Backwater Channel Read online

  Backwater Channel

  A Kurt Hunter Mystery

  Steven Becker

  The White Marlin Press

  Copyright © 2018 by Steven Becker

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  FIRST BITE

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  1

  There was about an hour of daylight left and the tide had just turned. Getting advice about fishing spots from the Internet can be sketchy, but the crystal clear flat looked about right. The website claimed that the incoming tide on a new moon was best and I was close. Conditions were good; not perfect. The light could have been more overhead, and the moon a few days closer to new. A whole lot of other things that I hadn’t thought of yet could or should have been. I was here now, despite the tongue-lashing I had just taken, and slipped over the gunwale of the park service’s twenty-two-foot center console intent on putting it all behind me.

  Biscayne Bay bonefish are a trophy, often bigger and scarcer than their more tropical counterparts. Enticing one to bite and bringing it to the boat without a guide is difficult, but that was my task. I had cut a deal with the Miami-Dade Medical Examiner. I needed a favor; he wanted a Biscayne Bay bonefish, so I agreed to be his guide and our trip was scheduled for the coming week. I had never caught a bonefish, so I had to learn fast.

  I scurried across the shallow flat, shuffling my feet to scare off any stingrays. With the rod in one hand and the #4 Bonefish Bunny in the other, I let the twelve-foot leader trail behind me. Stopping every few feet to watch for tailing fish, I waded to a shallow area in the shadow of one of the chimneys from the Turkey Point power plant.

  I stood ankle deep in water, just south of where the outflow from the fossil fuel generators was discharged. With the sand flat right here the area was like a fish magnet. The plant had both nuclear and traditional generating facilities and was the object of countless environmental groups’ outrage, but there were fish here. Maybe a trophy-size fish.

  My gaze shifted back to the water where a tail caught my eye and I watched the water carefully trying to forget the meeting I had just left. Working my upper body back and forth to get into a casting rhythm, I stripped about sixty feet of line; ten more than I estimated I needed to reach my prey. Turning at an angle so as not to let the shadow of the line spook the fish, I started false casting. Swinging the line back and forth, without touching the water, I allowed the momentum from each cast to pull more line into the air. I had about forty feet out, when I double-hauled the rod and soon had the entire length in the air.

  This was where it usually fell apart. Casting this much line was tough. I was lucky the wind was light, and turned back slightly to concentrate on the tailing fish. With one more back cast, I released the rod forward and held my breath while I watched the line extend in front of me. One of two things could happen now: the leader would either extend gracefully, dropping the fly silently on the water in front of the fish, or it would land in a pile of monofilament and spook him. Mine chose the latter and I watched the wake of the fish as it swam away. Defeated, I retrieved the line.

  Returning to my starting position, I scanned the water looking for another fish. Beneath the lightly rippled water I saw another shadow, but realizing it was a cloud passing overhead, I continued scouting. Fishing with no expectations was fun for me. It was also how I approached my job. Yes, I caught my fair share of fish once I learned the waters, but that was only part of my reason for fishing. Having something to concentrate on opened my eyes to nature, allowing me to see things differently. Sometimes this was good and other times bad. It was how I had found two dead bodies in Biscayne Bay and a large pot grow in my previous posting at the Plumas National Forest in Northern California.

  I hoped today would be different and I could toss a couple of flies and relax. So far, it was working. I could feel my breath and pulse slowing down and syncing with nature. This surprised me after my afternoon meeting with Martinez and the ever-present Susan McLeash. Martinez was the special agent in charge; Susan and I both held the title special agent, although she was clearly higher on Martinez’s list than I was. I assumed it was her penchant for paperwork that soothed his bureaucratic soul. There were also rumors she satisfied some other parts of him, but I had no knowledge of this and held little regard for the coconut telegraph.

  We’d just wrapped up the after-action report on my last case; a body I had found while fishing. Her name had been Abbey. Perhaps because I knew her name, it had become personal and I was glad that I was able to get her some justice. Unfortunately, both of the primary suspects ended up dead, one by Susan’s rifle. That ended the official investigation even though it didn’t solve the case. I prodded around a little on my own, but soon realized it was pointless.

  Now the blame game had started. Susan claimed she had shot the woman to save my life; some of the eyewitnesses disagreed. Martinez kept a spreadsheet filled with numbers showing what the investigation had cost the park service. He also kept a “Kurt Hunter” file documenting every misstep I had taken since being assigned here. This was how he rolled. If it wasn’t on a spreadsheet or included in his budget, it didn’t matter.

  I had no choice but to sit there and listen to him rant about me going off the reservation, drawing Susan into a dangerous situation, and upsetting the columns and rows on his spreadsheet. I bit my tongue, especially about Susan, hoping the whole time that I wouldn’t miss the tide.

  I’d barely made it and had come out at the slack and, now an hour later, I could feel the tug of the outgoing tide on my bare legs. This was a good sign. I just needed to find a willing fish before the sun set. In the deeper water, I heard some mullet jumping. Turning to look, I saw the telltale small circles emanating from the tail fin of a bonefish as it poked the sandy bottom looking for shrimp.

