Hey Guys,
Here are three more chapters for your reading enjoyment. If you need to catch up, you can read the entire manuscript to date here: https://read.bookfunnel.com/read/arg7vlfwtp.
Chapter 8
If he were in open water, the shadow could have been caused by a cloud shielding the sun. Under the bridge that wouldn’t be the case. The cause didn’t matter. Wood, focused on his work, hadn’t noticed the dark figure looming over him until it was too late.
With virtually no predators, sharks are curious. In addition to clearing sediment from the bottom, the silt cloud released nutrients in the water that brought small fish, then larger fish. Using the cloud to hide, the shark had probably eaten his full and was now investigating the source.
Wood had observed the decline of the apex predator in his thirty years here. In the ’60s, they had been plentiful. Fishing pressure had been light then. Through the ’70s, Key West was more of a navy town than a tourist destination. Most of the boats had been either locally owned or charters. Few trailered boats in those days.
The ’80s brought improvements in the roads as well as advancements in both outboard engines and lighter fiberglass hulls, making it possible for people to bring their own boats. Fishing pressure had increased in proportion to the traffic jams on US 1.
Wood never understood why, but catching a shark was on many visitors’ bucket lists. He’d hooked plenty and didn’t get the attraction. They were mediocre as table fare and their value as a sport fish was questionable. Though the fight was long, they rarely made reel-screaming runs or jumped. Many times he suspected they didn’t even know they were hooked.
Restrictions were being implemented, but Wood suspected it would take years for the population to rebound.
The shark had moved to within ten feet of Wood when he finally noticed it. He flinched more out of surprise than fear. Sharks liked to cruise the bridges, and Wood had spent plenty of time in the water with them. What he was worried about was that their continued activity would attract more.
A solo shark is rarely dangerous; a shiver or pack, just the opposite. A different mentality takes over when multiple sharks and a food source are nearby.
The logical thing to do would be to stop working, surface, and wait until the shark moved on. In his current state, consumed by the treasure, Woods kept working, though he did wish that he’d listened to Travis and brought the pressure washer down. A blast of high-pressure water would turn the shark away.
He continued to work, chipping the organic material from the object bound horizontally into the coral. A hard vertical line had revealed itself along the top, which gave him hope. Whatever was embedded in the cut was metal; wooden material would have fallen away. Instead, his efforts were rebuked.
He’d barely made a dent in the excavation when he heard the sound of the steel bar clanging against the side of the barge. Wood worked for another few minutes, hoping that he’d be able to get some tangible result from his efforts. The alarm sounded again, and he looked up to see four sharks circling overhead.
Of the many species of sharks, the bull shark was the most dangerous to humans. A full-grown man, especially one wearing scuba gear, does not look like an easy meal. For a predator that understands it cannot expend more energy chasing food than is derived from it, they will generally pass on the opportunity.
A pair of legs making a commotion and dangling just under the surface of the water is a different story. Wood left the bar near the excavation and inflated his BC. Air shot into the vest, bringing him quickly to the surface, where he grabbed the ladder and hauled himself aboard.
He spat out his regulator and removed his mask. “Might oughta done something about them sharks, you think?”
“Water’s so murky, I didn’t see any.” Mac moved his gaze to the western end of the bridge. “I was more worried about your friend there.”
Wood followed his gaze. “Shit.”
“Sure got an interest in what we’re doing. What do you want to do?”
Wood glanced down at the bridge piling before answering. The current was now clearly visible as the water rushed toward the ocean side. “Ain’t much more we can do here. Let’s go have another chat with him.”
With his gear sitting in a pile on the deck of the barge, Wood followed Mac to the skiff. He took a slight detour and grabbed his shotgun from the storage container, chambering a round as he moved toward the boat. “You drive. Head around the outside and maybe we can sneak up on the bastard.”
“At least point that thing down. One wake and you’re likely to shoot me.”
