Wood's Reach (21 page)

“You okay?” Mac asked.

She nodded and pulled herself up, resting her back against the cold steel bulkhead. “What are we going to do now?”

“Sorry. It was worth a shot,” Mac said, the guilt of his unsuccessful attack eating at him.

“Hand me the computer,” she said.

“You’re not really going to help them,” he asked.

“Of course not. I’m going to help us. I was hesitant to try anything before, thinking he’d check the computer, but we’ve got nothing to lose now. If he was going to kill us, we’d be dead. He needs us.”

Mac knew she was right. “You could have reached out before?”

She nodded. “But the risk was not worth it.” She paused. “I have to admit to being sucked in by the puzzle. If we can solve it, it could make us all rich.”

“But if we solve it and don’t have a plan, we’ll be dead.”

They sat in silence for a minute. “Okay. So back to the beginning.”

Mac had an idea. “You keep on the puzzle. I’ve got some thinking to do.” He slid the laptop toward her.

“The coin should give us a date range. That’ll narrow things down, but it’s still going to be plus or minus a mile or so. That’s a lot of ocean,” she said.

“We need to keep on it. While the recognition program is running, can you search for wrecks around the time of the coin?” Mac asked.

She turned back to the computer and started typing. “I’m going to try and get a message to TJ.”

“Worth a shot.” Even if Hawk was monitoring her, things couldn’t get much worse.

***

Mel read the article beginning to end. She pulled out her phone, reluctantly scrolled to Mac’s contact info, and tried to call, but the phone went to voicemail. That was not at all unusual for him, and she wasn’t worried, but the headlines had sucked her in. First there was an article about the chase through the backcountry. His name wasn’t mentioned, but she knew the area, and it was very close to her father’s island. Hawk was involved, and that was never good, but though a coincidence, it didn’t directly involve Mac. She remembered several run-ins her dad had with the antiquities dealer that left a bad taste in her mouth.

A smaller article had a picture of a wrecked boat run into a bridge near Flamingo Key. The top-billed article was more disturbing. Two days earlier, a boat had blown up after several witnesses reported a chase and gunshots. The wreck had just been recovered. Boats blowing up and crashing into bridges was not the norm here, the trail usually leading to Trufante and then to Mac. Her curiosity got the better of her. She put down the paper and paid the bill, asking the waitress if she knew anything about who owned the boat that had blown up.

The answer tightened the circle, and adding in the stop-work order on the house, there was enough circumstantial evidence for her lawyer brain to kick in. Whether through reason or paranoia, the answer came back the same—the incidents were related and all had something to do with Mac.

With some time on her hands before her flight back and her curiosity piqued, she drove to The Keys Fisheries, where the waitress had told her she could find the owner of the boat that had exploded. Parking by the retail store, she got out and walked over to the dock. Not really knowing why she was here, she gazed at the marina. Leaning against the same well-worn spot on the rail where the tourists would watch the tarpon feed later tonight, she checked out the remaining boats. The marina was only half-full, many out on charters, but several caught her attention. One had five outboards hanging from the transom, and she laughed to herself about the ridiculousness of the setup.

Though she had distanced herself from the Keys, she still knew her boats, and the display of power amused her. She moved her gaze to the boat next to it, a small center-console, similar to one her dad had owned, and realized it was damaged. Walking toward it, she could see the top had been removed and walked closer to get a better look. It meant nothing by itself, but this was starting to look like another in a growing list of coincidences. She was about to leave when she heard someone call her name.

“Woodson, is that you?”

Walking toward her was a heavyset woman with sleeve tattoos on both arms and a streak of blond running through her auburn hair. On first sight, Mel didn’t recognize her and was about to ignore her and walk past.

“It’s Celia, Monica’s sister,” the woman said.

Mel recognized her now, though she was considerably different than the young girl she remembered.

“Hey,” Mel said, not knowing what else to do.

“You look the freaking same. Heard you had a bad go of it with the wreck,” she said.

