I’ve finished the manuscript which means the chapters will be hitting your inbox faster now. If you need to catch up you can read the book to date here.
Chapter 17
Now that Wood knew the boat’s name, he put two and two together. Widget was a cross between the engineer’s surname, Wigner, and his wife Bridgette’s first name. There was no need for further confirmation that the boat belonged to Wigner. Wood studied the figure behind the wheel, trying to determine if it was Wigner himself or one of his lackeys. Taken from a sample of middle-aged men, there was nothing unique about him. Average all around—just like the engineer. Still Wood suspected it was him.
Wood moved away quickly before the man spotted him. He returned to the barge by a circuitous route, staying close to the mangrove-lined shore.
“Son of a bitch is Wigner,” Wood called up from the skiff.
“Damn. What’s he thinking?” Travis asked.
“Getting a little impatient, if you ask me,” Wood said. He had told Travis about being spotted the other night but not about Wigner’s extortion attempt. “He’s only got one more inspection after we passed today, which means he’s got no excuse to be here.”
Travis still held the shotgun. “What do you want to do? Shooting the engineer’s not going to be good for business.”
A loud roar interrupted the conversation. “Looks like he’s out. We’ll see what he has in mind now.” Wood turned to the grounded boat. The moon was in a clear section of sky, and its light showed a giant rooster tail. The engine screamed in protest as Wigner opened the throttles in a desperate attempt to free the stuck hull.
Suddenly, the pitch changed. The rooster tail was gone, and the boat was moving. “Got one in the chamber? Not sure what he’s got in mind.”
Travis held the long gun by his side. Before he had a chance to raise it, Widget’s bow turned toward the Gulf side, and with a roar, the hull shot forward. The boat blasted through the bridge like it had been shot out of a canon. Wood watched the water until the white stern light had faded into the night.
“Reckon we oughta recover the chest and get it out of here before he gets any bright ideas and comes back.”
Wood tied off the skiff and stepped aboard the barge. “Thought you two were going to retrieve the damned thing.” He looked at Travis, then followed his gaze to Ned, who had probably slowed down the operation with his constant fretting.
Already knowing the archaeologist was not going to trust him to retrieve the chest from the cofferdam, he walked over to the excavator.
“Got a cargo net aboard?” Ned asked Travis.
“Just slings. We can secure it.”
“If it’s still in one piece.”
Wood had heard the conversation and walked back over to the two men. “Y’all are going on like a bunch of old women. Better to have the son of a bitch in pieces than let Wigner have it.” He knew Ned would go to extraordinary lengths to retrieve the chest without damaging it. Wood was more concerned with what was inside than the barnacle-crusted and tarnished container. “Anyway, it is what it is right now. We ain’t gonna hurt it any more than throwing it in the hole.” He ended the conversation by turning away and heading back to the excavator.
Wood watched from the cab as Travis grabbed a handful of heavy, webbed slings. He dumped them in the bucket and climbed in. Travis gave a thumbs-up and grabbed the lip of the bucket. Wood lowered Travis into the hole. Wood wanted an update on the condition of the chest, but he’d have to wait. A few minutes later, he lowered a much more reluctant Ned.
Night work in and around the water is dangerous. Wood eschewed most technologies, such as radios. More than not, something was wrong with them, and he hated to rely on something that wasn’t reliable. This was one instance he wished he’d used them. He left the cab of the excavator and climbed down the track to the deck.
Peering into the pitch-dark cofferdam revealed nothing. “Y’all alive down there?” he called out.
“Rigging it up. Should just be a couple of minutes.”
“Give a yell when you’re ready.”
That there was an “it” to rig was a good sign. He assumed the chest had been built from wood with metal banding. After a 150 years on the water, one of two things could have happened. The chest could have decayed and disintegrated on impact, or it would be hard as a rock and survived.
“Ready!” Travis called up.
Wood hurried back to the excavator and climbed in the cab. Fighting the urge to see the chest, he patiently worked the controls and lifted the chest out of the cofferdam and onto the deck. He hopped down and unrigged it, noticing that it was intact, then sent the bucket down to retrieve Ned and then Travis.
