Fallen Mangrove (Jesse McDermitt Series Book 5) (13 page)

Ettaleigh finished her dinner in the Great Harbor Room at the lodge. She’d considered going to one of the restaurants in town but had some last minute business to take care of and brought her laptop computer to the restaurant at the lodge. Besides, it had a very good reputation and she’d been looking forward to their fresh seafood.

While she waited for her broiled lobster tail to arrive, she put a tiny earphone in and plugged it into the laptop. She didn’t want the other diners to have to listen to what was on the recorded message. After listening, she emailed the audio file to an associate. That business taken care of, she made one quick call to her employer to relay an update concerning their business on the island and then gazed out at the ocean as the sun cast long shadows across the sand. When she got back to her cottage, she made one more call after locating the business card the young man had left.

James was hesitant about answering his phone when it rang. It was an international number. He’d thought about the woman all that afternoon and evening. In the end he decided he had been imagining things, and besides, there was just too much chance of losing his job, anyway. He was sitting in his little fishing boat, about to go out to the reef and spear some fish. He fished at night most of the time, usually alone. Finally, he answered it.

“Hi, James, this is Ettaleigh Bonamy,” came a seductive voice over the phone. “We met this afternoon. I’m staying at the lodge.”

“Yes, ma’am, I remember.”

“I was wondering if I could persuade you to be my escort this evening. I want to go out drinking and dancing before my business associates arrive.”

“Dancing?”

“Do you have access to a boat? Perhaps you could give me a tour of some of the clubs over on Great Abaco. My treat.”

“Yeah, I could do that,” he blurted out. “I’m sitting in my boat right now.”

“Where is it? What should I wear?”

He was relieved that she wanted to go somewhere off island, but he was still having trouble believing she had any kind of sexual intent. If anything, she would probably leave him tired and frustrated by the end of the night and he had to be at work at seven o’clock in the morning.

“It’s at the post office dock,” he replied. “Maybe a three-minute walk north from the lodge on the bay side. Everywhere on the islands is barefoot casual. There’s a place called the Jib Room over on Abaco that has a live band.”

“I can be at the dock in ten minutes,” Ettaleigh said and ended the call. She was wearing a lightweight black sundress with a tropical floral pattern. She took a moment at the mirror, applying just the right amount of gloss to her full lips. Slipping her feet into a pair of beach sandals, she started for the door. As an afterthought, she grabbed her heels and shoved them in her oversized purse.

Ettaleigh made it to the dock in just over ten minutes and found the young man waiting. She got that tingling feeling down low as she approached him. He was tall, several inches taller than her five nine. His hair was loose and wild-looking now, where it had been tied back earlier in the day. He was powerfully built and Ettaleigh looked forward to seeing if his ability matched his physique.

“Am I keeping you from your fishing?” she asked, pouting, while making no attempt at all to hide the fact that she was looking him over from head to toe, lingering at his groin.

“No, ma’am,” he replied. “Probably wouldn’t be a good night on the reef anyway.”

“Okay, first things first, James. I’m Ettaleigh and we’re going out drinking and dancing. So, please stop with the ma’am. I’m only a few years older than you,” she lied. “Secondly, I have every intention of screwing your brains out later, maybe right there in that boat of yours.”

James stood there in disbelief. He’d had sex with a number of girls up on the casting deck of his boat, under the stars, out on the bay. He much preferred it to a bed. He smiled hungrily at this beautiful, sexy woman and said, “Yes, ma’am.”

She smiled wickedly and allowed him to help her step down into the little boat. Two minutes later, he was picking his way through the many boats at anchor in the little bay, headed north with her sitting beside him. Once clear of the bay and into the narrow channel to the open water between the islands, he pushed down the throttle and the little boat flew across the glassy water. Although it was dark, the moon was bright and James knew every rock and coral head in the area.

Ettaleigh pulled her hair over her left shoulder and held it in place against the wind with one hand while she clutched James’s upper arm with the other for balance. She couldn’t see much past the front of the little boat, but he seemed to be very competent at the wheel. Coupled with the darkness all around them and the speed they were going, the flexing muscle of the arm under her fingertips added to her excitement.