Wood complied without answering. Despite his growing anger, the shotgun was a last resort. Not because he wouldn’t shoot, but trying to compensate for the boat’s movement, even with the scatter pattern of the buckshot, was nearly impossible. Added to that, a sudden wake or even a slightly larger wave could throw off his aim enough that he risked hitting one of the fishermen on the bridge above.
The weapon did have an intimidation factor, and he brought the barrel up again as they rounded the piling the other boat had been near. Their circuitous course concealed their approach but hid the boat in the process.
The stern of the boat came into view as Travis cleared the piling and pulled back on the throttle. The man suddenly turned to face the barrel of the shotgun and Wood’s angry grimace behind it.
“I thought we understood each other,” Wood growled, his voice raised because of the echo of the traffic reverberating above.
“Public waterway. I complied with the dive flag.”
“So, just lookin’ then.” Wood raised the barrel. “Maybe we ought to have another talk.” He wished he hadn’t chambered the round already. Hollywood had that one wrong. In a life-or-death situation, having a round chambered was more than prudent. Intimidation was a different matter, and in a case like this, there was nothing like the sound of a round being chambered.
The man took a long second to evaluate his situation. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to decide on the best course of action. With the engines idling, holding the boat in the current, he simply pressed down on the throttles. The boat shot forward, kicking up rooster tails from the twin engines.
A glance from Wood told Travis what to do.
Boats are similar to cars in the respect that what you are looking at is not always what you get. Sleek lines and a shiny gel coat aren’t reliable indicators for a boat’s speed.
The skiff might have been old and battered, but it was fast. To save weight, Wood had stripped out all the nonessential niceties that the manufacturer provided. He’d removed all the seating except for a spartan leaning post. The center console had been replaced with a smaller unit. Most of all, he didn’t carry the tons of crap recreational boaters did.
The reduced weight alone provided an advantage that showed as Travis started to close the gap. That didn’t tell the whole story, though.
Wood had changed the stock propeller to a three-blade, nineteen-pitch stainless-steel model. The different angle didn’t get the boat on plane as fast as the standard twenty-one pitch, but with the oversized 200 HP Mercury engine and reduced weight, the top-end speed increased.
The other factor was the operator. Instead of trimming the boat, Travis left the engine down. Fuel consumption would increase, but so would speed.
As the boat shot forward, Wood glanced behind at the rooster tail. Satisfied that it was almost nonexistent, he turned toward the boat ahead.
He could tell from the waterline that the other boat was heavier and with the off-the-shelf outboard, barely adequately powered. Wood was a firm believer in more horsepower, and with the other modifications the gap started to close.
Travis glanced at him, his look clearly asking what the plan was. Originally, it had been to scare the man off. Fueled by anger, Wood wasn’t sure what he wanted to do now. Getting into a pissing contest about whose boat was faster would accomplish nothing more than a big fuel bill. The better play was to find out who the man was, and that meant following.
“Slow it down.”
Travis reacted instantly and pulled back on the throttle. The boat dropped in the water but stayed on plane.
“Let’s see where the son of a bitch goes.”
Travis nodded and reduced speed by several thousand RPMs. When the gap was wide enough that the boat remained visible but was no longer clearly identifiable, he pushed the throttle forward and matched the other boat’s speed.
“There you go. Hold her right there.”
The question now was where the boat was headed. Running on an eastern heading, Marathon seemed the likely answer. The bridge they’d been working on was closer to Big Pine Key. With most of the island being set aside as a wildlife preserve, there were only a handful of neighborhoods. Many of the interconnected canal systems had bridges that Wood had worked on. He knew the area and the residents. Finding the boat there would have been too easy.
Most tourists mistakenly assumed the island chain ran straight south, an extension of the South Florida coastline toward the Caribbean. In fact, the Upper Keys run on a southwesterly heading, then turn to the west, with Key West lying only ninety miles from Cuba. For many, it was generally easier to refer to points along the chain as up-island or down-island.
