Fallen Palm (Jesse McDermitt Series) (8 page)

“Who?”

“Russell, I’m not crazy about a nickname like Deuce.”

“Um, Julie, Rusty is your dad’s nickname. You don’t have a problem with everyone calling him that, do you?” I asked. “Deuce, I mean Russell, is a good enough guy. What do you think, Alex?”

“He sort of reminds me of what you must have been like a lifetime ago. Very serious,” she replied.

“Look, Jules,” I said, “I can see you like the guy and he’s a decent person, that’s for sure. But you’re not likely to see a lot of him.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” she said, smiling.

I just left it at that, hoping she was right and wouldn’t get hurt. We pulled into Dockside and it was a mess. Several of the boats that lay at anchor in the harbor had broken loose and were crashed against the shoreline all around the bay.

“Oh my,” Alex said, pointing to where the
Revenge
had been docked yesterday. A thirty-foot catamaran had crashed into the docks and the left side of the dock was now halfway through the cabin. “I’m so glad you moved your boat,” she added. We idled on down to the launch ramp, which was thankfully cleared. Dozens of people were busy everywhere, cleaning up what they could. That’s the thing about a storm like that. It brought out the best in people.

Monday afternoon, October 24, 2005

We backed the skiff down the ramp into the water and told Julie we’d be back tomorrow with the skiff, then boarded the little boat. I noticed that Alex’s overnight bag, a suitcase and two rod cases were already aboard. I started the big Johnson outboard and it settled quickly into a low burbling. Backing away from the ramp, Alex said, “I sure hope nothing’s sunk in the channel.”

“Yeah, me too.”

We idled along, following the channel along the docks, amazed at all the damage that had been done here. “You think your house is alright?” she asked.

“That’s something I’m certain of. The island might be a mess, but the house will be fine.”

I passed Sister Creek and turned right toward the bridge and open water. Once we were clear of the old bridge, I could see that the water outside was nearly as calm as usual and opened the big motor up as we crossed under the Seven Mile Bridge. I was anxious to show Alex the house, so I steered a rhumb line, straight across Florida Bay, toward Johnson Keys and the Spanish Banks. After we were several miles out Alex said, “Out here on the water, you’d never know a major hurricane had just passed through. You have no idea how much I’ve missed being on the water.” She stood up next to the helm then, and spread her arms wide above her head, her blonde hair flying in the wind. She let out a loud yell. I admired her love for the open water, it was the one thing I knew we’d always have in common. Ten minutes later, we rounded Little Spanish Key and the small island just to its north and turned due west, to cut between Big Spanish Key and Cutoe Key. The water here is usually very skinny, but the tide was high, so I knew we had at least eighteen inches under the keel. More than enough for Rusty’s skiff.

“What’s that,” Alex said, pointing toward the small island on our left.

I turned and at first didn’t see anything. Alex, being a flats guide had a much more attuned ability to read the water. Then I saw what looked like a coconut just off the tip of the island. The coconut suddenly lifted from the water and splashed. What the hell? Alex was already unhooking the pole from under the gunwale and said, “Turn that way, it’s a dog!”

I turned toward the island and slowly backed down on the throttle. When I reached idle speed, Alex stepped back to the poling platform and I shut down and raised the engine. She poled us closer and sure enough, there was a dog in the water. It kept jumping and going under, as if it was in trouble. Then suddenly, it came up, with a good-sized snapper firmly in its jaws. “Well, I’ll be damned,” I said. “A fishing dog?”

Alex poled closer. The dog hadn’t noticed us yet. It was too wrapped up in catching the fish. It turned and headed back to the little island, which really wasn’t anything more than a sand bar, with a couple of palm trees on it. About twenty yards from shore, we grounded. I stepped out as Alex put the pole on the deck and joined me. Together we hauled the skiff a little higher onto the sand bar and walked in ankle deep water after the dog. Our sloshing must have alerted it. It turned toward us, the snapper still in its mouth, flopping to get free. The dog’s ears came up and it started wagging its thick tail.

“He’s some kind of Labrador retriever mix, I think,” Alex said, walking toward the large dog. “How’d you get out here, boy?” she asked the dog. “You think he was washed away from wherever he lived, during the storm?” she asked me.

“Could be,” I answered. “But, there’s not a house or a soul for five miles out here.” The dog looked expectantly at me. “Here boy,” I said. The dog trotted straight to me, with the fish still in his mouth. He stopped directly in front of me and sat down, right in the water, his large tail stirring the sandy bottom. I reached my hand out and the dog dropped the fish right in my hand. “Unbelievable,” was all I could say.

