Fallen Hunter (Jesse McDermitt Series) (3 page)

“Just go out to the road out front and turn left. It's probably the trailer park just around the bend, on the left.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Keep an eye on my boat for me, will ya.”

“Sure, mister,” he said. “No problem.”

“Oh, one other thing. You know of a hotel that allows pets?”

“Probably a few across the bridge, in Key West,” he said. “None here on Stock Island. Closest would probably be the Double Tree by the airport. I know they allow pets, for certain.”

I thanked him and walked toward the front of the marina, with Pescador trotting along, sniffing at everything along the way. I went around the bend in the road and just like the kid said, there was a trailer park on the left. One on the right too, and more just up the road. There was a fence around this one and the trailers looked a bit more upscale. I came to a gate, where a road had once been, that had a sign hung slightly crooked that said it was for residents and guests only. There was an old lady sitting on her porch, just the other side of it.

“Excuse me, ma'am,” I said. “Is this Harbor Boulevard?”

“Yep,” she replied. “Who ya lookin' for?”

“Carl Trent,” I said.

“Friend a his?”

“Yes ma'am,” I replied. “From Big Pine.”

“Third trailer down past mine,” she said. “You can lift that latch there and come through the gate, if ya want.”

I guess she was the neighborhood watch captain. “Thanks, ma'am,” I said, lifting the latch.

Trouble on the Water

I walked through the gate, closed it behind me and walked down the road until I found the address. It was a large double wide trailer, with an enclosed porch that ran around both sides and the front. I walked up the sidewalk and pushed the button beside the door. Hearing nothing, I tapped on the aluminum frame of the door. A woman about mid-thirties opened the inner door and a blast of cold air came out the opening. Country music was playing low inside the house and a little boy was hiding behind her leg.

“Is Carl home?” I asked.

She eyed me up and down and said, “Who are you?”

“Name's Jesse McDermitt. I'm a friend of Angie's.”

She turned away from the door and I could hear her say something, but couldn't make out what it was. Then Carl came to the door. I could see in his eyes that he recognized me.

“Hey Carl,” I said. “Angie asked me to stop by. She said maybe I could give you a hand with something.”

“I know who you are, Jesse. Come on in. Fool girl called last night and said you might be down here.”

He opened the door and I turned to Pescador and said, “Find some shade.” He walked over to a bougainvillea and sat down under it, facing the road.

“He'll run off, if he ain't tied,” Trent said.

“Never has before. We could drink this whole six-pack,” I said, lifting the Hatuey's, “and he'll be sitting just like that, two hours from now.”

“Takes you two hours to drink three beers?” he said, with a chuckle.

I walked inside and the woman turned and headed into the kitchen. She came back with two glasses, took the six pack from my hands and poured the glasses full, then went back into the kitchen, with the beer.

“Have a seat, Jesse,” Trent said. “What's on your mind?”

I sat down on an overstuffed couch and he sat in an equally overstuffed recliner. The place was nice, lots of comfortable looking furniture, clean and orderly.

“Angie and Jimmy came up to my house yesterday. They told me about the trouble you're in.” I figured that straight ahead approach would be the best route and just let him think on it. He did, his eyes never wavering from mine. He wasn't a big man, maybe five feet nine, or ten and 180 pounds. He looked hard as granite, with a dark, lined face and hands and his hair bleached from the sun. I'd guess him to be close to my own age, but he looked older.

“Wasn't her call to involve you, or Jimmy for that matter.”

I kept my eyes on his and said, “A man's gotta do what has to be done to take care of his family. Whatever it is.”

“Yeah, you're right about that. But, what I did was too risky and now I can't get out of it.”

“That sort, you just can't reason with,” I said. “They've lost their souls.”

He sighed then and looked down at the floor, at his feet. I could almost feel his dejection. After a minute, he looked up and said, “Truth is, I just don't know what to do, or where to turn. Been a shrimper all my life, my dad before me. His dad was a long liner. Business took a down turn a couple years back and I been losing money since.”

“Who's the one making the threats?” I asked.

“Man name of Carlos Santiago. He's from up in Miami, one of the Mariel people. Was just a kid when he came over, I guess. About thirty-five years old now and goes back down to Cuba on a regular basis. At least, this is what I hear. I also hear, his dad was one of the one's Castro turned loose from the prisons. Bad people, man. Real bad. But I didn't know that, the first couple times I ran for him.”