In this case, the man was running up-island. There were plenty of places to hide between Marathon and Key West. Wood wished the man had headed to one of the many backwaters. He’d been roaming those waters for three decades and knew them like the back of his hand.
Instead, they would have to deal with Marathon and that meant a different set of rules. Wood knew that area as well, but would not have the freedom to pursue the boat as he would have in the Lower Keys.
Travis was holding his position about a quarter mile behind the boat. They had passed the Bahia Honda Bridge and the state park and were now running along a mile or so of barren shoreline. Ahead the Seven Mile Bridge loomed large.
Wood would have to make his decision soon. Once they reached Moser Channel, which ran underneath the hump in the bridge, they would be close enough to Marathon for the man to disappear.
Following a boat is not the same as in a car. Drivers expect to see cars behind them. Unless they were heading to one of the iconic lighthouses which dotted the reef, or one of the larger inlets, there was no reason to follow another boater.
They passed the hump in the bridge and were just about to reach Pigeon Key, the old railroad work camp. Marathon lay only two miles away. Travis glanced at Wood, who pointed his finger forward, indicating that he should continue his pursuit.
“Let’s see where he goes. Maybe come back by truck when it’s dark and scope it out,” he yelled over the engine noise.
Travis nodded and followed the boat, which appeared to be heading toward the entrance to Boot Key Harbor directly ahead. There were other options, though. Any of the openings between the bridge piers were navigable here, though the man would have to deal with a large sandbar on the opposite side. He could also cut around Boot Key and head into Sister Creek or, further up the coast, Vaca Cut. Aside from the larger inlets, the shoreline on both the Atlantic and Gulf sides of Vaca Key, the largest of the island comprising Marathon, was lined with private canals and small marinas.
Wood watched for any deviation in course that might tip him to where the man was heading. Finally, about a quarter mile before he reached the day beacons marking the entrance to the harbor, he cut to the right.
That told Wood the guy knew the area as well. Heading around the oceanside coastline required local knowledge to avoid the flats extending from Boot Key and the low-lying West Sister Rock.
“Reckon he’s heading for Sister Creek. Head offshore a little and we’ll get a better view without spooking him.”
Chapter 9
Following the boat into the narrow inlet wouldn’t accomplish anything. The white sand of Sombrero Beach to the right and dense mangroves of Boot Key to the left were both inaccessible to anything larger than a dinghy. For the next quarter mile, a few high-end homes lined the right-hand shore. Just beyond the homes a canal appeared, but it only serviced a dozen or so houses.
The creek meandered after that, giving access to a large canal community, the interior of Boot Key, and Boot Key Harbor. Wood only needed to know which one the man would choose.
The interior of Boot Key would be a poor choice. The sparsely populated island was accessed by a drawbridge over the harbor and a small canal on the other side. The man could likely find refuge there, but the boat would be easily found.
The canal system was Wood’s guess. To find out he had to commit, though. If the man was playing a game of cat and mouse, waiting for them to leave before exiting the creek and heading elsewhere, they would lose him.
Wood thought otherwise, his decision based on that the man wielded a camera and not a gun. If he was a professional anything, he was a journalist. Pictures could be as damaging as bullets, but the MO of a photographer versus a killer was different.
“Head around to the harbor entrance. We’ll go in there.”
Travis spun the boat and started to retrace his route back to the day beacons outside the channel. As they worked their way back around Boot Key, Wood glanced into the entrance of the small canal there but saw nothing. He knew a couple of the residents and they were a rough lot. Eliminating that as a refuge brought them to the harbor.
Travis cut the last marker, knowing there was enough water for the skiff, and entered the channel. He continued at speed until they reached the SLOW SPEED MINUMUM WAKE sign where he dropped off plane.
The north side of Boot Key was on their left and the city of Marathon, which occupied Vaca Key, to the right. They passed an abandoned marina and approached a pair of fuel docks. A few derelict boats and one ocean cruiser were anchored on this side of the bridge. On the other side, the harbor opened up. Straight ahead lay a field of white mooring balls belonging to the City Marina. About half were occupied by an assortment of cruisers and trawlers.
