Fallen Palm (Jesse McDermitt Series) (23 page)

Deuce was thinking again, what a good idea it would be to get Jesse on their team. His wealth of local knowledge and contacts was impressive and a charter fishing boat made a great cover, when entering ports all over the Caribbean Basin.

“Deuce,” I said, “do whatever you gotta do; the Fifth Street bridge only has a twelve foot clearance. We can wait till we get there and call the bridge operator, but we’ll lose a lot of time.”

Early Monday morning, October 31, 2005

Once we entered the river, I idled under the first few bridges, heading up river. Clearance wasn’t going to be a problem until we got to Fifth Street. Some good-sized island freighters went up and down this river to the docks where the Cigarette was tied up and beyond. My clearance was thirteen feet and many of those freighters were taller.

Deuce closed his phone and said, “The ADD has contacted the Miami-Dade PD. Units are headed to the Fifth Street Bridge and South River Drive, they’ll set up road blocks a mile above and below the dock, with lights off.”

A few minutes later, we got to the canal and I idled past it, then shifted the starboard engine to reverse and the port engine to neutral and slowly backed into the canal. I could see Julie and Tony standing on the dock next to Alex’s skiff. Rusty said, “Jesse, maybe Julie should stay with the boats, in case someone comes along.”

Rusty knew this area, too. Not the best of neighborhoods. I knew he didn’t want her to be anywhere near any rough stuff and Deuce, reading both our minds said, “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

“No need,” I said. “Get them both aboard, we’re going to tie off there and go in on foot. That dock is too open. And Rusty, you stay here with Julie.”

“No way, Jesse, I’m going in.”

“No, you’re not,” I said. “You have a kid to worry about and it’s been a long time since you were in a firefight. We don’t have any idea what we’re up against here. You’re staying. That’s that.” I didn’t like pulling rank on my old friend, but it was true and he knew it. He’d lost his edge years ago and his added weight could be a problem.

Deuce and I climbed down from the bridge as Julie and Tony boarded. I looked around and noticed that all of Deuces men had donned lightweight jackets and hats with the letters DHS stenciled on them. The three door kickers, who I still didn’t know their names, were carrying MP-5 submachine guns. Deuce had been on the phone with his boss since we entered the mouth of the river.

He said, “The ADD has given the okay for a take down here, to get Alex out and seize the Cigarette. Here, put this on.”

He handed me an oversized black windbreaker, like the others wore. I shrugged into it and said, “Just across the street from the dock is a container yard. Your shooter can get over the fence easy enough and up on top of those containers. They’re usually stacked four or five high, thirty to forty feet. From there, he can control the whole front of the building and the street in both directions.” I pointed toward the overhanging trees that Julie had docked under and said. “Go through those trees, cross the street, and it’s the first yard on the left.” Without having to be told, the man shouldered the rifle I’d given him, jumped to the dock and trotted off.

“The office is on the north end of the warehouse,” I said. “There’s only one door to the office from the street. The warehouse has several big cargo doors on the street side and on the river side. The yard is completely fenced from the office to the northeast corner of the warehouse.”

Deuce pointed to the other two men and they followed the rifleman, with the MP-5’s slung on their chests. Deuce said, “They’ll go through the office entry and we’ll go around the warehouse. They’ll report, when in position.”

We climbed up to the dock and I looked back at Rusty and Julie. “Wait here,” I said to them. “Come on, Pescador.”

Rusty nodded and grunted, “Get some.” The dog leaped to the deck and trotted along beside me.

We moved quickly along the dock, close to the back of the first building. There was a large freighter tied up there, but the dock was quiet and the loading doors were closed. As we neared the fence separating the two shipper’s docks, there was a pickup backed up to the six-foot tall fence, with a van parked next to it. The three of us climbed into the bed of the truck, then Deuce climbed up onto the roof of the van and held his fist up, signaling us to hold up. There was a light wind blowing out of the east, carrying the mixed smells of diesel fuel and a restaurant across the river.

The other two men checked in that they were at the corner of the office. The sniper said, “Alpha Four. Two cars parked out front of the office, lights on inside. Warehouse looks dark.”

“Roger that,” I heard Deuce whisper through my earwig. “Office detail stand by.” Then he pumped his fist to us, signaling us to follow as he lightly jumped down to the gravel yard behind the warehouse. Tony and I followed closely behind him. I noticed that Tony was also carrying an MP-5, but didn’t see where it came from. One of the door kickers, or maybe all of them, carried an extra in those packs.