  I never understood why the sun always looked bigger before it sank below the horizon, and now the huge orange orb seemed to balance on the mangroves in front of me. It would be dark in fifteen minutes and I suspected this would be my last chance at catching a fish today. Just a I thought it, a small wake appeared in front of me. I began to stalk the fish, carefully wading toward it and trying to get into range without spooking it.

  The bonefish stopped near the roots of the mangrove-lined shoreline and resumed its search for food. This close to the shore, I had to be careful with my cast, but the trade off for the low hanging limbs was that the noise and activity in the branches and roots of the mangroves would cover my inexperience. Still fifty feet away, I stopped and allowed the fly to drop quietly onto the water while I stripped line off the reel. The small channel was sheltered from the wind and the water was a glassy calm. It would take a perfect cast to nab the fish. I started false casting and when the full length of line was in the air, I concentrated on keeping my wrist straight and released the fly. That one correction allowed the leader to unfurl naturally and the fly dropped about a foot from the nose of the fish.

  Bonefish are notoriously sensitive and I froze when the fly made a small ripple that I thought might have been big enough to scare him. With the light fading fast, I started stripping line back. A few inches at a time I slowly retrieved the line, giving it a twitch with the rod tip every few seconds to give the fly some action, making it look like a real shrimp.

  Suddenly, the fish turned. I thought I had lost it, but then the line went tight. This close to the mangroves, I had to get it on the reel
quickly or it would escape. Working with both hands, I was able to hold the line tight and keep the fish out of the tangle of roots with my left hand while using my right to reel the excess line at my feet onto the reel. Getting that far without losing the fish was an accomplishment. Taking a deep breath, I released the line with my left hand and transferred the fight exclusively to the rod and reel. Leverage and drag beat hand lining any day.

  Then the line went slack and in two heartbeats I knew the fight was over. I shook my head in disgust. Even though I had justified this as a scouting trip, it still hurt to lose one—especially a bonefish. Deflated, I started to reel in the line when I saw a pair of headlights coming toward me. The vehicle turned onto the embankment, which led behind a clump of mangroves adjacent to the cooling canals, where I heard it stop.

  Figuring it was a maintenance vehicle, I ignored it and retrieved the line. I was about to head back to my boat when I heard a splash, some loud grunts and a scuffle. The noise stopped and two voices reached me, aided by the offshore breeze—a man and a woman—and although I couldn’t tell what they were saying, they were clearly fighting. The woman yelled something to the man and I heard a door slam. Seconds later, the other door slammed and the engine started. I heard gravel spewing in the air as the vehicle screamed away.

  2

  I stood there watching the sunset, knowing something had just happened—probably something I should be concerned about. I’d been stationed at Biscayne National Park going on four months now. The seasons had changed from the summer months, aka Hell, to the milder winter, which most people would describe as summer. During that time, I had learned a few things about the politics of the park service. Roy Martinez was my direct supervisor with the title: special agent in charge. I was merely a special agent.

  Susan McLeash was my counterpart, though I don’t think she had gotten that memo. An impartial observer would have thought she ran the whole show. Mariposa, the Jamaican receptionist and peacemaker, filled out the headquarter’s staff. I lived in a park service house on Adams Key, one of the miles-long chain of islands that provided a natural barrier between the Atlantic Ocean and Biscayne Bay. The small island had two campgrounds and a day use area. Ray and his family were my only neighbors. Ray’s job was to keep the outer islands running. He was the glue that kept everything working in the park; an ecosystem that fought off man— tooth and nail.

  The area that was now Biscayne National Park had been slated for development in the fifties and sixties. There are still signs left of what had been started, but except for the few remaining buildings at Stiltsville, a community built in open water that was ravaged by Hurricane Andrew, there remain only some deep-water channels that end abruptly with nothing to show for the dredgers' efforts. The sea had taken the rest back.

  I had no idea what I had just heard yet was sure it had happened on Florida Power and Light's property. That put it out of my jurisdiction, but things are not so simple here. The water connects everything and what comes in with the tide goes out with the tide. In all likelihood, if I just sat through the tide change, whatever I had heard thrown into the canal would eventually make its way into the bay.

  The sun had slipped below the horizon and the short twilight of the sub-tropical latitude was well underway when I reached my boat and climbed aboard. Leaning against the seat, I checked my phone and had to admit I was disappointed to find no text or voicemail from Justine. My watch showed it was close to seven. She could be busy. Working the swing shift, from two to midnight at the Miami-Dade crime lab was hit or miss. Some nights, we talked or texted for hours, others she was so absorbed in work I never heard from her. It might have bothered me if I were a paranoid kind of guy, but I liked to think my own brand of craziness was also work-related.