Past the anchorage the harbor ended. Travis turned right before the mooring field, continuing what would be a circumnavigation of Boot Key. Snake Creek appeared on their right. The narrow waterway dead-ended about a half mile into the island.
They soon found themselves at the T intersection they had seen earlier and headed straight. Wood was confident the man was somewhere inside the maze of canals.
“Head over to your place. We’ll do this by truck.” Travis had a small house there.
“My truck’s back at the ramp.”
“Shit. It’ll take forever and then some to do this by boat, and we’re bound to be recognized.”
“They’re a couple of beach cruisers if you want to take a ride.”
Wood scratched the stubble on his chin. Bicycling wasn’t his preferred choice for exercise or transportation, but as long as he could ride straight they would fit in.
The canals rolled by at the six-knot idle speed that Travis maintained. As they worked their way deeper into the complex network of canals, both the homes and boats became smaller. In addition to the other factors that affected house prices, distance to open water and low bridges were high on the list of attributes that would garner more value.
Travis’s place was about fifteen minutes in from the intersection. They’d already passed through the more exclusive Flamingo Island and were now cruising by a mix of older homes on a long canal. Travis’ boat already occupied the length of the seawall. He slowed before making contact.
“We’ll need fenders on the starboard side.”
Wood grunted, surprised at the order.
Newer boats were pampered like infants—until the first scratch. After that, blemishes became more frequent, and the owner’s attitude changed from worrying about any ding or scratch to acceptance. The attitude went through a cycle similar to the five stages of grief, with the last, acceptance, being the norm. Wood was so far past that stage that he wouldn’t have bothered protecting the boat.
That wasn’t what Travis was worried about. His much-newer center console sat against the wooden dock.
“If you had a bigger dock, you wouldn’t have to fret.”
“If you paid me more, I could afford one.”
Wood snorted again and did as he was asked.
The house sat on a rectangular lot with the longer sides running from the street to the water. The developer's plan was simple: the skinnier the lots, the more water-front property they had to sell. Most had room for a single boat, which forced Wood to tie off to Travis’ center console. Once the boat was secure, they crossed over to the dock.
The property looked very much like a condensed version of Wood’s place on Big Pine. Tools and equipment sat in the yard like landscape ornaments. Between the unrelenting heat, sun, and salt, green lawns were rare here. Most yards were covered in crushed coral. Some had bushes and shrubs, others didn’t. Travis’ place fell into the latter group.
Wood waited while Travis dug two bicycles out of the downstairs space he used as a workshop. He left them against the fence and went back inside. The sound of a compressor broke the silence. After pumping up the tires, both men showed their lack of practice and wobbled out of the driveway.
Wood found his sea legs after a few blocks and found himself almost enjoying the ride. The slower speed allowed the two men time to peer between homes and check out the boats on the canal without looking obvious. They worked their way methodically around the neighborhood and finding nothing in Travis’ area, crossed a low bridge to Flamingo Island.
With the higher-priced real estate came larger lots, which might have allowed for a better view into the canals—except the houses were larger, too. The only benefit was that there were fewer per block. In general, the boats were bigger, their towers and outriggers visible above the rooflines.
“He ain’t here,” Wood said, as they finished the last block and stopped.
“Maybe we missed him.”
“Missed him like we didn’t see the boat, or he outsmarted us?”
Travis shrugged and continued down the last road. With no sign of the boat, they headed back to his house.
“Can’t say I’m sorry to lose this.” Wood climbed over the saddle and wheeled the bicycle to one of the posts under the house.
“What do you want to do?”
Wood glanced at his watch, which was not really necessary as the fading sunlight indicated the time. “Maybe head back down and see what the current looks like. Doubt Wigner or any of his people will bother us at night.”
