Fallen Hunter (Jesse McDermitt Series) (10 page)

“Stand up,” I said. “Put your back against the wheel and your hands on the throttles.”

She did as I said and I told her to use her left hand and put the starboard engine in reverse. The
Revenge
started backwards, pulling the bow away from the dock and I told her to do the same with her right hand, putting the port engine in reverse. We slowly started backing straight away then and I told her to put the starboard engine in forward and use her back to nudge the wheel to her right. Slowly, the
Revenge
began spinning, pointing her bow toward open water.

“Nice maneuvering,” I said. “Now have a seat and take us home.”

She sat down at the helm and asked, “Was it an important message?”

“No,” I lied. “Just confirmation of what time I have to leave in the morning. Now, in a narrow channel like this, you have to go nice and slow. Use the engines and the wheel to steer. You ever drive a tracked vehicle, like a bulldozer, back on the farm?”

“Yeah,” she said. “As a matter of fact, I have.”

“Same principle. Use the throttles like you would the track controls on a dozer.”

I saw her face light up, as it came to her. “The propellers are like the tracks. Stop one and the other will drive forward and turn.”

“Beautiful and intelligent,” I said with a laugh. “I think I'm in trouble.”

She took the
Revenge
through the narrow channels going clockwise around the two islands, using only the throttles, like she was born to it. Then pointing the bow due south, she nudged both throttles just a little and the big boat responded. Once we cleared the outer channel marker, I turned on the radar, sonar, UHF and GPS, then punched in the saved destination for the marina.

“Always check the radar and sonar before lifting the boat up on plane,” I said. “Remember, we're as tall as a house and speed is deceiving. You want to make sure you have at least ten feet of water under the keel and nothing out in front of you for a ways.”

She looked over the digital display and said, “It says we only have two feet of water under us.”

“The sonar reads in fathoms,” I said. “One fathom is six feet, so we have plenty of depth.”

“Oh geez,” she said. “Port, starboard, helm, fathom. Why do you have to speak a foreign language?”

I opened a beer and nearly doubled over, laughing so hard. When I got control, I said, “It'll all come to you. In time.”

“What's that red thing on the radar?” she asked.

“It's big, so it's probably a container ship. Looks to be heading toward the Mississippi River and it's about ten miles away.”

“So, we're good to go?”

“Saturday night, rock and roll,” I said.

“Well, it's Sunday afternoon,” she said, smiling. “But I'm guessing that's more Marine talk and it means something like 'hammer down'?”

“Hammer down, babe!”

She shoved the throttles about half way and the
Revenge
dropped down at the stern, the bow rising and the bridge tilting back. Then as she gathered speed, the bow came back down and she lifted up on plane.

“Holy shit!” she said. “Can I do that again?”

“Sure, why not,” I replied. “Just ease the throttles back, you don't want to come down off plane too fast, or the wake will swamp the cockpit.”

She eased the throttles back and the boat settled back into the water. Then she pushed them forward again, lifting the eighteen ton boat back up on plane.

“That's such a cool feeling,” she said, with an ear-to-ear grin on her face.

She looked over at me and I said, “I do believe the worm has turned.”

She piloted the
Revenge
all the way back to the marina, but asked me to 'park it', when we got to the docks.

“I don't want to hit anything,” she said.

I backed the boat into the slip and had her sit at the helm, in case it needed a slight move, while I climbed down and made her fast. She shut down the engines and I joined her on the bridge, to watch the sun go down. We talked for nearly an hour, as the moon started to peek above the horizon to the east. I'd really enjoyed her company and I felt she had enjoyed being with me, too.

As if reading my mind, she said, “I'm glad you asked me out, today. All these years, I never realized what I was missing, out there. I can't wait until next weekend.”

She left a little while later, kissing me deeply on the dock, before getting on her bike and riding away toward town. I went into the salon to call Doc. I had a feeling he wasn't going to like playing pirate. And I was right.