The three men stood and stared at the old chest. A third of the way from the top, and underneath where they expected to see the line where the lid met the base, was a clear mark showing the depth to which the chest had been buried. Below that, the individual planks had been well preserved. Above the line, the chest was covered with barnacles and growth. In order to see what was inside, they would first have to clean it.
Ned hovered around, taking pictures. Wood winced every time the flash strobed, knowing it would attract the attention of the fishermen and traffic crossing the bridge. After a hard look, Ned stopped and put the camera down.
“You gonna take a toothbrush to it now, or can we get on with it?”
Ned glanced up and shook his head. He picked up a wide chisel and hammer and started to scrape the growth off. Travis picked up a flat bar and worked on the other side. A few minutes later the lid was visible.
“What about the padlock?” Wood asked, ready to take a chisel to it regardless of what Ned said.
“No chance it’s salvageable. Have at it.” Ned turned away as if he couldn’t bear to watch.
Wood nodded to Travis, who stuck the business end of the flat bar into the shackle and gave a tentative tap with the hammer.
“You too? Give me that.” Wood took the tools. He inserted the bar into the lock and pried, then slammed the end with the hammer. The lock fell away and landed with a clang on the deck. Wood left it where it lay and focused on the lid. He stuck the flat bar into the small crack and pried. The lid felt like it was fused in place and refused to budge.
“Get the Sawzall. I ain’t lettin’ this get the best of me.”
“If I may?” Ned asked.
Wood looked up.
“I would take it back to your place. Better light and no prying eyes.”
Wood snorted and looked around. He had been so engrossed in trying to open the chest that he failed to realize how exposed they were. The pool of light cast from a fixture on the excavator had the same effect as being in a spotlight on stage.
“Good idea. Let’s load her in the skiff and get out of here.”
Travis brought a dolly over, which he used to move the chest to the edge while Wood shut down the excavator and locked the container. Travis hopped down into the skiff while Ned and Wood lowered the chest to him.
* * *
With the only difference being the change in venue, the three men stared at the chest sitting on a low work table in Wood’s shop.
“Still thinkin’ the Sawzall’s the way to go,” Wood said.
Travis went to a cabinet where Wood stored the power tools and came back with the reciprocating saw. With a course-toothed blade, he started to cut around the line. The work was slow, but inch by inch, the saw cut through the century and a half of buildup. There was little to no resistance where the blade met the old metal of the hinges.
“You want the honors?” Travis stood back.
Wood moved toward the chest and said a silent prayer, then slid the flat bar into the crack. The lid moved easily. Travis and Ned moved to either side of it and lifted it off.
Wood wasn’t sure what to expect. The chest had remained watertight, which was the first surprise. The second was that the contents were wrapped in oilcloth to protect them from the weather—the work of a smart and cautious captain.
Several items had the shape and feel of navigational instruments. They removed these and set them aside because they all knew that the real treasure was the rectangular package on the bottom—the ship's log.
Wood removed the book, hoping that it had remained intact. He brought it to the larger workbench and set it down. “You want to do it?” he asked Ned.
The deference was more a nod to the archaeologist’s expertise than an honor. Wood wasn’t sure what he might do wrong that would endanger the log. Ned was a professional.
“You have any gloves?” he asked.
Wood assumed he meant the latex gloves found in hospitals. “Not the kind you’re wanting.”
Ned tutted. “I don’t guess you’re going to wait.” He lifted the flap on the oilcloth to reveal a cloth-bound book. It was in remarkable condition, the writing still clearly visible.
“Son of a bitch. I like it when I’m right.”
The name John H. Geiger was printed in block letters on the cover.
Twenty minutes later, the three men gathered around Wood’s kitchen table. Instead of the latex gloves he preferred, Ned settled for a pair of old rubber gloves from under the kitchen sink. They were dry and brittle, probably years old, but they were better than nothing.
“One of you take pictures and document this.” Ned adjusted the book so it sat squarely under the light. His hand moved to the cover, and with the tip of a rubber-clad finger, he opened the book.
“Doesn’t get any better than this,” Ned said. “Shoot every page.”
Wood had handed the camera to Travis after he had photographed the cover and the first page. They paused there to read the flowing script.
Ship’s logs are particular to the captain. Some allow only the facts: date, time, tide, speed, distance covered, weather, and other particulars. Other logs read like novels. This leaned toward the latter.