  I sent a quick, no pressure text to say hi, and put the phone in the waterproof glove box. I was curious about the recent disturbance and, with no other plans, raised the Power-pole that anchored the boat in shallow water, and started idling closer to the outflow. Darkness descended and I became more in tune with my surroundings. Noises that I wouldn’t ordinarily notice during the day jumped out at me. Whenever sunset or sunrise coincides with moving water, things are usually pretty active. To make this official, a large school of baitfish broke the surface of the water beside the boat.

  With no word from Justine and having no other plans, I dropped the Power-pole, anchoring the boat just short of the outflow, grabbed my rod, and started casting toward the mangroves, rationalizing my efforts as a patrol of the shoreline. If I had little expectation of catching that bonefish earlier, I really had none tossing a fly into the ink black water at night. Even though I was getting no bites, it was still fun.

  From my position you couldn’t help but notice the incongruence of Biscayne Bay. It is especially visible at night. Behind me, the power plant was lit up like a Christmas tree and looking up and down the coast I saw a small glow to the west from Homestead and further to the north the brighter lights of Miami trying to chase away the darkness. The pristine bay was hemmed in by man.

  Nothing was happening so I flipped the switch for the underwater lights and looked over the gunwale. Fishing at night was a different game than during the day. Artificial lures and flies were generally ineffective. To lure a fish to the hook you needed another stimulus. Live bait, scent, or light worked. The blue LEDs lit the surrounding waters out to about ten feet and after a few minutes, I thought I saw the shadow of the predator that had scared up some smaller baitfish earlier, probably a barracuda. Then I saw something bigger.

  The tide was still moving out, and I thought of that splash I had heard. I hadn’t seen it, but guessed this was the area. Looking into the water I saw baitfish swarming around the object. It didn’t take a trained special agent with my experience to identify it as a body.

  An hour later, the water was lit by the reflection of the light bars from the Miami-Dade boats. One brought the coroner; the deputies on the other must have been having a slow night and run by to check out the floater.

  “This fishing obsession of yours is trouble.”

  Sid’s nasal whine cut through the night air. It was hard to tell with his New Jersey accent whether he was kidding or not, but we had been through two other bodies together and I knew that he had a wicked sense of humor.

  “Just trying to get you some fresh air and exercise.”

  “Good for you,” he said.

  He was backlit by the searchlights, which were all focused on the body in the water that was now tied to the side of my boat. When I had found it I knew that I had to do something, or the two-knot-per-hour tide would carry it beyond the reef before morning, which may or may not have been the intention of the man and woman who had tossed it in. It had been a strange feeling, sitting there for an hour with a dead body tied next to me, but that was part of the job.

  “Pass the line to the deputy and we’ll take it from there,” Sid called to me.

  “Not so fast old man,” I said. It was my body until someone told me otherwise. I knew this wasn’t going to go well with Martinez, especially after he read my report that it was put into the water on FP&L land. He was a stickler for park service protocol and more than that, the preservation of his budget. I had brought him some good publicity on my prior cases, but he was still skeptical, and would place his chips on letting the body fall into another jurisdiction.

  “Okay,” Sid said. "You haven’t lost your lunch yet, so consider yourself invited to sit in on the autopsy. Just bring your sweetheart.”

  We’d been through this before, and there was nothing that got Justine excited like a dead body. That should have given me cause for alarm, but since we had moved to a level three relationship, I was getting the feeling she liked the live ones too. “You’re on. What time?”

  “Let’s call it midnight.”

  “I’ll let Justine know.”

  While Sid and the deputy dropped fenders over the side and tied up to the park service boat, I snuck a quick text to J
ustine. It didn’t take long for her response. The answer came back and I wondered where having to find her a dead body to get a date put her on the scale of high and low maintenance women.

  “Swing the line around,” the deputy called out.

  I went to the transom, untied the line from the cleat, and walked it over to the Miami-Dade boat. Reaching up to hand it to him, I got a slight case of boat envy. The higher freeboard of the 27 Contender dwarfed the low gunwales of my twenty-two-foot bay boat. It wasn’t really the size of the boat that excited me, but the array of electronics I saw at the helm. I knew my smaller center-console was the right choice for Biscayne Bay. My patrol area was mostly inside the barrier islands and protected. Shallow water was more of a danger than big waves, making the low draft bay boat a logical choice. Miami-Dade's coastline was primarily open water, making the larger Contender the better craft for them. Even so, those dual displays and radar would have been a nice addition to my ride.

  Sid leaned over the side of the boat to check the body and called me over to help the deputy load it onto a backboard. It looked different than the last two I had found. This one had only been in the water a couple of hours, too soon for the crabs and fish to mangle it.

  “Get the backboard,” Sid said, taking the line from the deputy.

  It looked like a two-man job and I crossed to the larger boat to help. Under Sid’s supervision, which was mostly unnecessary, we had the body strapped to the board and hauled it over the side and onto the deck. A few small crabs climbed out of the crevices they had already found and scurried to the scuppers to make their escape.

  “Good shape,” Sid commented, taking the long probe and sticking it into the man’s liver. He removed it and went to the console where the light was better to read the thermometer. He scratched his mostly bald scalp and looked like he was calculating something.