As usual, I was up before dawn, the sound of the coffee maker and the fresh smell of Columbia's finest product filling the salon, just beyond the stateroom hatch. I turned on the light in the salon and poured a cup. I took it up to the bridge and sat down, watching the stars.

Last night, I'd called Doc and gave him the news that we were going to join Santiago in smuggling pot into Key West. At first, he thought I'd lost my mind and wanted no part of it. I explained that the problem went far beyond Trent and his crew. Santiago had his claws in dozens of people all over town. I said that rather than get Trent off the hook, I was planning to get Santiago out of everyone's hair. When he asked how I planned to do that, I just told him he'd have to trust me.

Doc had said that they planned to get underway about 0900, to make it out to the New Ground by mid-afternoon. That would allow the crew to get some sleep before starting the trawl, just after dark. He gave me the name of the boat and I told him that I'd arrive there about 0830. I said that he should act pissed because Trent was late, then concerned when I tell him about his 'accident'. After I finished talking to him, I called Lawrence and asked if he could pick me up at 0800 at the marina. That gave me two hours.

My phone chirped, sitting inside the small storage cabinet next to the helm. I looked at it, but didn't recognize the number. I usually don't, but I answered it anyway, saying, “McDermitt.”

“You're sitting on the bridge in your skivvies,” I heard a woman's voice say. Then I realized it was Tina.

“Hi, Tina,” I said, looking out toward the gate. “You're up early.”

“I like to run early on the mornings after a night off,” she said. “I just wanted to call and thank you again for letting me drive your boat.”

“Pilot,” I said, grinning. “You drive a car, you pilot a boat. And you're welcome. I had a good time, too.”

“I'll never get the lingo down,” she said laughing.

“You will if you hang around boat bums a lot,” I said.

“I think I'd like that a lot,” she said.

“Where do you run?” I asked. “I can't run much, living on a tiny island, but I try to swim at least two miles every other day.”

“That's a long swim. I run through Old Town, a long loop that takes me to the south side of the island, along the water. About four or five miles.”

“Do you always have Sunday's off?” I asked.

“Sunday's and Monday's,” she said. “Sometimes, I change shifts with one of the other bartenders, to get a weekend night off.”

“Think you could do that and have Friday off?”

“Probably,” she replied. “What did you have in mind?”

“I have to make a run to the Content Keys Friday evening, to take some groceries to a friend. You're welcome to come along. Should be back by noon on Saturday.”

“Hmmm,” she said, teasing me.

“My boat has two staterooms,” I said.

“Okay, if you're sure.”

“Yeah, I want you to meet my dog.” Not my smoothest line, I thought. But, she laughed.

“Be careful out there today,” she said.

“I'll see you in a few days,” I said and ended the call.

I went below and filled a thermos, then put on a pair of work jeans and a long sleeve denim shirt. I grabbed my sea bag, with the fly rod case strapped to it and my thermos, then headed out to the gate, after locking the hatch.

I didn't have long to wait. Lawrence pulled up and checking my Submariner watch, he was right on time. I liked people that were punctual. It says something about a person.

He popped the release on the trunk, before he even stopped and the lid flew up. He was out the driver’s door and around the back of the cab, before I'd even taken a step.

“Mornin' sar,” he said.

“Lawrence, calling me sir is like a fishing pole, with no hook. It don't work. Would you please just call me Jesse?”

He grinned and said, “Ya mon, Mister Jesse, sar.”

Oh well, I thought. Some people you just can't change. “You know where
Miss Charlie's
docked?” I asked.

“Cap'n Trent's boat? Ya mon, I tek him der most mornin's. He usually der ver early, bout six.”

We got in and Lawrence pulled away from the marina, heading west on US-1, over the bridge and into Key West. He turned onto Palm and crossed over the causeway to Old Town, then a series of quick lefts and rights and stopped at the north end of Front Street, just past White Tarpon Liquor, again popping the trunk before coming to a complete stop.