Wood scanned the first entry, dated February 1864. The entry described the salvage of a vessel on Molasses Reef off Key Largo. Geiger detailed the particulars of the day and then started in on what could only be described as a tall tale.
“Son of a bitch. He’s setting this all up for the courts by painting a picture of a ship in its death throes.”
“Could have been,” Wood said. Even though he wanted to move to the last entry, he was enthralled.
Wreckers were mercenaries. They saved lives but at a cost. The captain had made it sound like there would be no survivors except for the actions of his crew and, of course, himself.
They all finished reading at about the same time. “I notice he’s not modest.”
“The Admiralty Court in Key West would have taken all this into account. Even if the captain of the wrecked vessel testified that it was a gross exaggeration, the court would lean toward the written entry. In most cases, the captains didn’t bother to show up. Best case, the owners would get 50 percent salvage value. Geiger probably had the judges in his pocket as well,” Ned explained.
Ned must have sensed Wood’s impatience. He started to flip the pages in time with Travis taking pictures. Fortunately, the journal was less than a quarter used, so they made it to the last page with the first roll of film.
“Here it is.”
The tail end of the nor’easter drove the ship onto the reef off Vaca Key. Despite the conditions, we suffered the weather and reached the foundering ship at 1600 hours on the Ides of March. The Sloop, a sixty footer, named Lady Seraphina was taking on water. Fighting the elements we disembarked fifteen souls and took them aboard one of our ships. The captain agreed to the terms set forward and we loaded the cargo. As if on cue, a ship appeared on the horizon. By that time we had started to remove some of the cargo, but were forced to stop when a cannon fired.
The entry ended. Ned went to turn the page, but it was stuck to the blank pages behind it. He gently worked the paper but stopped when a small tear formed.
“We gotta do this right, Wood.”
Wood didn’t want to wait but knew if he didn’t listen to Ned, the entire account could be lost, and he’d never know what they had found.
Chapter 18
“Can I take this?” Ned asked.
“Give us the green light to keep looking, and it’s yours.” In Wood’s mind, the log proved two things. That neither the chest nor the silver were historically significant and that John Geiger could tell a tale. Although he wanted to see the rest of the entry, it was more important to him to be able to continue searching. Recovering the chest had fueled his fever.
“The line between where the state gets involved and where you are free to do what you want is pretty gray. I’d say you’re good. Geiger is an interesting guy. This is one case where older is better. If it had been from the Civil War itself, you’d be screwed.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear,” Wood said,
“What about Wigner?” Travis asked.
“Screw that prick. We’re gonna wrap up the formwork tomorrow and get the last inspection. We’ll dive at night.”
“You mean, I’ll dive at night.”
“That’s what I said, isn’t it.”
“If you two are done bickering, I’m going to take this stuff and head home.” Ned grabbed an empty box lying on the floor and loaded it with the log and navigation instruments.
Travis helped him carry it to the pickup. Wood wandered out a minute later and hopped in the driver's seat. They headed out to US 1 and up-island, back to the boat ramp where Travis and Ned had left their vehicles.
Wood glanced down at the water as they passed over the bridge. The angle was sharp, hiding the cofferdam, but the barge was visible. He could clearly see the beam of a flashlight panning around the deck and a boat tied off to the side.
“Son of a bitch. Looks like that prick. Must have stuck around and waited until we left.” Wood hadn’t had a good enough look to be sure, but he’d have to go out and check on things anyway.
Nighttime boaters were a different crowd. Most were fishermen, mainly commercial guys. They were a rough lot, and Wood suspected they often checked the barge for tools or materials left unsecured. There was no stopping them other than locking up anything of value.
“You got time to check it out with me?” Wood asked Travis. He expected the response would be in the affirmative, and it was.
Wood sped up and crossed the bridge running about twenty miles over the speed limit. He knew the risk of getting a ticket wasn’t worth the gain of what was probably sixty seconds. It felt good, though. He made the left turn into the parking area by the ramp at speed and skidded to a stop by Ned’s car.
“Let me know if you find anything interesting in that lot. I got business.” He got out and slammed the door. “Come on, Travis.”
