Fallen Mangrove (Jesse McDermitt Series Book 5) (11 page)

“Okay, let’s get to what we came out here for,” I said. “Everyone up to the bridge. Tony, you’ll go first, mounting it solo. Then we’ll try you and Deuce working together.”

Kim looked puzzled, but we all climbed up to the bridge. I turned the bezel on my dive watch to the minute hand, waited for the second hand to reach twelve, and said, “Go!”

Tony climbed quickly down to the cockpit, lifted the fighting chair clear and laid it out of the way on the deck. Then he went down to the engine room and soon came out with the custom-built mount. As he opened the tripod legs and slid it into the chair’s receiver, the legs clicked as they locked into place.

“That must have set you back a few bucks,” Charity said as Tony disappeared into the engine room again. “Is that milled aluminum?”

“Titanium,” I replied.

Tony came out into the cockpit again, carrying the receiver, and inserted the pintle into the yoke, locking it into position. Unlike a standard tripod for the M2, this one didn’t have a traversing and elevating mechanism, so the gun was free to swing by hand. Not as accurate, but good enough for our use.

“Two minutes,” I called down as Tony disappeared into the engine room again.

A moment later he reappeared with the barrel, screwed it into place, and disappeared once more, as I shouted, “Three minutes.”

When he came out of the engine room a third time, he was carrying an ammo box and a bucket. He hung the bucket on a small hook that I’d had Billy add to the bottom of the receiver. He attached the ammo can to the side, opened it, and raised the cover on the receiver. Pulling the belt from the ammo can, he slapped it across the feed slide and slammed the cover down. Racking the bolt handle back twice, he shouted, “Done!”

“Three minutes and fifty-four seconds,” I shouted. “Pretty good for a first time.”

I went down and helped him disassemble the gun and put everything away. When we got back up to the bridge, Kim asked, “A machine gun? Aren’t you going to shoot it?”

“In a few minutes,” I replied. “Let’s see how fast two can do it first.” I looked over at Deuce and said, “Ready?”

“Always,” he replied.

I turned the bezel and waited for the second hand again. “Go,” I shouted, and both Tony and Deuce went down the ladder.

Tony disappeared into the engine room and Deuce removed the fighting chair, laying it aside once more. Tony appeared at the hatch and handed the mount up to Deuce, who turned and mounted it quickly, locking the legs in place. Tony reappeared at the hatch and Deuce took the receiver from him and mounted it to the yoke. When Tony came out with the barrel, he handed it to Deuce then grabbed the bucket and ammo can from under the steps. While Deuce threaded the barrel in, Tony set the bucket aside and mounted the ammo can. Deuce finished with the barrel and as Tony loaded the weapon, Deuce hung the bucket below it.

Tony slammed the cover shut and yelled, “Done!”

I looked at my watch, which hadn’t quite reached one minute. “Fifty-eight seconds!” I shouted.

Deuce looked up from the cockpit and said, “Plenty quick enough if trouble comes. But will this mount hold up?”

“It should,” I said. “That titanium can take a heck of a pounding and each part is a solid milled piece. Only one way to find out. Let her rip!”

Tony turned toward the machine gun, raised the handles, and aimed astern. He fired a quick three-round burst, and the vibration could be felt even on the bridge. Half a mile astern, three geysers shot up from the water.

“You want to shoot it?” I asked Kim.

“You bet,” she replied and climbed down to stand beside Deuce as Tony let loose with a long ten-round burst, the spent casings dropping neatly out of the bottom into the bucket.

Tony stepped aside and explained how the paddle trigger worked and how to aim, then Kim stepped up and fired a five-round burst, slightly higher than Tony’s. Nearly a mile away, five quick geysers reported the location of impact. She fired another five-round burst, which landed about where Tony’s had. We spent the rest of the morning disassembling the weapon and trying to better our time at setting it up, then everyone had a turn at firing it.

It occurred to me that if the need for the weapon ever arose, we’d probably be underway when it happened. So we pulled the hook and headed west, with Tony and Deuce practicing both solo and team set ups. It proved to be a bit more difficult, but not by more than half a minute working as a team and about a minute working solo. Tony almost dropped the receiver on one setup and I made a mental note to have some slip proof rubber pads made to fit the entire deck, to be used any time a mission came up.

Finally, we headed for the island to get lunch. On the way, Deuce got a call from Doc. I listened to the one-sided conversation and when he disconnected, he said, “Doc’s been trying to reach you, but his calls keep going to voice mail. Where’s your phone?”

I had to think for a minute. “Top tackle drawer, I think. Battery’s dead.”

“So, where’s your charger?” he then asked.

“Pretty sure that’s down in the engine room.”

Deuce and Julie both laughed, knowing my dislike for the device. Kim said, “I couldn’t live without my phone.”

