, I’d drink it, but seeing there’s not, we gotta get outta here. And another boat’s probably a good idea if she’s looking for us.”
“Got that right. And I can barely put any weight on my leg,” Jeff said, putting the binoculars back and taking out a bottle. “This might help with the pain, though.” He took a deep swig of the amber liquid.
“Maybe that’s not a bad idea,” Trufante said, taking the bottle from him. “We need to hole up somewhere and figure this out. Maybe we should take a run by Wood’s old place.”
“Mac don’t like me. And Wood’s daughter—she won’t even look at me,” Jeff said, taking the bottle back.
“I heard that. There’s a bunch of islands up in there. We just need to hang out there till dark.”
Jeff took another swig and spun the wheel toward the bridge. He pushed down the throttle, causing the engine to stutter and blow a cloud of black smoke before it stubbornly accelerated. They passed under the bridge and headed toward the mangrove-covered islands in the distance. Trufante watched both ahead and behind, not trusting Jeff. He barely trusted him sober, now, after he had taken at least a half dozen more swigs from the bottle, he trusted him less.
Pamela’s head stuck over the front seat between Mac and Mel. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” she said.
“Me too, but it’s not about that,” Mel said, moving toward the window and away from her.
The smoke plume was dissipating and Mac automatically looked around for a few landmarks to triangulate the spot. They were sitting in the parking lot by the Pigeon Key Bridge, the last turnoff before committing to a fourteen-mile drive—both directions of the Seven Mile. The apex of the roof of the tiki bar across US 1 lined up nicely, and he looked for a second reference point, but from where they sat, there was just water.
“What do you mean?” he asked Pamela.
“Tru’s out there. I just know it,” she said with a detectable quiver in her voice.
“And how do you know this?” Mel questioned her.
Mac stayed quiet for a few minutes, hoping the two women would sort this out without him getting involved.
“Those guys that took him from the bar. They work over at the bait place.”
Mac turned to her. “You remember them now?” he asked, hoping she had sobered up enough to be some help.
“Well, we were in the bar, and those two guys come in and grab him. He told me to find you, and here I am,” she said proudly.
Mac was getting frustrated.
“Do you know who they were?” Mel asked, questioning her like a witness.
“From the bait place. Smell. One’s skinny, the other’s gordo,” she giggled.
“Come on. What else did they say?”
“They didn’t. Just marched him out of the bar, leaving me there to pay the bill.” She started to cry. “I can feel it. Whatever that was,” she looked to the water, “Tru’s in trouble.”
“It’s okay,” Mac said, trying to figure out a way to placate her. He turned to Mel. “Maybe we should run out there if she’s so sure.”
“The only thing she’s sure about is her next drink,” Mel said. “You want to go chase around out there, drop me at Rusty’s so I can do some real work.”
Mac pulled out of the space and into the parking lot. The smoke was gone now, but he thought he knew where the explosion was. It was only a question of how far out. He pulled onto US 1, turning left and headed back to the Rusty Anchor.
They pulled into the lot. “This won’t take long. If Hector and Edgar are involved, it might have been him out there,” Mac said, getting out of the car and heading to the basin. Mel nodded and walked toward the bar.
Pamela followed him, but was little help once they were aboard. He started the engines and tossed the lines. Within a few minutes they were out of the canal and heading southwest on a course that would put Sombrero Light to their port side. Mac could already see the reflection of several boats hovering around the area. Unless there was a hot dolphin bite, that was the spot. He pushed the boat up on plane and cruised toward the scene, surprised when a small speedboat crossed his path.
“Mac. He was here!” Pamela clung to him when they reached the site. “I know it, but he’s alive. He’s okay!”
He was about to ask how she knew, but decided to hold that question for when he had a big glass of scotch in front of him, not two sheriffs’ boats and a Coast Guard cutter. He steered to deeper water to allow the investigation to continue and picked up the microphone. On channel sixteen he hailed the Coast Guard, asking if he could aid in the search and was interrupted by a voice he didn’t want to hear.