There was a light coming from under the far cargo door and the walk through door next to it. We quickly moved door to door, stopping to listen at each one. When we got to the walk through door, I gently checked the knob. “It’s locked,” I whispered.

Deuce’s voice came over the earwig as he whispered, “Office detail, count three after you hear our entry, then breach the office door.” Then he nodded to Tony who stepped away from the door and fired a three round burst at the lock, before lunging forward and planting a boot at the mangled dead bolt. The door swung open with a clang and we moved quickly inside, weapons up and ready.

One man was sitting in a chair, with his back against the wall to the right. He started to stand up, pulling a gun from a shoulder holster. I grabbed his gun hand at the wrist with my left hand and followed through with a right elbow to the center of his face that toppled him to the floor, out cold. I picked up his pistol, a Glock, and stuck it in the waistband of my fishing shorts, behind my back. Tony rolled him over and quickly checked him for other weapons, before pulling a nylon zip fastener from a pocket to bind the man, with his hands behind his back. We fanned out, with me and Deuce headed toward the office door. One shot rang out from the area of the office and I heard someone over my headset say, “Office is clear. One tango down, one in custody.”

I hurried through the office door, from the warehouse, as Deuce and Tony searched the warehouse. I found two of Deuces men in what looked like a shipping office. One went out through the door I’d just entered to help secure the warehouse. A black man lay on the floor with a pool of blood around his head, a sawed off Remington shotgun on the floor just beyond his outstretched hand. Another man sat in a chair, with his back to me. It was Baldy.

I spun the chair around, got right up in his face, and growled, “Where is she?”

His eyes blinked in recognition and he said, “Your whore was a lot of fun tonight, for me and Benny there.”

I yanked him to his feet and his hand moved in a blur, coming forward with a long blade that appeared from his jacket sleeve. I felt a sharp pain in my left side and a warm liquid flowing down from it. I heard a snarling sound, as a blur flew past my shoulder. I stumbled back, with the handle of a switchblade sticking out of my side. O’Hara dropped to the floor, with the dog’s teeth deeply imbedded in his throat. The last thing I heard as it started to get dark was a mixture of snarling, ripping, and gurgling sounds, as the dog ripped O’Hara’s throat out. Then, over my earwig, “We found her,” someone said. Then everything went black.

Monday afternoon, October 31, 2005

I woke up slowly, hearing a beeping noise, from my left. I was in a hospital bed, a tube sticking in my left arm and sensors stuck to me everywhere. The lights were low and sunlight was trying to come through the heavy drapes, over the window. I could make out Deuce and Rusty sitting in chairs at the foot of the bed. Deuce was looking down at his phone and Rusty’s head was back, snoring.

As I stirred, Deuce looked up and said, “Thought we’d lost you for a minute, Jarhead.”

Rusty’s head jerked forward and he opened his eyes looking right at me. “Where’s Alex?” I moaned. “Is she okay?”

Deuce stood up and came over next to me. He pushed a button on the side of the bed and said, “She’s here, Jesse. She’s in another room.”

“What happened?” I asked.

Rusty was standing at the foot of the bed and said, “Julie’s with her. She was….. assaulted.”

Just then, a nurse came in, followed seconds later by a doctor. The nurse checked the monitors as the doctor looked over a chart at the foot of the bed. “You’re at Jackson Memorial, Mister McDermitt. How do you feel?”

I looked at the doctor and nurse, then back at the doctor, “How’s my wife?” I asked.

“Let’s be concerned with you right now,” the doctor said, coming around to the other side of the bed.

My right hand shot out and grabbed him by collar of the white smock he was wearing and pulled him down close to my face and growled, “Tell me how she is now, Doc, or I’ll snap your fucking neck.”

Deuce stepped forward, took my wrist and applied pressure, while pushing the doctor away. “Calm down, Jesse. Don’t hurt the people here to help you both.”

The doctor stepped back and straightened his smock. “Well, by your actions I assume you’re not too badly hurt. You came in with a partially collapsed lung. An inch higher and that knife would have gone into your heart.”

“Jesse,” Rusty said, “Alex was beat up pretty bad. She’s in ICU and they’re doing everything they can.”