“I know, Carl. People up in Marathon speak highly of you.”

“Thanks, I hear the same about you.” He took a long pull from his beer and set it down on the table between us. “I just don't know how you can help, man.”

I thought about it for a minute. Usually I break things down by just following a course in my mind and predict the outcome. When one course breaks down, I back up and try another. Putting my thoughts into words this way, is something I've never done before.

“Okay,” I said, “let's just run it down. What'd he say when you told him you wanted out?”

“Said that if I didn't keep hauling for him, I'd come home one day and find my house burned down and my family dead.”

“Well, that's not an option,” I said. “What do you think he'd say if your boat broke down, or you sold it?”

“Not an option either, man,” Trent said. “I'm a shrimper, nothing else. Can't sell it and if it breaks down, I gotta fix it. This whole thing's making me sick.”

“There's an idea,” I said. “What would he do, if you got sick? Like, real sick?”

“One of my crew's in his pocket,” he said. “They'd go out anyway.”

“Not without a licensed Captain,” I said. “Any of your crew got papers?”

“No,” he said. “Santiago'd put his own Skipper on board.”

“Not if you hired one,” I said. “What do you think he'd do about that?”

“Not sure. What you getting at?

“Hire me, Carl. Let me run your boat and I'll find an angle. Take your wife and kids up to my island for a week or two. Let's see what happens.”

“You have papers?” he asked.

“One hundred ton Masters,” I said. “I've never actually skippered a shrimp boat, but I run my own offshore fishing charter. The crewman that's in Santiago's pocket? It's not your Mate is it?”

“No, my Mate's a solid young man. He wants out of this too. Said he was gonna quit me if I couldn't find a way out.”

“Perfect,” I said. “A good Mate can run the boat by himself. Only the Skipper needs to be licensed, right?”

“Right. Bob, my Mate, does have a First Mate's license, though.”

“I'd like to meet him,” I said.

“He lives just around the corner, I can call him. Why do you want to get involved in my mess, Jesse?”

“Guess I just don't like it when an honest guy gets bullied,” I replied. “Yeah, give Bob a call. See if he's got a few minutes.”

Trent made the call. While he talked I asked myself the same question. Why was I getting involved? Angie's a friend, but I barely knew her. Jimmy's a good friend, but Trent's two steps away from me, there. I really don't like bullies, is that all it is? Or was it just to occupy myself, to keep from thinking about Alex, since I'd finished the work on the island?

Trent finished his call and said, “He'll be over in a few minutes. That's it, then? You don't like seeing people bullied?”

“That's not just it,” I said. “To be honest, I'm not sure. Four months ago, my wife was murdered by some bad people.” I just blurted it out, like that must be the reason.

“I'd heard about that,” he said. “Couldn't imagine what it musta been like for you.”

The front door opened and a young man walked in. He was almost my height, but slimmer than my 230 pounds. He had sandy colored hair down past his ears, a deep tan except around his eyes, where he obviously wore sunglasses. He was dressed like a waterman, jeans, tee-shirt and worn topsiders.

Trent and I both stood up and Trent said, “Jesse, this is my First Mate, Bob Talbot. Bob, Jesse McDermitt, from up in Marathon.” I shook his hand and noticed the tattoo on his arm of a winged staff, called a caduceus, entwined with two snakes, the emblem of the Navy Corpsman. He had a firm, dry grip and clear green eyes that held mine steady.

“Good to meet you, Jesse,” he said.

“You too, Doc,” I responded.

He started to say something to Trent, then stopped and looked back at me, more appraisingly. Then his eyes found the Recon tattoo and he looked up and smiled. “Force Recon, huh?”

I nodded and he added, “Served with some Jarheads, both artillery and infantry, 4/10 my first year, then 1/9.” First Battalion, Ninth Marines had a long, storied history in the Corps. They earned the nickname Walking Dead in Vietnam, but he was way too young for that. I knew that Tenth Marines was an artillery regiment, based at Camp Lejeune, also.

“Walking Dead?” I asked.

“Yeah, they were reactivated a few years back. Afghanistan.”

Trent looked from one of us to the other and said, “You guys know each other?”

“No,” I said laughing. “But we definitely chewed some of the same sand.”

“So,” Doc said, “what's this about you wanting to help us out?”