Lawrence was at the back of the car and lifted my heavy sea bag and handed it to me. I gave him a twenty and asked if Santiago was still on the island.

“Ya mon,” he said. “He was at di Blue Parrot till ver late. A fren took he an two gulls to his hotel.”

“Thanks, Lawrence,” I said. “I'll see you in a few days.”

“Be careful, Cap'n.”

I threw the sea bag over my shoulder and walked the half block to the dock. A motorcycle roared by and I noticed it was Nikki, Doc’s girlfriend, driving it. Nice looking bike, I thought.

Several shrimp boats were active with men working, loading food, drinks, and ice aboard. I found the
Charlie
and saw Doc on the deck, directing the crew and seeming to be in a foul mood. A slight, dark haired man was leaning against a pier post, not far away. I caught Doc's eye as I reached the foot of the gangway.

“Permission to board?” I called up.

“Who the hell are you?” He yelled, causing the crew to stop what they were doing and look down.

“Captain McDermitt,” I said. “Captain Trent sent me. He's had an accident.”

The man leaning against the post turned suddenly from looking down to the end of the street and looked at me. Doc came down the gangway and I handed him my Master's papers, which he looked over.

Looking up, he said loud enough for the man at the post to hear, “What happened to the Captain?”

“His wife called me late last night,” I replied. “He was scuba diving and suffered an embolism yesterday. He's in the hyperbaric chamber in Key Largo. She said that he asked her to call me and see if I could fill in, so you guys don't have to miss any trawling time.”

“Is he okay?” Doc asked. “I'm Bob Talbot, First Mate.”

He handed my papers back and we shook hands. “Name's Jesse,” I said. “Jesse McDermitt. I run a fishing charter in Marathon and my boats being refitted. Guess that's why Carl had Charlie call me.”

“Welcome aboard, Captain,” he said. “We should be ready to be underway in half an hour. We're going out to New Ground.”

“No, we're not,” I said, surprising Doc. “We'll go on out to Rebecca Shoals, before bedding down.”

Doc looked up at the crew, who were all standing at the rail watching us. One crewman looked over at the man by the post, then back at me. Gotcha, I thought.

“You’re the Captain,” Doc said, then headed up the gangplank.

The man by the post started forward and said, “Excuse me, Captain.”

I turned to look at him. He was a small man, with dark hair and eyes. His face was pocked with old acne scars and his front teeth were crooked.

“Yes?” I asked.

“Did Captain Trent tell you that I would be here?” he asked. “I work for Carlos Santiago.”

“No,” I said and started to turn. He placed a hand on my shoulder and I stopped. I half turned and looked down at his hand, then into his eyes. “You have something against that hand?” I asked. “Cause if it ain't off my shoulder in half a heartbeat, I'll feed it to the sharks.”

The man yanked his hand back, like he'd touched a hot stove. “I work for Senor Santiago. As does Captain Trent. I'm here to give him the GPS coordinates for the pickup he, and now you, are to make.”

“Pick up what?” I asked.

“Trent picks up a small package every week, for Senor Santiago. Since you are el Capitan this week, the responsibility for this week’s pickup is now yours.”

“You're talking about drugs, aren't you?”

“Si,” he replied openly. “You will have to make Trent's pickup this week. If you do not, bad things might happen.”

I slowly set my sea bag on the dock at my feet. Then in a fast, fluid motion, I straightened, grabbed the man by the collar and lifted him up, so that his feet were dangling. I growled into his face, “How much?”

“Is only five hundred pounds, Senor,” he whined. “Please, put me down.”

“No!” I snarled. “Cuanto dinero, idiota.”

“Please, Senor, I am only the carrier. When you bring the package in on Friday, I will be waiting and give you five thousand dollars, for you and the crew.”

“I take all the risk?” I asked. “For only one percent of street value? Not likely, amigo. Call your boss and tell him if he wants this Capitan to be his gopher, the price is tripled.”