Fifteen minutes later, they were tying up to the dock at the Jib Room. James was a pretty good dancer and for an hour, the two rarely left the dance floor. When the music slowed, they embraced and crushed themselves together, making it obvious to one another what their physical needs were.

Finally, they left the club to go to a more out-of-the-way bar on Great Guana Cay to the north. Feeling the effect of the two rum drinks she’d had, she made no effort to disguise her desire. She took a flask from her purse and offered it to James.

“This is my own little concoction,” she said, smiling. “It boosts a person’s energy level.”

Sensing his reluctance, she drank a third of it herself and again offered it to James. He took the flask and gulped down the rest of the sweet liquid.

They only made it halfway across the narrow sound. Her hands were all over him, which caused James to turn and head for a very secluded little beach on Great Abaco, across from Great Guana. The beach was on a tiny island just beyond a spit of land that jutted several hundred feet out into the water. As they approached, James could see that it was obviously deserted, but he decided not to land and cut the engine. He went up to the bow and dropped his anchor thirty feet from shore. This little stretch of sand was well known to young couples in search of a quiet place to be alone and sometimes it was host to a bonfire party with dozens of people.

When he turned around, Ettaleigh was all over him again, urgently pulling his shirt off and tugging down his shorts. It’d been many months since she’d last had a man, and she slowly knelt before him, eager to get started.

Forty strenuous minutes later, they pulled the anchor and headed across to Great Guana and Nipper’s Beach Bar. There, they danced, drank more rum, and fed one another fresh barbequed shrimp for over an hour. The combination of the rum drinks and the energy drink loosened Ettaleigh up even more, if that was possible. She wasn’t quite satisfied yet and asked James to walk her along the beach. Once outside the pool of light from the bar, she turned into his embrace. Lifting one long leg and wrapping it around him, she drew him in and they made love again while standing and gyrating to the seductive beat of the island band just a few yards away.

On the return to Hope Town Harbour, they stopped once more and anchored in the lee of a tiny sandbar. Stripping off their clothes, they both slipped into the water and swam to the shallows, where they coupled once more in waist-deep water.

Walking back along Queen’s Highway to the lodge, she felt fairly satisfied but was already looking forward to tomorrow.

Sitting on the table behind the
Anchor
with Kim, Pescador laying at our feet under the table, we watched the sun slide slowly toward the horizon. “You know,” Kim said, “the whole time I’ve been down here, I haven’t checked to see what time it was.”

“You adapt pretty quick,” I said. “We call it ‘island time.’ It’s measured by the sun, moon, and tides, not by a clock or calendar.”

As we talked, the sun moved closer and closer to the far horizon, bathing the scattered clouds left over after the rain with an orange and pink glow as it slowly sank below the tree line. The view from my island is much better, but we enjoyed the time just the same. With the sun behind the trees, we walked back to the bar for supper.

Rufus’s janga soup was a huge hit. People from all over the island must have smelled it simmering away in one of his large black pots behind the bar. For nearly six years, he’d been cooking on a small deck using gas-fired burners with nothing more than a tarp for cover. It was amazing what came out of those pots and pans. We retired early, Kim bunking with Charity again.

I woke before sunrise, repacked my go bag for flying, and packed another, smaller bag that I would leave in
The Beast
or, if there was a good stash spot on the plane, I’d take it with me.

I’d arranged to meet Dave at the Key West Airport at 0700, give him the cashier’s check for the amount we agreed on and take possession of my plane. Since I had more than a hundred hours of flight time in her already, both Dave and I agreed we were a good fit for each other.

It was only a fifty-mile drive and normally it could be done in about an hour, but occasionally it might take way longer. Dave and his wife had business in Miami later in the day and he promised to drive
The Beast
to Marathon and drop it off for me and continue in their own car. I’d decided to leave at 0530 and grab a breakfast sandwich at some fast food place. So, I filled a thermos, grabbed a mug of coffee, and fired up
The Beast
in the quiet, early morning glow.

Having no delays, I arrived early at the airport. Dave was already there and came around the front of the plane as I pulled up on the starboard side.

“Looks like it’s gonna be a great day for flying,” he said, walking up to me and extending his hand.

“Hope it stays that way,” I replied, shaking hands. “A few of us are going to fly over to Nassau.”

I carried my bag over to the plane and Dave said, “I have something to show you.”