“I can. If it’s important, they’ll leave a message. If it’s real important, they can find me.”

“Well,” Deuce said, “when you charge it up, you’ll find that Doc left you three messages. I told him we’d be at the island for a little while, but would be back in Marathon before dark. He’s going to meet us there.”

Thirty minutes later, I slowed as we entered Harbor Channel. At the mouth of my channel, I reversed the engines, used the key fob to open the west door below the house, and started backing the
Revenge
up the channel. Kim stood next to me as I turned and put my back to the wheel, steering the big boat mostly by throttle control.

“Wow,” she said. “It’s like Robinson Crusoe on steroids. You really built it yourself?”

“The main house and the basic bunkhouses, yeah. But a lot of people chipped in with the rest.”

“What rest?”

“You’ll see,” I replied, grinning.

“Is that a racing boat?” Kim asked, pointing at the Cigarette 42x tied to the center dock under the house.

“It belonged to some bad people,” Deuce said. “They no longer have any use for it, so we took it.”

Carl and Charlie’s kids met us at the dock and Carl Junior helped tie us off. I introduced Kim to them and little Patty said, “Mister Jesse is your daddy?”

The two of them took Kim by the hands and led her toward the door then up to the deck. The rest of us followed. When I got to the deck, Kim was standing by the table at the far corner, looking out over the island.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, when I walked up next to her. The others went on down the back steps and continued to the two tables by the bunkhouse. “What’s that over there?” she asked, pointing to the aquaculture system.

“We grow some of our own food here. Tomatoes, green beans, some peppers and squash, mostly. That’s Carl and Charlie’s house,” I said, pointing. “They keep things running here and pretty much take care of everything.”

She turned toward me. “Whose shirt is this I’m wearing?”

“I was married almost a year ago. Her name was Alex and it belonged to her. Come on, you must be starved.” We went down to the tables and joined the others. I introduced Kim to Carl, Charlie, and Chyrel.

“Y’all sit down and relax,” Charlie said. “I’ll slice some fruit before lunch.”

While enjoying a lunch of grunts and a summer squash casserole, Carl explained to Kim how the little garden worked. I noticed Pescador raise his head and cock his ears toward the west. A moment later, I heard an airplane approaching. While it’s not unusual to hear private planes out here, the sound of a sixty-year-old radial engine in a plane flying low enough to scare flying fish into flight meant only one thing. It was my friend and part-time mechanic, Dave Williams. I listened as the slight sound grew louder. Looking around, I noticed only Pescador, Deuce, and Tony seemed to hear it.

Suddenly, Dave’s deHavilland Beaver flew over at treetop level, rising up over the Trents’ house, climbing and banking to the south. Dave’s son was the young man who was killed in the explosion a couple of months ago, on the day Deuce and Julie were married.

“What the hell?” Kim said as she involuntarily ducked and stared after the plane disappearing into the late morning sun.

“A friend of mine,” I said. “Come on, you’ll like this,” I added as I rose from my seat and headed down the path between the two bunkhouses. The others followed along, Kim catching up and walking beside me. I glanced back and saw the flag flapping lightly in a westerly breeze and could hear Dave banking the plane around in a wide turn to line up for an upwind water landing.

We reached the end of the pier on the north side of the island and I pointed the plane out to Kim. He was about a mile out, leveling off and descending. Having chopped the throttle, we could no longer hear the sound of the big radial.

“What’s he doing?” Kim asked.

“Stopping by for a visit,” I said. “His name’s Dave and he does some mechanical work on the boats for me.”

“He’s going to land on the water? It’s a seaplane?”

“A 1953 deHavilland Beaver.”

When the plane was a few hundred yards out and just feet off the water, he flared and gently touched the surface with the pontoons. The plane skipped across the light chop, then settled into the water a little. Dave increased the throttle, keeping it up on plane until he was just a hundred feet from the pier. There, he cut the engine to an idle and it settled down in the water and decreased speed to a walk. Ten feet from the pier, he cut power, opened the left door, and stood on the pontoon with a rope coiled in his hand.

Tony caught the tossed coil and we all ducked as the big wing went over the tee-shaped pier. Tony walked the line to the eastern end of the tee before taking the slack and bringing the plane to a stop just a couple of feet away. Dave tied the line off to a cleat on the pontoon aft of the doors while Julie deftly tossed another line over a cleat forward of the doors. They both hauled on the lines, bringing the pontoon up to the rubber bumpers on the pier, and Dave stepped up.

“Hey, Dave,” I said, taking his hand. “What brings you up here?” Dave and his wife live on Stock Island, just before Key West. He does some charter fishing in the back country, using kayaks he carries in his plane to get clients to places other guides can’t.