“I think you’ve made a new friend, Captain Canine,” she said, laughing.

The dog looked over at her, then back up to me. He wasn’t wearing a collar, or anything to identify him. He was a large dog, probably over sixty pounds, with a face shaped like a lab. His salty black coat was coarse and stringy, the hair on top of his head was matted, and curling up, making him look like one of those Gremlins from the movie. “We can’t leave him here, Jesse,” Alex said.

“No, I don’t suppose we can. Let’s try to get him into the skiff. We can take him back to Marathon with us tomorrow. Maybe the vet there can scan him for a microchip, or something. I don’t think he’s a wild stray. He seems pretty well trained. Want to go for a boat ride, boy?” With that, he sprang up and went straight to the skiff in about four big leaps. “Unbelievable,” I said again. He stood waiting by the side of the boat, as we waked back.

When we were both standing beside the skiff, Alex said, “Get in, boy.” The dog just glanced at her, and then looked back up at me.

“Do what the lady says, dog. Get in,” I said. The dog instantly leaped into the boat, went straight up to the bow, and sat, looking forward. “Unbelievable,” I said for the third time.

“Well, he’s certainly a man’s dog, wherever he came from,” Alex laughed.

We pushed the skiff back out a few feet, to where it floated and turned it toward deeper water. Alex climbed in and I pushed it deeper, until the water reached the middle of my shin and then climbed in. Alex took her position on the poling platform. She poled us out until the water was deep enough to lower the engine, then came forward and stored the pole in its place under the gunwale. I lowered the engine and started it up. The dog remained in the bow of the skiff and only looked back once, when I started the engine. I slowly idled out away from the island into deeper water and then gradually increased the throttle until the skiff lifted up on plane. I turned toward my island home and opened up the throttle once more. A few minutes later, we crossed the cut, where I sometimes catch big snook, turned into my channel and I slowed the engine to idle speed. I was right. The island was a mess. The palm trees were frayed and a lot of the scrub was completely washed away, including the several large piles I’d made. But, the house looked to be completely unscathed.

“It’s beautiful, Jesse. Just like I’d imagined it,” she said, turning to me, her face beaming. “It sits pretty high off the water, though.”

“I built it with the intent of bringing the
Revenge
up here and docking her underneath,” I said. “Jimmy and I are going to use Rusty’s barge and loader to dig the channel enough to get her through.” I turned into the side channel and backed the skiff up under the house, to the dock.

“Oh my God,” she said, looking around worriedly. “Where’s your Maverick?”

“Up there,” I said, pointing to the boxed in area on the other side of the docks. “We’ll lower her later, I want you to see the house.”

She looked up, puzzled. Then noting the boxed in area with the corrugated steel on the underside and the two lifts at either end, she said, “Very ingenious, Captain Improviser.”

“One of the motto’s of the Corps,” I said. “Improvise, adapt, overcome.” I tied off the skiff and together we grabbed the bags and started toward the steps leading up to the house. The dog was still sitting patiently in the bow of the skiff. “Come on,” I said and the dog jumped over the gunwale and onto the dock. He trotted past us and up the steps to the deck, where he barked once and sat down, looking out over the island. “Hmm, what do you make of that?” I asked.

“Almost like he thinks this is his home, huh?” she said.

The dog sat there looking out at the rest of the island, and then looked up at me. “You want to explore, don’t you,” I said. “Go ahead, then.” He was off like a shot, leaping down the back stairs to the sand and off toward the underbrush. I experimented and yelled, “Stop!” The dog immediately stopped in the sand and looked back at me.

“Amazing,” Alex said. “He’s obviously very well trained.

“Go ahead,” I called out to the dog and he was off again, nose to the ground, running back and forth across the newly cleared patch of the island, toward the brush on the far side. “Unbelievable,” I said for the fourth time. I unlocked the door and opened it for Alex to step inside, sitting the bags down on the deck by the door.

Alex walked into the galley/living room and looked all around. Then she walked over to the kitchen area, running her fingers along the smooth mahogany countertop. She turned and walked across to the small radio on the shelf, turning it on. Smooth jazz resonated off the dense wood walls. She turned completely around in the middle of the living room, noting the heavy oak furnishings and comfortable looking couch and recliner and said, “I approve, Captain Hermit.” Then she walked slowly and seductively toward me. She wrapped her arms around my neck, lifted her face to mine, and kissed me deeply, slowly grinding her pelvis into my own. Then she let go and turned around again saying, “But it’s kind of dark in here for mid afternoon.”

