Wood's Harbor Read online

  ***

  The cabin was in the shadow of the adjacent boat when he opened his eyes and realized he must have fallen asleep. He made his way to the head and used the contents of one of the water bottles to wash. A quick search of the cabinets in the berth upgraded his wardrobe to a clean T-shirt and shorts. An old Marlins ball cap caught his attention. Though not a hat fan, he decided to take it. By the time he washed and dressed, the sun had reached the horizon. He prepared to move out.

  With two water bottles stuffed in the outer pockets of his cargo shorts, he loaded the small cache of supplies in the other pockets. He crept up the companionway and stuck his head out to look for any activity. The yard was quiet and he went to the transom, climbed down the swim ladder, and after scanning the yard, walked towards the road. The cat reappeared, meowing for attention, but he ignored it, pulled down the bill of the hat over his face, and stepped onto US 1. Twilight was rush hour in the Keys, with trucks pulling boats both ways and half-baked drunk tourists cruising bars and gift shops.

  The traffic was heavy and he waited for an opening before crossing the highway. Back on the frontage road, he started walking west towards Marathon. Fisherman’s Hospital, where he suspected Mel was, and Trufante’s apartment both lay in that direction. He kept an eye on the road while he walked, twice ducking into the bushes when he saw Highway Patrol cars. An old International Travelall passed by and he wished he were close enough to flag down the driver. Jesse McDermitt owned the beast and lived on his own island, close to Wood’s place out by the Content Keys. Jesse was an acquaintance but, unlike a lot of the Keys’ residents, was dependable. He could have helped and Mac racked his brain for some way to contact the reclusive ex-Marine. He could often be found at the Rusty Anchor, but Mac didn’t want to risk being seen. Rusty, the owner, could be trusted though, and Mac thought about sneaking around back after closing for a quick conversation.

  He decided on using Rusty as a backup plan, sticking with Trufante as his first option. The Cajun was already intertwined in the poaching scam and was ultimately responsible for the whole mess by getting conned into using his boat. He was trouble but Mac knew him inside and out. The man wouldn’t judge him and if he could help, he would. The frontage road turned into the Heritage Trail, a walking and biking path, as he reached the airport, but it wasn’t much more than a sidewalk. He was less worried about being recognized now. Most of the characters he knew would be in bars, not out walking or biking. He only had to cross one intersection before he turned right on the first street and walked towards the small apartment building, hoping the Cajun was home.

  Mac heard the party before he saw it and knew trouble was brewing. He reached the two-story apartment building and stopped behind a clump of sago palms planted near a cluster of mailboxes. People were on the balconies, in the pool, and overflowing into the parking lot. As he had suspected, the center of activity was none other than Trufante’s apartment. He crouched down and finished the last of his water and watched the action, but the tall Cajun, easily recognizable with his lanky frame and grin resembling a Cadillac’s grille, was nowhere to be seen. Mac waited, wondering how to find him without being recognized. He also had to wonder why Trufante was having a party when Mel was in the hospital and he was supposed to be lost at sea. Another piece of his memory returned and he recalled giving him the dual engine go-fast boat to use as a decoy. Somehow he was sure that was tied to the party.

  ***

  Norm leaned back into the plush couch as the girl swayed above him. He thought the strip club would take his mind off his problems, but the harsh music and lights were only increasing his headache. The song finished and the girl stepped off the couch and accepted the twenty-dollar bill, giving him a contemptuous glance as if it should have been more. Without a second look, she moved on to the next group of men, hoping for better prey. Norm leaned forward, drained his drink, got up and walked to the door.

  Duval Street, the partying heart of Key West, was just picking up steam. He stood in the entry to the club watching the scene. Tourists and locals of all flavors were milling about, many drinking openly from red Solo cups. Usually he enjoyed nights like this, but in his current mood, he knew he was not destined to have fun. He asked the bouncer to hail a taxi, and when the pink cab pulled to the curb, the large tattooed man opened the back door, not willing to close it until Norm had laid a five in his palm. He gave the driver the name of his hotel, sat back and tried to ignore the party on the street flashing by the tinted windows. At the hotel, he paid the driver and got out on his own, refusing to be the victim of another door-opener. Relief came over him as he entered the air-conditioned lobby and found the elevator.

