Wood's Reach (6 page)

Trufante was legendary for his open-door policy, and he was surprised when he found it locked. He reached underneath the moldy mat and pulled the key out, unlocked the door and put it in his pocket. If he was going to use the apartment, security needed to be improved.

The place was cleaner than normal, and Mac noticed several feminine items around. No wonder the door was locked, he thought; she just didn’t know about the key. In the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of water and picked up the old landline phone. Remembering the old days, before the Internet and cell phones, he dialed 411, wondering if it still worked. He was surprised when the call was picked up but grimaced when he heard the computerized voice. He got the number for TJ’s dive shop and dialed, doubting anyone would answer this late.

It rang half a dozen times, and the recorder came on. He was about to hang up, but with nothing to lose, he started to leave a message. Suddenly he heard a live voice on the other end.

“Yo, Mac. Wait a minute, and I’ll turn that thing off,” TJ said. There was a moment of silence, and he was back. “Charter’s slow this time of year, so I get the calls up here just in case. Can’t afford to be losing business.”

Mac had been to his place and knew “up here” meant his apartment above the shop. “Hey, man, I’m looking for Alicia,” he said.

“No worries. Here she is,” he said.

“Mac?”

He heard her distinctive voice and smiled. The once-timid former desk agent had become one of his most trusted friends—and there weren’t many. “Hey, girl. How goes it?”

“All good, but I know if Mac Travis is calling, it’s not to say hello. What’ve you got?” she asked.

“You’re right. I could be a bit more social. There’s some data on a thumb drive I’ve had for years. I thought it would be a good time to figure out what it means.”

“Broke?”

She had figured him out already. “I’ve had some interesting developments. Any chance you can have a look at it?” he asked.

“Sure, just email it over.”

“That’s a little beyond my reach right now,” he said.

The line was quiet for a few minutes, and he could hear her talking to TJ in the background. “We’ve got nothing tomorrow. How about we come down that way?”

Chapter Seven

Trufante woke with a start. He looked around the dark room, disoriented. It was quiet in the house, not like when no one was home, but deadly quiet—missing were all those background noises that blend together, only evident when the power is off. He raised himself an inch at a time. Moving Pamela to the side, he raised his head above the couch like an animal, sniffing for a predator.

Someone was outside, by the door he had broken into. He heard it slide and lowered himself when the beam of a flashlight played across the room. With a hand over Pamela’s mouth, he rolled them both silently off the couch and onto the floor, where he pulled the ottoman against them. Locking eyes with her, he tried to reassure her.

“You know where he stashed it?” a rough voice asked.

Trufante was on full alert now.

“Said it was in the back bedroom. Under the bed, there’s a plywood lid with a space below,” another voice said.

Keeping his eyes on hers, he removed his hand from her mouth and put a finger to his lips. She obeyed the command. It sounded like the men were moving toward the bedrooms.

“What’s going on?” she whispered.

“It told you this was a bad idea,” he whispered back, instantly regretting it. “It’s okay.” He gave her a reassuring look.

The sound of furniture being moved came from the back of the house, and then the whine of a cordless drill. He suspected they had found the stash.

“Is that freakin’ silver?” he heard one man exclaim.

“It ain’t candy,” the other man said. “Give me a hand, will ya?”

Trufante knew the accent was from up North; maybe New Jersey, he thought.

“You got it all?” New Jersey asked.

“Yeah, Wallace. Let’s get out of here,” the other man said.

Trufante pulled Pamela closer when he heard the man approach.

“I’m gonna call the boss and let him know we’re good. He was more than a little pissed about what happened earlier,” Wallace said.

Trufante felt the men moving toward them and tried to shrink, but it was too late. He could feel the couch sink as the man sat. If he swung his feet around, they would be discovered. There was nothing he could do but hope for some luck, something that regularly eluded him.

“Hey, boss,” the man said. There was silence for a minute while he listened. “Yeah, we got it. Be over there shortly.”

He thought they were in the clear until Wallace kicked the ottoman away. “We gotta go,” he said and stood up.