The two men left the bicycles and boarded the skiff. Wood moved to the helm and Travis stood next to him as they retraced their path out of the canal system. They were quiet, not really by choice, but the outboard was just loud enough to make it difficult to talk, not to mention for Wood to hear. Along with needing glasses, years of jet engines in the navy and construction equipment after that had contributed to some hearing loss.
Once they left the mouth of Sister Creek, Wood headed slightly offshore to avoid the shoals around Boot Key and the bridge. Aside from those hazards, the bridges made navigation easy. Each was easily identifiable, especially the old trestle bridge by Bahia Honda. The southward zig allowed Wood a clear view of the lower, shorter span of the Spanish Harbor Bridge where they had been working. He zagged back to the north and passed under one of the two deeper passes, then turned toward the barge.
“I thought you were calling it?” Mac asked over the idling outboard.
“Nighttime is the right time. No telling what that dude saw. I’d bet by morning the government’ll be here.”
“What about my date? That was your idea.”
“Shit. Like I don’t have enough on my hands than to worry about your social life.” Wood paused, remembering his ulterior motive. “Still, I guess research is important.”
Travis shook his head. “Run me back to my truck, then.”
Wood released his hold on the fender and spun the boat. He shot over to the ramp, surprising a group of tourists. “Early tomorrow.”
Travis stepped out of the boat. “You gonna give me the company credit card for this?”
“Shit. Lucky I got you a hookup. Don’t waste it.”
Before Travis could respond, Wood had backed away from the concrete edge and headed to the barge.
There was no way to justify what Wood was about to do. Diving at night had a risk factor in the best of circumstances. Working in the dark around bridge piers in current with no surface support could be called plain stupid. Still, Wood couldn’t wait.
He waited until Travis pulled out of the parking lot before boarding the skiff and heading back to the barge. Twilight is a short-lived affair in the tropics. Up north, as the tourists constantly remind the locals of where they are from—and how they do things—twilight can last for almost an hour. At the poles, it is close to two. Something to do with the angle of the sun and the horizon invites darkness in the southern latitudes—twilight only lasts about twenty-four minutes at the equator.
The phenomenon gave Wood little natural light to gear up. The barge and the excavator had work lights. They would attract attention and Wood left them off. By the time he dropped into the water, it was full dark.
Night dives can be both disorienting and beautiful. With bright dive lights, the colors are different from what divers see during the day. The sea life also varies. Lobsters moving out of their holes in search of prey were the most obvious.
Wood ignored everything but the task at hand.
Diving at night can feel like being in a dark, liquid cocoon. The water seems to exert a different kind of pressure, a reminder of how vulnerable they are, as a diver peers into the black depths. A full moon will shed a little ambient light. Under the cover of the bridge, it was pitch dark.
Wood reached the bottom and focused his single dive light, which was attached to his mask with a glued-on fitting, in the direction of the piers. Only the vague lines of the dark shape were visible. If he’d been a few feet back, he would have had to rely on his compass to navigate the twenty-odd feet to the cut.
The pier and area he had been working on earlier slowly emerged from the gloom. Now that he had located the spot, the contrast between the darkness and the bright light worked to his advantage. There were no distractions as he panned the light across the cut. The excavation seemed to be alive, with the color and shape of each distinct piece of coral jumping out at him.
Wood wasn’t here to nature watch.
He moved his head, which directed the light down, and found the pry bar. With the light shining wherever he looked, he was able to start prying chunks of the encrusted barnacles and coral from the vertical line that Travis had exposed.
Wood fell into a rhythm, the only sounds the bubbles from his spent air and the tapping and prying of the crowbar. He was in his own world, obsessed with removing the piece before his air ran out.
The tank, compensating for his exertion level, should have lasted over an hour at the shallow depth. Wood had paid no attention to the time or the pressure gauge as he worked. That gave him a moment of pause when each breath became harder to pull.
It took him a long minute to realize he was out of air.
Guess I will just have to be patient!😏
Thanks!
Great! How long until the next chapters?????? This is so good!