Mel didn’t want to go into the details of her life with the sister of someone she would rather forget. “Doing okay,” she said. To sound social, she added, “How’s your sister?”

“Shit. That old cow’s married three times and has a tribe of kids. Didn’t turn out too well for her.”

Mel couldn’t help but laugh. She’d always thought it would go that way for her.

“So, what brings you back here? Hope you’re not looking for Mac,” she said.

“Had a legal matter I had to deal with. And, yeah, I guess I am.”

Celia cocked her hip and her expression changed. “Me too.”

***

They had just passed under the Seven Mile Bridge. Pamela and Cheqea were below on the deck, and TJ was at the wheel, with Trufante beside him.

“Which way you want to start?” TJ asked.

“What about the radar?”

“This one doesn’t have nearly the definition of the unit on the other boat. I can’t tell what’s what out there.” He pointed to the green screen.

“If it was me, I’d head southeast. The reef’s hard coral, shallow and longer there. Most of the wrecks happened on that side of the light,” Trufante said.

TJ cut the wheel and headed toward the small light marking East Washerwoman Shoal. He steered toward the outside of the marker, avoiding the rock piles surrounding it, where the charters caught their baitfish, when he saw a boat rolling with the seas. It was its aspect that first caught his attention, abeam to the direction of the waves. It wasn’t anchored, and from his vantage point on the bridge, it seemed there was no one aboard.

“What do you make of that?” he asked Trufante.

The Cajun put his hand to his brow and squinted. “Ain’t no one on her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m going to have a look,” TJ said, cutting the wheel toward the drifting boat. “Hand me those binoculars.”

“What about Alicia?” Trufante asked, grabbing the glasses from the compartment running over their heads.

“This’ll just take a minute. Go on down and grab the boat hook. I’ll take you to seaward and let ’er drift in,” TJ said, adjusting the course to move parallel and windward of the boat. Before he approached, he scanned the drifting vessel with the binoculars, not seeing anything except the logo for what looked like a turtle hospital on the bow. He dropped speed and started to come alongside, gently correcting his course as the boats moved together. “Now,” he yelled to the deck.

Trufante was on the port gunwale. Leaning over, he extended his lanky frame over the side, using his long arms to reach for the drifting boat. The hook grabbed its bow rail, and he pulled the boat toward him. With one hand on the bow rail of the drifting boat, he took the dock line in his other hand and slung it over the rail. Quickly, before the boats could move apart, he released the boat and pulled the loop on the line toward him, threading the end through it. When it was snug, he tied it around the midship cleat. “There you go, cowboy,” he called up to TJ. The two boats were secured together.

TJ climbed down the ladder, tossing two fenders over the side. He went past the women, who were deep in conversation about something he didn’t quite catch, and went to the line. “Come on.”

Together they pulled the line in and brought the boat alongside. When it was secure, Trufante hopped gingerly between the boats, landing on the open bow of the center-console. He looked around and went to the helm.

“Blood,” he called to TJ.

“Where?”

Trufante held up a T-shirt, its original white, now a deep crimson.

“That’s the guy from Hawk’s boat,” TJ called back. “Hey, Pamela, do you remember what that guy was wearing?”

She left Cheqea and came to his side. “Yup, fashion first,” she said.

“How far’s this turtle hospital?” TJ asked.

“Just ’round the bend on the other side,” Trufante said.

“Can you start it?” TJ asked.

Trufante went to the helm and shook his head. “No keys.”

TJ went to a storage locker and pulled several lines out. “I’m going to make a bridle. Tie it off to both bow cleats.” He started tying lines together and handed the loop to Trufante, then went to the transom of the sportfisher and secured the ends to the port and starboard cleats.

“Come on back,” he said, climbing back to the bridge. He waited until Trufante was back aboard before pushing the throttle gently forward. Slowly he turned into the waves to gain control of the other boat. The line came tight, and he accelerated slowly, trying to find the sweet spot where the sportfisher could pull its tow efficiently.

Trufante climbed back to the bridge. “Change of plans?”