The man’s foot landed squarely on Trufante’s calf, causing instant and intense pain. He bit his tongue to prevent any sound from escaping. The man must have felt something unusual and kicked again. Fighting the pain, Trufante managed to remain quiet, but it didn’t matter—the beam of a flashlight caught him square in the eyes.

“Well, look here, Mike. We got that Cajun lover boy and his girlfriend. Must have been having a nice housewarming. Champagne and all.” He picked up the bottle. “Perrier-Jouët, very nice. Must be the girl that picked that out. Your sorry ass wouldn’t know that from warm PBR.”

Looking up at them, Trufante realized they were Hawk’s men. The same men from the auction and the bar.

“Get on your feet, you damn Cajun,” the man with the New Jersey accent said.

Trufante looked from man to man, then to the door behind them, wondering if there was any way out. Pamela was fidgeting beside him. He tried to hold her down, but she struggled to her feet. There was no stopping her.

“This is my house now. What are you guys doing here?” she said.

“Let me handle the bitch,” the larger man, the one Mac had called Ironhead, said.

“We got to get back to the boss. Take them in the back. I’ll try and find something to tie them up with,” Wallace said.

“Too bad they won’t fit in the hole in the floor,” Ironhead said, waving the cordless drill at him and pulling the trigger.

As the men debated his fate, Trufante looked for a way out. The open patio door was only feet away. He could probably get past them and jump to the ground, but he looked at Pamela next to him, clearly scared after they had rebuffed her claim of ownership.

Wallace was looking at them strangely. “Might work. Good idea.” He turned back to them. “Let’s go.”

“Serve them right for buying the house from under us,” Ironhead said and pushed Trufante toward the hall.

They were in the back bedroom. The bed was pushed to the corner, and the carpet was rolled up halfway across the room.

“I thought I told you to put everything back,” Wallace scolded the bigger man.

“Ain’t no matter now,” he said and pushed Trufante to the floor. “He might be a little long, might have to cut off another appendage.”

Trufante shot him the finger with his stub. He looked in the square space in the floor. It was about a foot high, the width of the joists, and three or four feet square.

“The Cajun first. I’m thinking we take the girl back to the boss. Let him have a go at her, you know, for buying the house,” Wallace said.

“I’d like a go at that,” Ironhead said and pushed Trufante toward the hole.

“Don’t,” Pamela pleaded.

“Come on, lover boy, get in,” Ironhead said and kicked him.

Trufante looked up at Pamela, pleading with his eyes. “Find Mac,” he said and put his body in the space. It was a tight fit, but he coiled up his lanky frame and complied.

“He’ll die in there,” Pamela said. “You can have your damned house. Just let us go.”

Ironhead was placing the plywood piece over the opening. What little light the streetlights cast into the room was gone, and Trufante found himself enveloped in darkness. He heard footsteps above him, and the whine of the drill as Ironhead secured the lid. The carpet was rolled out, and he heard the feet of the bed frame slide over him. He waited until he heard their car start before rubbing his butt against the wood. The phone was still in his pocket, but reaching it was another matter.

He felt around the dark space with his hands. The joists surrounding him were solid—at least an inch and a half thick. The plywood below him was encased in stucco, making up the ceiling of the open space below. The only way out was above. He had only counted four screws, but the lid didn’t budge when he tried to push his body against the cover. Lying on his side with his knees in his chest, there was no way he could generate the force required to pull the screws from their hold in the joists.

He was sweating now, the small space heating up quickly from his efforts. The air seemed stale as well, and he started to worry if there were enough cracks between the wood to allow air to circulate. The phone was his only way out, and he struggled to reach it. Contorting his body, he tried to roll onto his back, without success. He lay back panting, feeling light-headed, drinking in the last of the air.

***

Mac sat back on the couch, holding the thumb drive in his hand. He thought about staying here, but figured once Hawk realized he had disappeared, he would connect the dots and have Trufante’s apartment checked. There were not that many options open, his antisocial behavior having made him more enemies than friends. He thought about hitching a ride to Key Largo instead of waiting until tomorrow for Alicia and TJ to come to him, but the Keys were different now than when he’d thumbed his way down here twenty years ago. There was a better chance of landing in jail than getting a ride.