After I’d stowed and secured my bag in the aft cabin, Dave climbed in and went forward to the flight deck. He sat down in the left seat and said, “Lift the co-pilot’s seat.”

I knew both seats had storage underneath, accessed by pulling a strap located between the seat cushion and backrest. I pulled it open and found the usual logs, charts, and emergency first aid kit.

“Now pull down on the springs of the seat bottom,” he said.

I pulled down on the springs that cushioned the bottom and the whole seat bottom gave way with a click, folding back down normally. I immediately recognized two things. The spring assembly was fake, almost identical to the real spring assembly still attached to the seat cushion. The back side of the fake assembly, now facing up, had the unmistakable outline of a handgun and magazine created with foam padding.

I grinned at my friend. “You know me all too well, Dave.”

“Thought you might need a place to stash something inconspicuously.”

I raised the false bottom and it clicked back into place on the underside of the seat cushion. Looking closely, I saw there was no way you could tell it was there unless you already knew. I went back out to
The Beast
and grabbed my other bag.

Together, we did a complete and thorough walk-around inspection, checking all the control surfaces and paying close attention to the floats. He gave me the card of a mechanic that worked for Key West Seaplane Adventures and did some work on the side. He’d already given the man my name and suggested I give him a call to arrange a regular servicing schedule.

Once Dave left, I did the preflight, walked the props to clear any oil from the lower cylinders, and started the burly radial engine. It fired, chugged, and belched smoke, then settled into a smooth idle. The smoke was normal and I’d come to enjoy the smell of partially burned avgas. I let the engine warm up at high idle for a few minutes, then contacted ground control and requested taxi instructions.

“Beaver one three eight five, Key West ground. Good morning, Jesse. You’re cleared for VFR to fifty-five hundred feet. Taxi via Bravo, hold short runway niner.”

I greeted the controller, repeated and acknowledged the instructions, then lowered the idle and released the brakes. The Beaver was produced in two forms: the standard wheeled tail dragger model and as a float plane. An industrious flyer in Saint Paul, Minnesota saw the need for an amphibian and started a company called WipAire, where he designed replacement floats with retractable wheels for a variety of planes, including the Beaver.

I taxied to the end of the runway and did a quick run-up, checking the gauges, then switched the radio to air traffic control and requested takeoff instructions.

“Beaver one three eight five, Key West Tower. Traffic two miles outbound is a Beechcraft King Air. Runway niner, light wind zero niner five at five, clouds are scattered and visibility is ten miles. You are cleared for takeoff. Report clear to the southeast. Have a safe flight.”

I repeated his instructions and released the brake, giving the plane a little throttle and turning onto the runway. I knew from experience that I’d use only about half the runway. After putting on my sunglasses, I pulled down the flap lever to thirty-five percent and bumped the throttle up to takeoff speed. In just over two hundred yards, I’d reached eighty-five knots and pulled back slightly on the yoke. The plane responded instantly, lifting off the runway and climbing slowly. I drifted slightly to the right and quickly used the foot pedals and wheel to get back on course, but over corrected and drifted left. At two hundred feet I passed over the end of the runway. Checking the air speed indicator, I raised the flaps and flipped the switch that activated the hydraulic pumps, raising the gear up into the floats. I pulled back a little more on the yoke to increase the rate of climb, while banking southeast out over the sparkling water.

I radioed ATC that I was clear of the field and leveled off at eight hundred feet, turning slightly north of due east to follow the island chain toward Marathon. I reached over and lowered the sunscreen on the passenger side to block the rising sun. I was flying. And in my very own plane. The feeling was exhilarating. I banked a little to the right, flying further out over the water then back to the left, toward the island chain.
What a rush!
I thought.

At that low altitude, I could see people on the decks of their boats as they headed out for a day of fishing and I recognized one or two boats. When someone waved, I banked left and right to wave the wings back in return.
Yep, I’m flying my own plane
, I thought. I got the same feeling that I did seven years earlier, when I took the helm of the
Revenge
for the first time.

In my head, I could hear Jimmy’s voice in my head. He went up to Miami with Rusty and me to buy the
Revenge
and on the way back with her, he asked, “What do you think you’re gonna to call her, man?” Then he went on to tell me about the pirate Jose Gaspar. It occurred to me that this was the second time I’d taken off in something without a name.