Wood made as much noise as possible as he left the truck and started the skiff. The best outcome, even if the intruder was Wigner, would be to scare them off and avoid a confrontation.
As he suspected, the boat was the Proline, and it pulled away just as they arrived.
“You gonna chase him?”
“Nah. Not much to be gained. We got the good stuff. Might as well check the barge, though. Make sure he ain’t up to no mischief.” Wood didn’t put sabotage beyond the engineer.
The empty chest was safe in Wood’s shop, but the padlock remained as well as the pile of marine growth. Enough evidence lay on the deck for an experienced eye like Wigner’s to know they had recovered something. Wood kicked the padlock to the side.
“Son of a bitch.”
“He didn’t get anything,” Mac said.
Wood kicked the barnacles and growth laying on the deck. “Son of a bitch can call the state. That’d be enough to shut us down.”
“Only thing we can do is move forward. Let’s get the concrete work done. Then he’ll have no excuse to be around. You probably have enough to get a restraining order.”
“Ain’t a judge in Monroe County gonna believe me over him.” Wood kicked the hard steel deck. “You’re probably right. We can button this up tomorrow, get it inspected the day after, and then pour it. If you’re up to it, we can work through the weekend and be done and ready for a final inspection on Monday.”
“Count me in.”
Wood liked that in the man. No hesitation at all. Not scared of work, unlike most of the population of the Keys. “Good man. Might as well get some sleep. Wigner’s not coming back tonight, and we’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
Wood ran the skiff back to the dock. He tied the small boat off to the piling by the ramp and waded to the parking lot. Travis was right behind him. He started toward his truck. Before he reached it, he saw flashing blue lights coming over the bridge.
Technically, the bridge was called the Spanish Harbor Key Bridge and the island West Summerland Key. To the locals, they were the Scout Key bridge and Scout Key because of the Boy and Girl Scout camps on the island. The Highway Patrol didn’t care what you called them. To the police, the bridge was the beginning of the Key Deer Refuge. The speed limit dropped from 50 MPH to 45, but it was at nighttime when the posted limit lowered to 35 that created the speed trap.
Seeing the police car heading east with its lights on was unusual. Normally, if you reached the bridge heading east, you had to run the gauntlet of law enforcement on Big Pine.
Wood continued to watch the cruiser, expecting it to slow and turn into the parking lot. He wasn’t disappointed.
“Get going while you can. I’ll deal with them,” he called to Travis.
Mac gave him a look but obeyed. Travis was no fool. There was no point in both suffering whatever consequences were in store.
The police car slowed as it entered the parking lot, headlights pointing directly at Wood. He shielded his eyes and tried to see through the windshield. There was a good chance he knew the officer. The glare coming off the headlights was too much to make him out, so he stood where he was and waited for them to make the first move.
The driver’s side door opened, and a man stepped out. “You William Woodson?”
“Yeah, they all call me Wood, though. You might as well too.” Wood noticed Travis had started his truck and was about to exit the parking lot. As distasteful as it was, he needed to start a conversation and distract the officer, so Mac could get away.
It wasn’t like he was leaving the scene of a crime. There was no reason for Travis to be involved in whatever the officer wanted.
He squinted, the headlights of the police car making him have to work to read the name tag. “Your name’s Waller? Got a first name?” Travis moved to the exit, paused to check the traffic, and pulled out, heading up-island to Marathon. Wood was relieved that he’d escaped any scrutiny, but he also understood that he had twenty miles to travel and several bridges before he reached home.
As far as the police were concerned, you could count on two things. At night and usually during the day, there were always cruisers on Big Pine Key as well as in Marathon inside the 35 MPH speed zone just after exiting the Seven Mile Bridge. A simple call over the radio was all it would take to stop Travis.
“Dave, but let’s stick with Officer Waller for now.”
The answer was as good as he was going to get. “Okay, Officer Waller. What can I help you with?”
“Seems there’s a report that you took some artifacts without the proper notifications.”
“Wigner,” Wood cursed under his breath. The engineer hadn’t wasted any time.
“What was that?”
“Oh, nothing. What makes you think I did something like that? I know the law.” The last statement might as easily save or hurt him.