Then I shoved him backwards, picked up my sea bag and went aboard. Every set of eyes was on me. At the top of the gangplank, I turned to the man, now sitting on the dock and said, “We leave in thirty minutes, culo botin!”

I turned to Doc and said, “I'll be on the bridge, getting familiar with the boat. Where's my bunk?”

“Main deck, Captain,” he replied. “Aft the wheel house. We'll be ready to be underway shortly, sir.”

I left Doc and the crew standing there, went along the starboard side and through the wheel house to Trent's quarters. It was a tiny room by any standards, but functional and accessed only through the wheel house, I noticed. I dropped my sea bag on the bunk and went back into the wheel house, to familiarize myself with it. Trent had given me a pretty good run down on how the boat operated and where everything was, so this was mostly for show.

A few minutes later, Doc stuck his head in and said, “Are you sure, you're not a pirate? Drug runner, maybe?”

“How'd the crew react?” I asked.

“Mixed feelings,” he said. “Two are like me, they want nothing to do with drugs. The other four are excited that they'll get a bigger cut, with you on board.”

“Who was the bag man on the dock?” I asked.

“Goes by the name of Raphael. Don't know if that's his first or last name. He's a scary dude. Word on the street is, he's done some wet work for Santiago. You sure had him pissing his pants.”

“Think the word on the streets is accurate?”

“Some,” he said. “Probably pumped up a bit.”

I considered the possibility that I’d made a dangerous enemy, then discarded it. I’d made dangerous enemies before.

Changing the subject I asked, “Was that Nikki I saw leaving on a motorcycle?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “It’s an ‘03 Indian Chief.”

“I thought they went out of business before I was born,” I said.

“They did,” he said. “They reopened a few years ago and went bankrupt almost immediately. I got one of the few 100 cubic inch Chiefs built. I’ve been hearing rumors they’re going to start back up production soon.”

He turned at the sound of commotion on the dock, then said, “Oh shit. Santiago's already here and he don't look happy.”

“Go on out there,” I said. “Yell when he wants to talk to me.”

Doc went back to the work deck and a minute later I heard him yell, “Captain! Someone wants to see you.”

I went to the cabin, retrieved my Sig from the sea bag and put it down the back of my pants, pulling my shirt over it. Then I walked out of the pilot house and menacingly moved across the port side, toward Santiago.

“Talbot!” I said authoritatively. “Did you give this 'visitor' permission to board my vessel?”

Doc turned to me, bewildered. “Um, no sir.”

“Mister,” I said as I strode across the deck toward Santiago. “I don't know who the hell you think you are, but boarding a vessel without the Captains permission could get you turned into shark chum.”

“My name is Carlos Santiago,” he said with the arrogant air of someone used to people cringing at the mere mention of his name. “And this is not your boat to be giving anyone permission to board.”

“Santiago, huh,” I said. “I was hired to skipper this vessel. That makes everything on it, and in it, mine until I relinquish command back to the owner.” Then I lowered my voice and hissed, “Are you the weasel that's been paying shit wages to Trent to smuggle dope?”

He looked up at me, perplexed first, then angry. He looked over at Doc and started to reach into his jacket pocket, probably for a handkerchief or maybe a smoke, but I moved faster. I reached back, pulled the Sig and had it under his chin in a flash.

“I asked you a question, senor,” I hissed. “Es usted el jefe, o no?”

“I'm the man that can make you rich,” he said defiantly. “Or arrange to have your wife disappear,” he added, noting the ring still on my finger.

“Eres demasiado tarde, senor,” I growled. “Some other punk murdered her four months ago. So, here's the deal. You got nothing to threaten me with. I got no family. I don't know, nor care about one single man aboard this boat and if you have me killed, you'd be doing me a favor. Now, since I'm the one holding a 9 mm under your chin at the moment, maybe you'd like to talk about that first option. Making me rich.”