“We’re moving back to Kentucky,” he said as he pulled a box out of the cargo area in back and handed it to Tony. “This is for Charlie,” he told him. Turning back to me, he said, “I wanted to give you the first option on buying my plane.”

I’d just spent two months getting my private pilot’s license and seaplane certificate. Dave knew I was looking to buy a plane, since most of my flying time had been in his Beaver with him and my instructor and we’d discussed the merits of a lot of planes. I’d been planning to wait until I finished my multi-engine certification. I wanted a Beechcraft King Air for its range.

He reached in and grabbed a second box, which he handed to Julie, and said, “This one’s for Charlie, too.” Turning to Deuce he said, “That last one in there is for Carl, Deuce. Mind getting it? It’s pretty heavy.”

“Why don’t you take it back to Kentucky?” I asked as we walked up the pier. “Oh, Dave, this is my daughter, Kim. Kim, meet Dave Williams.”

He stopped and turned to the two of us. “Your daughter?” He took the hand she offered and looked closely at her. “Yeah, I can see the resemblance.” He turned and started walking again. “We bought a place up in the hills, no water around. This plane belongs down here.”

I looked back at the Beaver and said, “Yeah, she’s perfect for this area, that’s for sure. I’ve been waiting until I get my multi cert. I want to get a King Air, but if she’s really available, yeah, I’d consider taking her off your hands.”

“How long will you be staying on the island, Miss Bonamy?” asked the desk clerk at Hope Town Harbour Lodge on Elbow Cay.

“Indefinitely,” Ettaleigh Bonamy replied. “I would think a week. I apologize for the short notice.”

“It’s no trouble, ma’am. Your assistant booked two of our ocean view cottages and two of our main lodge rooms for one week. If you will need them longer than that, please see me a day in advance. This is our slow time of year and we should have no trouble extending the reservations.”

She leaned over to read his name tag and said, “Thank you, Paul. Can you have a bottle of wine sent to my cottage? A Chanson Chablis, perhaps?”

“Yes, ma’am. Right away.” He turned and beckoned a bellman with his finger. “James, please take Miss Bonamy’s bags to cottage two.”

The young man was quick to gather up the woman’s three bags. “Follow me, ma’am.”

She left the office and followed the man through a network of ivy and palm-covered walkways, arriving at the middle of three small cottages. They were quaint and rustic-looking on the outside, but appeared to be meticulously maintained, as did the surrounding lawn and vegetation. He unlocked the door and held it open for her, then followed her in.

Placing the key on a small table by the door and the bags at the foot of the king-sized bed, he turned and asked, “Can I bring you anything, ma’am?”

“Thank you,” she said, handing him a ten-dollar bill. “That will be all.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, taking the bill and pocketing it instantly. “If I may?”

She was looking out the open French door at the deck with a custom gas grill and the ocean just beyond. She looked back at him over her shoulder. “Yes?”

“I don’t mean to be nosy, but your name? Are you related to the Bonamy family that once lived down on Long Island?”

She smiled, her full lips exposing perfectly straight teeth, turned and said, “Very distantly related, yes. You know island history very well. You’re speaking of Bromfield Bonamy, of course?” The young man blushed slightly, something Ettaleigh found enticing. At thirty-six she was in the prime of her life, physically and emotionally. She preferred young men like this one—they usually had an appetite and stamina that at times even matched her own.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “A very colorful character in our islands’ history. Will there be anything else?”

“No, thank you, James.” She cocked her head in a seductive manner and asked, “If I do need something, should I call you?”

James tried to control his reaction, but it didn’t work, as his cheeks colored once more. He was twenty-three years old and had never met such an exotically beautiful woman as this.

“I’m on duty until five, ma’am,” he stammered.

“What if I need something after five?” she asked, gliding toward him. “How can I reach you?”

James couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Local island girls flirted with him often and he was considered a good-looking young man. He’d watched the rich, beautiful women that visited the Lodge from all over the world with no small amount of lust, but he had never made an advance. It would cost him his job and they were hard to come by on a small island. Yet, here was an exquisitely beautiful older woman making advances on him.

He’d had his own business cards made up, as he was an accomplished spear fisherman and sold his catch all over Great Abaco, Elbow Cay, and Man-O-War Cay. He pulled one out of his pocket, knowing it wasn’t a very good idea. But his libido had another idea.

“I catch fish to sell,” he stammered again. “For the grill,” he added, pointing out to the deck. “If you want some, call me.” He handed her the card, hoping it sounded innocent enough if she wasn’t coming on to him and suggestive enough if she was. She slid the card inside the top of her blouse, which caused James to become noticeably excited.

There was a knock at the door. James turned and opened it, then left the cottage as the wine steward entered. The wine steward was an older black man who placed the tray on the table and offered to open the bottle for her. She thanked him and said she was going to change and go for a swim first. She tipped him and he left immediately.