I stared up at my old friend in shock. A single tear rolled down my cheek, as I croaked, “How bad?”

The doctor said flatly, “She was sexually assaulted, repeatedly. She has a severe concussion, broken bones in the face, a fractured skull, dislocated jaw, and three broken ribs. She’s in a coma.”

I looked up at Deuce, then over at the doctor and Rusty. As blackness again came over me, I heard Deuce say, “Both men who did it are dead.”

Thursday morning, November 3, 2005

I woke up again and the room was nearly dark, the drapes on the window open wide. I could make out the crescent of the moon, rising over the water. But, it was a different room, it seemed. The beeping noise was still going on at my left side. But, the tube was gone from my forearm and the wires had been removed from my head. Rusty and Julie were talking to Tony and Art near the door and they all turned toward me, as I stiffly tried to sit up and lift the covers.

Julie came over and gently pushed me back down. Her eyes were red and there were dark circles under her eyes. “She’s gone, Jesse.”

I stared up into her face and croaked, “Where’d she go?”

I was confused, I had no idea how long I’d been out, or what day it was, or even where I was.

Julie looked softly down into my eyes, as Rusty, Tony and Art came over to stand around my bed. “Alex passed away two days ago, Jesse,” she said. “You’ve been unconscious for three days. They transferred you here, yesterday. You’re at the VA hospital. We thought we were going to lose you, too.”

“Alex? Dead?” I laid my head back and could not control myself, as I started to sob. Julie leaned over and cradled my head, holding me tight and I felt strong hands on my shoulders.

I was released from the VA hospital the next day, a Friday. Deuce visited Thursday afternoon before I was released, to debrief me on the takedown and arrest of the terrorists, Madani and Beech. I had been in a daze since the morning, when Julie told me that my wife of only a few days had died. I didn’t really hear much of what he said, until he told me about the dog killing O’Hara.

“Where is he?” I’d asked.

“The dog? He’s aboard your boat with Rusty and Julie. They moved it to a dock at Norseman Shipbuilding. Miami-Dade wanted to put him down for killing O’Hara, but I told them he was federal government property.”

The days that followed were like walking through a fog. I slept when I was tired, ate when I was hungry and worked when I was neither tired, nor hungry. With Rusty, Julie and Jimmy’s help, I moved the
Revenge
, Alex’s skiff, and the Grady White that Deuce had given me, up to my house in the Content Keys. My skiff and Lester were still missing. Jimmy showed me how to operate the backhoe and I spent a week digging my channel deeper and wider.

On November 10
th
, Rusty came up and we celebrated the Marine Corps birthday, as we’d done every year since I retired. I wasn’t in much of a celebratory mood, though. Lester was still on the loose somewhere and I hate loose ends. Rusty left before sunset.

That evening, I decided I’d take Alex’s skiff, go out into the flats to the west, and practice fly-casting. I knew I could never match her skill and grace. But in her memory, I wanted to try. It felt weird, being in her boat. Deuce had finally given me the details on the interrogation of Sonny Beech. O’Hara raped her first. Twice. But, according to what O’Hara told Beech, she’d fought hard against him. Then the man known only as Benny raped and beat her savagely. The second time, she was unconscious, but he raped her anyway and beat her again.

The dog was on the casting deck as we rocketed across the flats, between Little Crane Key and Raccoon Key. Ahead, to the left was Crane Key and beyond that was a cluster of tiny islands called Crane Key Mangrove. They weren’t really islands at all. At low tide, there were some small areas of exposed sand, but at high tide, the water covered all the sand and the mangroves stood in open water. It was a great place for snapper and grunts and the dog and I both wanted fried grunts for supper. At least, I told him we did.

The dog started barking as I slowed down near the mangroves. The tide was high, but instead of alerting me to fish in the mangrove roots, he was looking south, toward Crane Key. I turned and steered toward the little island, following his nose. I beached the Maverick on the sand, on the north end of the island. Since the tide was high, the small bay just to the south, on the east side was full of water, but only a few inches deep. The dog was barking in that direction, so I assembled my fly rod, stuck my Beretta in its clip on holster under my shirt, got out and together we waded toward the little bay. The Beretta was a nice weapon, but I missed my Sig.