  He stayed to the side of the hallway away from the cameras, burying his head in his shoulder in the event they caught his face. It never hurt to be careful, he thought, and after a glance in each direction, he unlocked the door, quickly closing it behind him. Crossing the room, he stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window and stared out.

  His room overlooked the Atlantic Ocean and he stared at the small waves lit by the moon, a sight most tourists paid extra for. Like everything else, tonight it did nothing for him. He closed the curtains, sat at the desk and opened the military-grade laptop. The computer started up and he entered his password. When his desktop appeared, he clicked the CIA portal and entered another password to access the main screen. He held his breath, hoping the world had remained intact since he had last checked, clicked the email tab and waited while the messages downloaded. There were several hundred, about average for two days, and he started to sort through them. Anything he was Cc’d on, he left for later, and started opening the emails that were addressed to only him. Anything with another name on it, unless it was the President, would be handled by someone else. Two messages stood out.

  One had a satellite image of a fire on a small island. He smacked the desktop when he realized it was his accomplice Jay’s hideout. The refuge of the smuggler, hidden in the back country of the Keys, had been torched, and someone was taunting him with it. A glance at the sender confirmed the email was clearly from a fake address and rerouted through several internet providers. He knew he could task Alicia with finding out who sent the message. The over-eager analyst was constantly hinting that she wanted field work and would do anything to get out of the office, but her idea of ‘anything’ and his were most likely different. A shame, he thought, fantasizing for a moment about her. But that would take time, and though her skills were impressive, it would involve resources that didn’t need to know about the island and fire. In his two years behind a desk, he had made more enemies than friends in the halls of Langley and many would delight in ruining his career. His friends and allies were still in the field, where he wished he still worked.

  He deleted the message and looked again at the sender and subject line of the other email. It was sent through a Guerrilla Mail account, a private email server that erased messages upon delivery. Unlike the trash bin on a computer, for a small fee these messages were permanently gone. He opened the message, still unsure of the sender, but intrigued by the subject line: Key West to Havana Ferry. The message had no text, only 0600, which he guessed was a time, and two sets of numbers which he knew were GPS coordinates. After studying the numbers, he realized they were nearby. An uneasy feeling came over him. Whoever sent the message knew he was in Key West, something he had not told his office. He liked to be on the side, dishing out the intrigue - not taking it.

  He wrote the coordinates on a hotel note pad, closed the email program and opened an incognito browser window where he entered the numbers and waited as the globe focused on the northern tip of a small Key to the west. Most people thought the Keys ended at the painted buoy marking the southernmost point of the continental US, but in fact the island chain extended another seventy miles to the Dry Tortugas. He had to assume whoever sent the satellite picture of the island also sent this email, and he had no choice but to go. In all likelihood, this was a one way email that
would bounce any response. He could either show up or not, but the lure was too much to refuse.

  In another window he googled the Key West to Havana ferry and scanned the first page in the results. The first trip, a landmark in the new atmosphere of cooperation between the US and Cuba, was due to depart in two days. The Obama administration had lifted travel restrictions to the island and the ferry was the first of several scheduled to run between Havana and Tampa, Ft. Lauderdale and Miami. But unlike many Cuban-Americans, he didn’t want the restrictions to be lifted just yet. He had other plans.

  Right now, he needed to forget the last few days. He went to the mini-bar, took out two bottles of Scotch, poured them into a water glass, drained half and took the remainder to the desk. He closed the web browser and returned to the CIA portal where he navigated to the section on Cuba and the Caribbean. The window opened and he sipped his drink, scanning the latest reports and articles. He quickly bored of the research, finished his drink and set the alarm on his phone to three am, cursing whoever he was going to meet for the early hour, wondering what the urgency and secrecy was all about. He tossed and turned, then gave up sleep, checked his email one more time, packed his possessions and left the room.