“Tell ya what,” I said, “If you’ll put the bags away, I’ll get the storm shutters off the windows. Then we can relax before supper.”

“What’s on the menu?” She asked.

Lifting the fish the dog had caught, I said, “Snapper, fried light.” She started laughing loudly, holding her stomach. She finally got control and said, “Give me that. Where’s the cleaning board?”

“Down by the docks, on the right,” I replied. “But, you don’t have to do that.” I should have known better, with a woman like Alex.

“What?” she said, “You think I’m some kind of squeamish city girl, that can’t clean a fish?” She started laughing again and headed out the door.

It only took me a half-hour to get the storm shutters off and stored away. I started with the kitchen window and worked my way around the house, stacking three at a time, before carrying them down to the storage locker below. By the time I was finished, I could smell garlic and onions, mixed with the wonderful aroma of fresh snapper, fried light.

The sun was getting lower in the sky, painting the wispy clouds with pastel pink, orange and red hues as we sat down on the deck to eat. She’d found her way around my little kitchen pretty well, it seemed. Along with the snapper, we had fried plantains, potatoes, and fresh biscuits, with a bottle of French merlot.

Putting down her wineglass, she looked at me and smiled, saying, “It’s beautiful out here. How’d you ever find this place to start with?”

“Well,” I replied, “I was at the courthouse down in Key West, getting the
Revenge
registered. There was bunch of flyers in a little display thing on the counter there, saying, ‘Own Your Own Island’. I picked one up and was idly looking it over, while I waited. The county was selling several of the smaller islands around here, the idea that they’d be used for fishing camps. When the clerk finished up with my title transfer and registration, I asked her about it. She said there hadn’t been a lot of interest, due to the remoteness of the islands available for sale. I asked about selling prices and she said it depended on the size and location. I showed her the map on the flyer, pointed to the Content Keys, and asked about one of the smaller islands here. She had me wait while she went to get the County Clerk. He told me that there were several islands available here, about $15,000 an acre and asked if I was interested. Long story short, I went to his office and made a deal on this island for $25,000 and got the septic and channel permits thrown in, with a five year construction clause.”

“Well, I love it here. Did you get someone to build it?

“Nope, did everything myself. Well, except the septic system and the concrete piers. That cost more than the island.”

“What do you do for water?”

“There’s a rain water cistern on the other side of the house, up on the roof. There’s a cold-water shower right under it, plus a hot water shower in the head. It only holds two thousand gallons, though and the propane water heater’s only twenty gallons, so I have to be conservative, especially in the dry season. That’s one of the main reasons I want to bring the
Revenge
up. It has a desalinization system on board.”

Just then, we heard the clicking of the dog’s claws on the steps as he came back from exploring the island. We both had a little left on our plates, so Alex went inside and got an old bowl from the cupboard and scraped everything into it. “You’re going to need to get some dog food,” she said. She set the bowl on the deck and the dog sniffed it and looked up at me. “Go ahead,” she said. “It’s yours, you caught it.” The dog glanced up at her, and then looked back at me. “Oh, good grief, tell him it’s okay,” she said.

“Go ahead,” I said to the dog and he dug into the bowl of leftovers. “No, he’s not staying. That dog belongs to someone and I’m sure they’re missing him, right now.”

“Well, in the meantime, he needs a name,” she said. You can’t just keep calling him ‘dog’. How about Pescador?

I laughed, “Yeah, fisherman it is. What do you think, Pescador?” The dog had finished eating and looked up at me, barking once.

“If he’s going to stay inside, he needs a bath,” she said. “If you take care of that, I’ll get the dishes. I imagine after that storm your cistern should be full.”

I got up and said to the dog, “Heel, Pescador,” and walked around the deck to the cold-water rinse, with the dog trotting right beside me. “Unbelievable,” I said yet again.

Alex gathered up the dishes and the empty bottle of merlot and went inside. I got the dog under the shower and rinsed him down well. He stood perfectly still while I lathered him up with a bar of hand soap and rinsed him again. When I turned off the water, he shook himself vigorously sending sheets of water all over the place, including me. I took the dog over to the other side of the deck and experimenting again, ordered him to stay. Since I needed a shower anyway, I went back over the outdoor shower, stripped down, stepped under the cold shower until I was completely wet, then shut off the water and started lathering up.