When we came to the mouth of the narrow opening, I could see a boat shoved way up under the mangroves. We waded slowly forward, and then I recognized it. It was my skiff.

I put the rod in my left hand and pulled the Beretta with my right. We waded further into the little bay, then up onto the beach, next to my skiff. I leaned in and checked it out, while keeping a wary eye out around us. The keys were in the ignition and the fish boxes were all open. I shook the twenty-gallon gas tank in the stern and it was bone dry. There was a tattered green gym bag on the second seat I remembered Lester bringing, when we came up here. I looked inside it. It held a Raymarine C120 GPS that I recognized. Russ had one just like it on his boat the last time we dived together. Under it was his journal.

I placed the rod on the casting deck, and then said to the dog, “Find him.” The dog trotted further up onto the beach, sniffing around, then headed into the trees. I followed quickly, moving the Beretta side to side, as we slowly crept forward, the dog sniffing the ground.

I found Lester huddled against a fallen palm tree. His skin was burnt raw, his lips cracked and peeling. He was either dead or sleeping. His clothes were shredded and his shoes in tatters. I knew there was no water on this island, or any of the islands around here. But it had rained six days earlier. Maybe that kept him alive, until now, I thought.

He slowly opened his eyes. They were red and swollen. He had insect bites all over his body and several cuts on his legs that looked badly infected. There were welts all over his calves and thighs. Fire ant bites. Anyone that lived in Florida knew to stay away from their mounds. His eyes slowly focused and then he recognized me. He slowly raised a hand and hoarsely whispered, “Water.”

I reached down and picked up my Sig, which was sitting on the log beside his head and stuck it in my waistband. Then I took what was left of his wallet out of his pocket, opened it and counted fifty-four one hundred dollar bills. I stuck that in my pocket and put the wallet back in his. Then I unhooked the doubloon necklace that he had stolen from Russ and put it in another pocket.

“Fuck you,” I snarled. “I wouldn’t let you drink my piss.” As I turned and walked away, I added, “Semper Fi, mac.”

I walked back to my skiff and pushed it into deeper water. I tied a line to the bow cleat and pulled it over to Alex’s skiff, where I tied the line to a stern cleat and shoved them both into deeper water. Me and the dog climbed in and we towed the skiff back to my house, leaving Lester there for the crabs, gulls and buzzards. No more loose ends, I thought.

When I got to the house, I climbed up on the deck and opened my phone. I found the number I wanted and hit send. Assistant Deputy Director Jason Smith answered on the first ring and said, “My deepest condolences on the loss of your wife, Captain.”

I said simply, “Tell Deuce the palm tree will be cut down in the morning and I have his dad‘s necklace, if he wants it.” Then I disconnected and turned the phone off.

The End

From the Author

In the late ‘80’s, I wrote three short stories about a rough and ready Marine cum charter boat Captain who lived in the Florida Keys. Somewhere in a box in my garage is a floppy disc where the stories are saved. Good luck finding a computer with a 5-¼” floppy drive. Some friends said I should write more and this book is the result. The main character, Jesse McDermitt, in both the short stories and this book, is now older and wiser. Maybe a bit slower, too. But aren’t we all?

I’d like to thank the many people who encouraged me to go through with writing this, especially my wife, Greta. Without her encouragement, motivation, support and the many ideas she’s given me along the way, this would never have happened. Thanks also to my youngest daughter Jordy, for her contribution in naming many of the characters. Also, thanks to our other kids for their support and for not laughing at this old truck driver thinking he could write a book.

I’d also like to thank Captain Marty Williams and his son, First Mate Jimmy Williams, of the sport fishing charter boat
Wide Open
out of Whale Harbor, Islamorada, in the fabulous Florida Keys for their help in detailing life and work on a charter fishing boat. Thanks to fellow Marine Ted Nulty, of the Long Rifle Institute, for his contribution in detailing Marine Recon small unit tactics and weapons. Many thanks to my friends and proof readers, Debbie Kocol, owner of Crystal Waters and Villas, in Hopetown, Abaco, Bahamas, and especially Karen Williams and her red pen, from Russellville, TN. I'll send you a new one.

Lastly, I’d like to thank Colonel Roy Shelton, USMC, retired, for putting the crazy notion in my head, that I could write a book in the first place.

Fallen Hunter, the exciting sequel to Fallen Palm, will be available on Amazon in mid-December.