  It might have been morning to him, but the party still raged in Key West and tourists were streaming in and out of the lobby, keeping the night alive. It was easy to blend into the scenery until he reached the front door, where he grabbed the first cab he saw and gave directions to the marina.

  FOUR

  Mac saw the streak of blue in Annie’s hair from behind the cluster of palms and watched her mingle, waiting for an opening to get her alone. The barmaid sipped from a can of Coke instead of the beer bottles or red Solo cups the rest of the crowd had. He guessed she must be going to work. With the bill of the cap pulled down to hide his face, he made his move when she left the group she was talking to. Catching up to her on the way to the street, he looped his arm in hers and walked her back to his hiding spot by the mailboxes.

  “I thought that was you,” she said. “Half the county’s out looking for your body and I got to tell you a lot of them don’t care if it’s dead or alive.”

  “Nice to see you too,” Mac said, then decided there was no reason to antagonize her if he needed her cooperation. He changed his tone of voice. “Where’s Trufante and what’s with the party?”

  “Heck if I know. Tru comes into the bar last night flashing a pile of hundreds. Buying drinks and talking large about this killer party he’s throwing.”

  “Didn’t happen to say where he got the money?” Mac asked, although he already suspected the source.

  “You know that no one asks questions around here.”

  Mac nodded, knowing the unwritten code of the Keys. The island chain had retained its heritage of pirates and smugglers. When the fish weren’t biting or the economy was down, taking the tourists with it, the residents had to do what they had to do. “Where’s he at?”

  “Made a run down to Key West for supplies.” She giggled.

  “Crap. I need to find him,” Mac said, worried about damage control, rather than information. Someone would surely take notice of Trufante throwing money around and further increase the mess he was in. “Where’d he go?”

  She shrugged. “I’d guess somewhere on Duval.”

  Mac thought for a minute. “I know where he probably is. How long ago did he leave?”

  “About half an hour,” she said.

  He had just missed him. “Any chance you can help me out? I need to find him now. If you’re going to work, can I drop you and use your car?”

  She looked at him, “Never could say no to either of you.” She was quiet for a minute. “Aren’t you going to ask about Mel?”

  “I heard she was in intensive care. Not much I can do there. The minute I walk through the door of the hospital, they’ll lock me up and throw away the key.” He looked at the ground. “Wish there was more I could do to help.”

  She left the concealment of the small palm trees and started walking away. “You coming?”

  Mac looked around and went after her. They walked out to the road where cars were parked haphazardly on the grass shoulder in an attempt to avoid the puddles of rain water. He followed her to a ten-year-old yellow Jeep. She tossed him the keys. He got in the driver’s seat, adjusted it to fit his six-foot frame, and waited for her to climb in the passenger side. A more discreet car would have been better, but he wasn’t in a position to negotiate. He started the engine, pulled onto US 1, and drove the mile to the bar.

  “Really appreciate this,” he called after her.

  She turned, “Just bring it back in one piece. I get off around two.”

  Mac waited until she was inside, and then started out of the lot. There was a moment’s hesitation when he thought about turning left, the direction of the hospital, but they would be looking for him. It hurt, but he knew he had to find Trufante, shut down the party, and figure things out. The Seven Mile Bridge appeared, its long spans disappearing into the water, and a strange feeling passed over him, relieved he was out of Marathon where he was well known. Although they were spread out over a hundred and twenty miles, the Keys were a small, tight-knit community. He and Wood had built many of the bridges connecting the islands and were known throughout the chain, but Marathon had been his home base.