Opening the single French door to the deck, a breeze blew in carrying the fresh, salty scent of the sea and sand with it, gently ruffling her loose-fitting pleated blue skirt. She stepped outside and marveled at the lush tropical foliage that separated the cottages. There was a narrow path through the low vegetation that went over the dune to the beach, which appeared to be completely deserted.

She welcomed times like this. Her job was very demanding and when an opportunity to indulge herself was presented, she took advantage of it. Technically still on the clock, she’d arrived on Elbow Cay a few days ahead of her employer to make sure the accommodations were suitable, make arrangements for the business they would be conducting, and ensure their business would proceed uninterrupted.

Going back inside, she quickly unpacked her suitcases and put her things away, making sure the young man’s card wasn’t lost. Then she changed into a backless yellow one-piece bathing suit, cut high at the thigh and low at the neck. The suit accentuated her long legs, narrow flat belly, and modest bosom. She released the single pin in her hair that held it in a bun and it cascaded across her shoulders, like a dark wave, reaching the middle of her back.

The history of the Bonamy family in the islands was colorful indeed. Bromfield Bonamy was one of the first settlers on Long Island, just after the American Revolution. As a Loyalist to the Crown, he fled Charleston with many others to settle the deserted islands of the northern Bahamas. He received a land grant of four hundred acres from King George III and settled there to grow Sea Island cotton. After a caterpillar infestation destroyed the crops in 1796, he turned to piracy. Not in the truest sense of the word. He sailed his private warship,
Ballahoo
, throughout the northern Bahamas, preying solely on American cargo ships. Bonamy led an otherwise secluded life on his large plantation. Although he never married, he fathered fourteen children with several native slave women he brought up from Hispaniola. Their descendants were now scattered all over the Bahamas, Florida, even all the way up to Charleston.

Those slaves weren’t of African origin, but were from the nearly decimated original inhabitants of the Bahama Islands, the Lucaya. Like Ettaleigh, they were a dark-skinned, handsome people with long, straight black hair and dark eyes. By 1550, they had all been killed or enslaved by the Spanish, leaving the northern islands uninhabited for over two hundred years. The Spaniards considered the lowlying islands unsuitable for growing anything and the waters too treacherous. The ancestry of the Lucaya can be traced back to the people that inhabited North and South America long before the first Europeans arrived.

Ettaleigh walked out onto the deck and leaned against the rail, facing an easterly breeze. The light wind lifted a few strands of hair from her shoulders. She looked up and down the beach, then lifted her face to the warm sun with her eyes closed, as if meditating.

She left the private deck and followed the path down to the beach, not having any particular destination or direction in mind. She was nearly to the water’s edge before she saw anyone’s footprints in the sand. She turned and went in the direction the footsteps had come from.

James watched her come out of the back of the cottage from his vantage point on the second-floor balcony of the main lodge. He knew he hadn’t been dreaming by the way she’d slipped the card into her bra as she touched her lips with her tongue. He watched her walk to the water’s edge and turn south toward the cove, her dark skin and hair all the more exotic in the yellow bathing suit she wore.

As Ettaleigh walked, she marveled at the beautiful lush shoreline. Coconut palms leaned out over the beach from the dune, where clumps of sawgrass and sea grape marked the edge of vegetation. The water was crystal clear and she could easily see the scattered rock outcroppings just below the water’s surface. Further out, the bottom fell away quickly and the water turned from green to a deep, cobalt blue less than a hundred yards from shore.

She walked for over a mile and never saw another person.
Slow season
, she thought.
That’s an understatement
. She came to a rock outcropping that jutted out into the water at high tide and curved away to a sheltered area beyond. The tide was low, so she continued around the rock, marveling at the home built on its bluff. Beyond the protected water was a ten-foot limestone cliff. She waded right into the calmer water until it came to mid-thigh. Seeing no obstacles in the little cove, she jackknifed her lithe body and dived beneath the surface. Her long black hair streaming behind her, she swam underwater for ten yards before surfacing face first in waist-deep water, which left her hair streaming down the middle of her back.

The mixture of the cool water and warm sun seemed to rejuvenate and excite her after the flight and boat ride to get to the island. She’d have all day tomorrow and possibly the next day alone, before her employer and their business associates arrived. More than enough time to relax and unwind.
Enough time to test that young man’s stamina and endurance
, she thought. Again she dove under the water, cooling her body and mind, both of which needed it.

She came up out of the water and brought her hair around her shoulder, wringing the water out of it. Returning to the beach, she walked slowly back toward the cottage, retracing her steps.
I will call him tonight after dinner
, she thought. She looked forward to it, wondering if he could last as long as his youth suggested. If not, she had ways of arousing even the most exhausted lover.