“It’s better than running blind out there, looking for a needle in a haystack. They could be in the Bahamas by now.” The following sea made the procedure difficult, with the different-size boats accelerating at different speeds as they surfed down the backs of the three-foot waves. They had several close calls where the smaller boat almost reached the transom of the sportfisher, but TJ fell into the rhythm and manipulated the controls, keeping the boats apart. The boats were running well together now, keeping the same speed.

They reached the Seven Mile Bridge, crossed underneath, and entered the channel on the Gulf side. Trufante pointed to the chart plotter. “You can take her through here. Plenty of water, just watch out for the bank out there.” He pointed to an area just to the north of the bridge.

The water was calmer on this side, and TJ pushed the throttle down, gaining a little speed. In fifteen minutes, they found the cove where the hospital was located.

“You know this place?” TJ asked Trufante, looking for information about the small cove.

“Knew a girl that used to work here,” he said.

TJ just shook his head and started slowly into the cove. Once inside, he docked the boat alongside a narrow dock and hopped down to the deck.

“Turtles,” Cheqea said like a little girl. “Come on, Bama, let’s check ’em out.”

The two women were on the dock, heading toward the large black tanks.

“Best if I wait here,” Trufante said. “Not sure if that girl is still here or not.”

TJ shook his head again and walked to the office. Inside he went to the counter and asked for the manager. A few minutes later, a woman came out, and he pointed to where they had docked the boat.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Not a problem, but I’m thinking something went on here last night,” TJ said gently. “Is there anyone I can talk to?”

“We talked to the sheriff already,” she said.

“Just a few questions,” TJ pleaded.

The woman thought for a second. “Okay. One of our doctors can help you,” she said, walking through a door.

TJ looked around the shop while he waited, paying special attention to a metal cutout of two turtles on the wall, thinking it might make a nice gift for Alicia.

The manager came back with another woman. “This is Jen. She can help you.”

“Do you know who the man was that took the boat?” TJ asked, after taking her to a quiet corner.

“Mean guy. Had a big gash on his side that I stitched up. He took some drugs and ran out of here. The next thing we knew, the boat was gone.”

His head fell at the dead end.

“But, I put a chip in him,” she said.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“I think I have it,” Alicia said.

Mac was leaning against the wall in the hold, nodding off. “What?” he asked, trying to gather himself. Fighting through the headache and grogginess, he listened.

“The coin is Spanish and dates back to the late sixteen hundreds.”

“That leaves a lot of ships,” he said.

“Not as bad as it sounds,” she said. “Once a year the Spanish put together a flotilla to bring the riches of the Americas back to Spain. The convoys were well armed, often numbering into the twenties, to avoid privateers and pirates. There are records of individual ships being lost during the years after the coin was minted, but the 1715 and 1733 fleets both sank near here.”

“It’s not from either of those groups,” Mac said, moving towards her. “Those wrecks are too well documented. I think we’re looking for one of those single ships, either lost at sea or sunk in a battle.”

“I disagree. From everything that I’ve read, they would never send a solo ship. It’s more likely it was attached to one of the other flotillas at the last minute and not documented.”

Mac thought about what she said. “You might be right.”

“So, should I put together a trail of evidence from one of those fleets?” she asked.

“The 1715 was the most famous. Let’s steer him toward the 1733 flotilla.”

“You sure?” she asked.

“Look at it this way. If it’s either of those, the date and time are well known. That should keep him happy and narrow down the search area significantly,” he said. “Just hope Trufante gets here before he finds out we don’t know anything.”

“Got it.” She started typing.

Mac looked around the hold, trying to think if there was any way out or anything to use as a weapon. Alicia was working on the laptop, which in itself could knock a man unconscious, but it might also damage the computer in the process. Besides that, there was only the chart, the pad of paper and pencil. He remembered a movie where the hero had used common objects like these to make weapons and pulled them towards him.

Pulling a page off the pad, he experimented with different methods of creating a weapon from the paper. The pencil could do some damage, but he would have to be in close quarters. He put both items down, not getting the results he was after.