  It was OK to let them think he was dead. It might even be better. No one would suspect he was working to clear his name. His house had been destroyed by a rocket-propelled grenade, his boat confiscated, and Wood’s Island was on fire the last he saw it. Dead was probably better than alive for him right now. The pieces of the puzzle were moving around in his head and he almost forgot to slow down when he entered Big Pine Key, home of the Key deer refuge and biggest speed trap in the Keys. He drove through Little Torch, Ramrod, and Summerland Keys, watching his rear-view mirror the entire time. Once he reached Cudjoe Key, he relaxed and started to think again.

  The CIA man was the missing link. He was the only one that had enough to lose, and enough juice to get his name cleared. He just needed to find the right lever to pull to get his attention. The man, he suspected, was not directly involved with Cannady and the smuggler, Jay, at least in the poaching scam. His particular sideline was smuggling baseball players from Cuba. So in the twisted world of deceit, there was no reason for them to be enemies.

  He reached Stock Island and thought of Armando - that he might be the key. The Cuban player was the only one that could implicate the CIA man directly. If Mac could reach him first, he would have something to negotiate with. The detention center, where the men in the boatyard had said he was being held, was just south of Miami. He thought about turning around, but knocking on the door of a federal facility at midnight was not staying under the radar. Tomorrow would do. For now, he decided to keep the plan the plan and find Trufante.

  He crossed the Stock Island Bridge and entered Key West, turned right and followed North Roosevelt past several new chain stores and the Garrison Bight Harbor. At White Street, he turned right again and entered an old residential neighborhood, the streets lined with the colorful Victorian homes the island was known for. He reached Eaton Street and turned left. The activity level picked up the closer he came to Duval and a few blocks short of the famous drag, he considered himself lucky when he found a parking spot.

  Head down and cap pulled over his face, although he didn’t think he’d be recognized here, he walked to the entrance of the Turtle. The watering hole, a few blocks off the main street, was more subdued than the louder haunts over on Duval and favored locals over tourists. He entered and looked down the standing room only bar. Trufante stood out like a sore thumb; not only the tallest, he was also the loudest, and if neither of those features attracted your attention his teeth resembled the grille of a mid-sixties Cadillac when he opened his mouth and showed his thousand-dollar smile. Mac looked at him and gathered from the drawn look and rings under his eyes that this wasn’t the first night of the bender. S
ideways, he squeezed through the crowd and stood in front of the Cajun.

  “Mac freakin’ Travis,” Trufante greeted him, one hand on his beer bottle.

  Mac was out of patience. He reached for Trufante’s empty hand appearing to shake it, but grabbed it, forced the elbow to bend and swung the arm behind Trufante’s back. The big man winced and Mac backed off slightly, but kept enough pressure to walk him out of the bar.

  “Easy, buddy,” Trufante said once they reached the sidewalk. “There’s half a hundred sitting on the bar in there.”

  Mac kept his grip and pushed the man into the alley adjacent to the bar. Near the back door and sheltered by the dumpster, he released his grip. “You need to tell me what’s going on right now.”

  “Well, hell. You’re alive.”

  “Was that party back at your house your twisted idea of a wake?” Mac growled. Trufante’s easy going manner could try his patience at the best of times, and these were far from that. “Where’s the money from?”

  “Shit! That what’s up? Never mind then. You gave me Commando’s boat to lead the diversion, right. Told me to do with it what I could. Well, the last thing I need is for one of his buddies to see me running that boat, so I took off down here and sold it to a dude I know that chops them up.”

  Mac relaxed slightly. Although he was throwing around the proceeds of the sale like a drunken sailor, he had to admit that selling the boat was a good idea. In the islands, where there were as many boats as cars, boat theft was not uncommon. The problem was that many boats were easy to identify. Commando’s was an eye-catcher with its three monster outboards mounted on the tail end of the cigarette-style hull. Similar to the shops that cut up cars for parts, underground businesses did the same for boats here. Swap the engines, repaint the hull, and change some of the noticeable features, like T-tops and rocket launchers, and you had a new boat.