As I followed US-1 back toward Marathon, I began to think of appropriate names. I’d always been impressed with the nose art on bombers from World War II and thought it would be a pretty cool idea to paint something on the cowling. I still wanted to get the King Air one day and maybe even one of those old flying boats that were used for passenger service to the islands many years ago, before airports and runways were built. Since this plane would be used primarily for hopping around the hundreds of islands that make up the Keys, I decided on
Island Hopper
.

Flying low over the water gave me a sense of what the islands might have looked like a century earlier, except for the constant ribbon of asphalt that is US-1. These islands have a long and sordid history, dating back long before Europeans ever laid eyes on them. I could almost imagine looking down and seeing the early Spanish ship convoys as they made their way across the Florida Straits from Cuba, then east and north along the Keys and the mainland.

It only took twenty minutes to get back to Marathon.
No tourist traffic jams up here
, I thought. I radioed Marathon Airport to get permission for a water landing in Vaca Key Bight.

“Beaver one three eight five, Marathon Tower. No traffic at this time, wind calm, overfly the bight to check for surface traffic.”

The winds were exactly as I’d hoped for. Almost dead calm. I acknowledged his instructions and dropped down to five hundred feet as I crossed over Boot Key Harbor and banked slightly to the south as I reduced power and lowered the flaps twenty degrees. Seeing no boats in the shallow water or coming out of the several channels, I banked further south until I was off Key Colony Beach, then began a tight turn to the north, finally lining up for an approach parallel to US-1 and the airport runway just beyond it. As I came over Key Colony Beach, I checked the four advisory lights again to make sure the gear was up and reduced power even more. I pushed the yoke forward, lining up on the microwave tower on Sombrero Beach Road, which was near the entrance to Rusty’s canal.

Dropping down to just thirty feet, I leveled off and pulled the flap lever to thirty-five degrees, reducing power even more. The plane dropped slowly and just a few feet off the water, I pulled back lightly on the yoke and flared her out just a bit too early. The pontoons making soft contact with the glassy surface and bouncing a few feet back up in the air before settling back on the water. I held the yoke back as surface friction brought the speed down and she settled into the water. Before dropping down off plane, I gave her more throttle and used the rudder pedals to turn toward the canal. I could see Rusty and Bourke by the boat ramp and just a hundred feet from shore, I dropped the engine to an idle and she settled down into the water, barely moving forward.

I lowered the landing gear, checking the four blue lights on the dash to ensure they were locked down as I approached the wide boat ramp. Just before making contact, I pushed the throttle forward and the big radial responded with a roar. Once up the ramp and on level ground, I rolled about twenty yards further to get a bit more room for turning toward the ramp later. I hit the right brake and rudder pedal, spinning the big plane ninety degrees before stopping it. I let the engine idle down for a moment, then shut her down.

When I climbed down, Bourke was waiting with a can of spray paint in his hand, which I assumed he was going to use to mark the spots for the tie-downs. “This is a really beautiful bird, Jesse.”

“Yeah, she is,” I said as Rusty walked up.

“If this is where you intend to tie her down, I’ll go ahead and mark the tie-down locations,” Bourke said

I glanced at Rusty. “Think this will be out of the way?”

“Can we shove it back a bit? It’ll make turning to get back down the ramp easier.”

With Rusty in the center pushing on the crossmember and Bourke and me pushing on the floats, we managed to push it back about twenty feet.

Rusty surveyed the parking job and said, “If we poured a level concrete pad here with a curb at the back, it’d be a lot easier to push and you could set the anchors in the pad.”

“I can do that,” Bourke said.

“I’ll have Julie call the Home Depot,” Rusty said. “They can have one of them trailer mixers and enough concrete bags to do the job delivered here in an hour. Figure up what you need to make it about three inches thick and let her know.”

Bourke pulled a tape measure from his pocket and began making measurements while Rusty and I walked down the crushed-shell path to the bar.

“I didn’t intend it to be a permanent thing,” I said.

“Then it won’t be,” he replied. “Up to you. But you could pick up clients here and get them out to more remote fishing spots.” Then he grinned and added, “Course, I get twenty percent.”

“Always the hustler, huh?”