So, I told both men a little about my background for starters, both in the Corps and since then. We discussed a lot of options, finishing off the rest of the Hatuey's I'd brought. Although Trent didn't like the idea of hiding out, Doc and I convinced him that for the safety of his family, it would be the best thing to do. I told him about my island and that they'd have plenty of room and the use of my skiff and the Grady. He decided that maybe his family could use a short fishing vacation, away from the rat race.

They were due to go back out in two days and Santiago had a pickup arranged in the Gulf, on their second day out, before returning with their catch. That gave us plenty of time for Trent to get things together. Then I'd ferry them out to my island.

After two more hours, we had a pretty good working plan. Everything would go as usual, until I showed up at the docks instead of Trent. Bob wo
uld act surprised and concerned when I told him that Trent had hired me to Skipper, while he's undergoing hyperbaric treatment at the hospital in Key Largo, suffering from an embolism and decompression sickness, caused by a scuba diving accident.

“What if Santiago has someone check the hospital?” Bob said as the three of us walked outside.

“I'll call in a favor,” I said. “If anyone checks, there will be a patient there by the name of Carl Trent. In the chamber, with no access to a phone.”

“That's some favor,” Trent said. Then, seeing Pescador still sitting in the same spot, although no longer in the shade, he said, “I'll be damned. Your dog hasn't even moved.”

Pescador looked back at me, expectantly. I nodded at him and he stood, walked over to the bougainvillea and relieved himself, then came over and sat down at my feet.

“You did a hell of a job, training that dog,” Trent said. “Must be a hundred cats roaming around here. I thought sure he woulda took off chasing one and got lost. What kinda dog is he?”

“He's a Portuguese water dog, or so I'm told. I didn't train him, though. Found him on a deserted island near my house, the day after Hurricane Wilma blew through. Tried to find his owner for a month, with no luck. So, he's just sort of adopted me.”

We shook hands all around and agreed that I'd pick Trent and his family up at noon tomorrow. On the return, I was going to bring the
Revenge
down, in case I needed a place to stay. Since it didn't make sense to go home and come back again, I asked Doc if he could give me a lift to the Double Tree, just across the bridge in Key West.

“Pretty expensive place,” he said.

“Yeah, but they allow pets,” I said.

“Sure,” he said. “I'll give you a ride.”

We left Trent and walked around the block to Doc's house. As we walked, I asked Doc more about the crewman that was in the drug smugglers pocket.

“His name's John Lupori,” he said. “He's from New York. I think he was connected up there.”

“Connected?”

“He's dropped hints from time to time that he was a bag man and ran numbers for the Mob.”

“Have you met Santiago?”

“Once,” he replied. “Cold dude. Dead looking eyes, like a shark. Either him or one of his men shows up at the dock, just before we sail, to give the Skipper the GPS coordinates, and name of the boat, for the pickup.”

“Don't let the crew know anything about me taking over for Trent. I'll show up at the boat an hour before we sail. You'll be pissed because Trent's late. Act surprised and concerned when I tell you about the accident. We'll make out like he was just sent up to Key Largo that morning and called me, while he was on the way. And remember, semper Gumby.”

“Always flexible, got it,” he said. “Haven't heard that phrase in a while. This is my place. Let me tell my girlfriend I'm giving you a lift. Wanna come in? She's a Jarhead, too.”

“Sure,” I said. “Wait here, Pescador.”

“Is that Spanish?” he asked.

“Yeah, it means fisherman. When I found him, he'd just caught a three pound snapper.”

“No shit?” he said, as he opened the door to the trailer. “Hey babe, I'm back,” he called into the kitchen. A woman walked into the living room and he said, “This is Jesse, I'm gonna give him a lift over to Key West. He's a Marine, like you.”

“Pleased to meet you, Jesse,” she said. “I'm Nicole Godsey, my friends call me Nikki.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” I said as I shook her hand. She was a pretty girl. Nearly as tall as Doc, with shoulder length black hair, tattoos, dark eyes and eyeglasses.

“So, you're a Marine, huh?” she asked.

“Retired in 1999,” I said. “Force Recon.”

“Bob and I met in the Corps. I was in the Regimental S-4 office, Ninth Marines and he was the Corpsman for Weapons Company, 1/9.”

“Was Matt Andrews still the Regimental Sergeant Major, when you were there?” I asked.

“Yes! You knew him?”