He got up and started pacing the living room. Feeling claustrophobic, he put the thumb drive in his pocket and left the apartment. There was a slight breeze coming from the southeast, probably less than ten knots, and he thought about protected anchorages. Not sure if Hawk would send his thugs by land or sea, he went downstairs to the center-console, released the lines, and started the engines.

He pulled straight out of the slip and retraced his route through the harbor. At the beginning of the mangrove channel, he cut the engines and drifted, checking for the sound of an approaching boat. He heard the whine of an engine, but it quickly passed, the sound dying with it, and he waited another minute before starting the engines and running the channel.

He exited the lagoon unchallenged and steered toward deeper water. Dropping the hook on the Gulf side, even with its small coves and lagoons, was not an option. The protected spots weren’t on his list of acceptable anchorages; houses surrounded them, and he feared a homeowner might call the police. The open water, although it provided good holding, was too exposed for his liking. Even with his white anchor light on the T-top lit, it wasn’t elevated enough to be visible from a distance, and he feared a casual boater or hungover fisherman would run into him.

Boot Key Harbor was too close to his old house, and crowded with liveaboards. The best solution was Sister Creek. The mangrove-lined shores of the inner channel were either deserted or government-owned, housing the radio towers that still broadcast propaganda to Cuba. Accelerating, he headed a quarter mile out before cutting the wheel to port and turning west to allow him enough clearance from the shoals to leave his electronics off. The navigation lights were dark as well, but his finger rested by the switch in case a boat approached.

Mac cruised west, roughly following the coast until the lights of the cars and trucks on the Seven Mile Bridge became visible. Leaving the protected waters of the Gulf side, he headed for the gap between the second and third piling of the old bridge, about a hundred yards from land, pushing the throttle down to make sure he had enough horsepower to avoid the strong, swirling currents channeling through the concrete abutments. He cleared the bridge, and away from its protection, the waves grew and the wind hit his face. He had a decision to make. Slowing, he evaluated the conditions before choosing the outside passage. He cruised past the entrance to Boot Key Harbor, not regretting his choice even when the first wave crashed into the bow, sending spray across the boat. It was better to be wet than to be seen.

Once clear of the small group of boats moored in a cove on the outside of the markers, he rounded Knights Key and headed offshore enough to pass a small unmarked island surrounded by shoals that guarded the entrance to the creek. He saw the light of the first marker, steered a wide path around it, and entered the channel. When he reached the second marker, he obeyed the sign posted below it and cut his speed. Using the lights from the houses on the right to guide him, he stayed towards starboard until he was clear of the shallows, now impassable with the low tide. The radio towers were in front of him now, and he turned to port, slowing to drop anchor, when he changed his mind and reversed course. He would sleep a lot better if he knew what Hawk was up to.

The entrance to the network of canals servicing Flamingo Island lay dead ahead, and he steered through the maze of man-made channels, careful to keep his speed down. No reason to anger one of the residents and get the police involved. He idled by the round house on the right that guarded the entrance, and turned to port at the first opening. This was no place to be if you didn’t know your way, and although it was one of his favorite mullet grounds and he knew these canals well, he turned on the navigation lights and chart plotter. He would look more out of place running dark here as well.

He followed the canals around until he hit the last turn, and Hawk’s ship loomed large in front of him. Larger than the surrounding boats, its tower rose to the height of many of the sailboats’ masts. Killing the lights, he dropped speed again and coasted toward the boat. As he approached, he saw the lights on in one of the cabins. It was quiet, and he wondered what he expected to find here. Hawk was home, but there was no sign of his henchmen. Just as he was about to turn, a car pulled into the driveway of the small house by the dock and cut its lights.

Mac let the current take him to the other side of the canal, where he grasped for the rail of one of the boats docked there. Doors slammed, and he heard a woman’s voice. He couldn’t make out what she was saying, but she was clearly not happy. Moving to the bow to get a better look, he saw Ironhead and the Weasel dragging a woman down the path to the boat. She looked familiar, and he cursed under his breath when he saw it was the same woman Trufante had been with at the bar.