“Travis, what are you doing out here?”
It was the deputy. “Just aiding in the search if I can,” he answered.
“Maybe you and I ought to have that conversation, sooner rather than later.”
11
Mac looked across the water at the deputy reluctantly catching the line he tossed over. He set two fenders over the gunwales to protect the hulls and secured the boats together.
“What about Tru?” Pamela asked. “You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.”
“Hopefully, this will just take a minute,” Mac said. “Stay here.” The last thing he needed was her quoting Dylan lyrics to the deputy. Giving her the best reassuring look he had in his arsenal, which wasn’t worth much, he straddled the gunwales and climbed onto the sheriff’s boat.
“Okay, Travis,” the deputy started, pulling his notepad and a pen from the myriad of pockets woven into his pants. “You seem to be in all the wrong places these days. Want to explain?” He waited, poised to take notes.
Mac removed his cap and rubbed his head. “It’s a small town.”
“You’re going to have to do better than that. First the floater in the backcountry, and now showing up, minutes after an explosion, out here. And wasn’t it you and your buddy Trufante that I saw the other day with those buoys? Suspicious activity, if you ask me.”
Mac thought for a minute before answering. The deputy was tying things together faster than he would have liked. “You’re just all over, aren’t you? Sheriff’s office must be running thin to have you working so hard,” Mac said, trying to buy some time.
He didn’t take the bait. “Too may coincidences, Travis. Maybe I ought to take you in for questioning.”
“No need for that.” Mac needed to give him some reassurance. “You know I’m on the water about every day and Trufante works as my mate. The other day, we were checking on some stuff after the storm. Every fisherman does that. The body, I don’t know. I run that course a couple times a week between Wood’s place and town. It was just there.”
“Gonna be harder to explain being out here with her,” he said.
“She found me at the Anchor, all worked up and worried about Trufante being out here. He was supposed to be fishing the reef today and she saw the explosion. Kind of freaked her out. The only way I could calm her down was to run her out here.”
“He’s out there,” Pamela called out, pointing toward the Seven Mile Bridge. “There must be some kind a way outta here, Mac Travis, said the joker to the thief,” she said, loud enough to be heard on the other boat.
“She’s not all there, is she?” the deputy whispered sympathetically.
Mac just nodded, confirming his look. The police radio clipped to his belt went off. He listened to the dispatcher and spoke softly into the microphone clipped to his lapel. “Well, Travis, good luck with that one,” he said. “Got a stolen boat to find. Guess I can at least eliminate you from that one,” he said, putting the notebook and pen back in his pockets.
“So, we’re good?” Mac asked.
“Good for now, anyway. I know where to find you if I need you.”
Mac wasn’t going to stick around for him to change his mind. He climbed over the gunwales to the trawler and within seconds had the lines off and was floating freely. Back in the wheelhouse, he started the engine and idled away. “Well, where to?”
Trufante was getting worried about Jeff’s condition. “Maybe you ought to let me take her,” he yelled over the sound of the engine. They were through the main span of the Seven Mile Bridge moving toward the backcountry, an area riddled with hidden obstacles.
“Why not,” he said. “Give me some more time to drink.”
Jeff moved away from the helm a second before Trufante was ready to take it. The boat fishtailed on a wave, causing Trufante to lose his balance and sending Jeff crashing into the gunwale. Trufante grabbed for the wheel and quickly had the boat under control. It was Jeff he was worried about now. Looking back to check if anyone, especially that speedboat, was after them, he saw Jeff slide across the deck and grab the bottle. He leaned against the gunwale and took another swig, finishing what was left before tossing it overboard.
Trufante watched the bottle hit the water and looked up. A flash had caught his eye. The reflection of the sun on a windshield. Reaching into the compartment below the wheel, he removed the binoculars. The wave action made it difficult to focus and he had to slow down to get a better look. Putting aside the glasses, he cursed in Creole under his breath—it was Manuel’s hot rod.