Waller ignored him and walked to the bed of Wood’s truck. He peered at the miscellaneous materials. “That your barge out there?”
“Sure is.” Ned had the logbook and instruments. The silver and chest were in Wood’s workshop. There was nothing incriminating on the barge. Taking the officer to check it out would buy Travis enough time to get home. “I can run you out if you like.”
“If you don’t mind.” Waller walked back to the cruiser, picked up a long flashlight, and locked the doors.
“Come on then.” Wood glanced at the officer’s boots. “I’ll do my best to keep you dry.”
“Appreciate that.”
As Wood walked down the ramp to retrieve the skiff, he wondered if he had made it a practice to be cooperative with the authorities that things would have gone differently for him. He decided not.
He waded out to the piling and climbed aboard the skiff. A long second later, the engine started. Releasing the line, he moved back to the wheel and idled toward the ramp. The bow made a scraping sound as it touched the concrete, but it was aluminum and not fiberglass. There would only be a scratch to match the hundred others.
Waller stepped carefully aboard and took the seat forward of the helm. Wood’s instinct was to make the ride uncomfortable, but he held himself in check. Irritating the officer was not going to help.
They reached the barge after the short run. Wood held the boat against the fenders to allow Waller to step aboard. He tied off the skiff and followed.
Wood stayed behind the officer, allowing him free rein over the barge. With the flashlight beam panning back and forth, they reached the spot where the chest had been. Wood had a second's self-doubt that it might still be there, but only the small pile of barnacles and coral they had scraped off it remained.
On a recreational boat, that might be incriminating, but on the work barge it looked as if it belonged. Waller checked the wheelhouse and finally moved to the container.
“Mind if I have a look inside?”
Wood was running out of patience. Travis would surely be home by now, and though the officer was well-mannered, it was late at night, and he was tired. Still, he knew the search was going to end sooner if he cooperated, especially since there was nothing to hide.
“Since you asked nice.” He might as well make some kind of point if he couldn’t be snarky. Wood dug in his pocket and pulled out a keychain. He found the key and opened the padlock. “Sorry. No lights.”
Waller cast a suspicious glance before shining the beam of his flashlight into the container. “What were y’all doing out here at night, then?”
“Got an inspection tomorrow. Just had to button some things up.” He thought for a second. There was little doubt that Wigner was the source of the complaint, but on the chance that he wasn’t, it made sense to probe. “Wigner’s the engineer for the project. Know him?”
“You don’t say.” Waller probed around for another minute and stepped back on deck.
It didn’t sound like he knew who had called in the complaint, but that wasn’t indicative of anything. Under normal circumstances, Wigner would probably have called the sheriff directly. Neither NOAA nor the State Historical Society had a policing arm, so they would have naturally called the locals anyway. “Surprised you’d be checking this out at night.”
“Sheriff asks, I do.”
That explained it. The good old boys’ network of the Florida Keys had been enacted. Waller hadn’t called NOAA or the state, as he suspected he’d spoken to the sheriff directly. This was pure harassment, but there was nothing he could do about it.
“Looks okay to me.” Waller moved the light to make his way back to the skiff.
Wood saw something on the periphery of the beam and froze. Wigner might have taken the chest, but the padlock lay on the deck. No way could it pass for the marine-grade padlock he used on the container. The lock sat at the very edge of the beam, but it was still visible.
Waller turned toward the skiff. Wood released his breath when the beam passed the lock. He thought about moving it as he passed. A pile of rigging lay to the side. He could easily pick it up and toss it over like he was cleaning the deck.
Before he reached it, Waller stepped right on top of it. Without the flashlight, he might have ignored the lock and kicked it out of the way. Instead, he did what most people would have done, curious about what they’d stepped on, and moved the beam to his foot.
“This looks pretty old to me,” Waller said, reaching down to pick up the 150-year-old lock.
Chapter 19
“Want to revise your story?” the officer asked.
Wood had been as accommodating as he could. He sensed that he had built some good faith with the officer—not something that happened often. The question now was how much to tell him. Waller held the opened padlock and examined it under the light. There was no getting around its age or that it had recently been taken from the water. Or that this was a conspiracy against him.
Two choices presented themselves: A white lie or a real lie. Both were the same, really, but to different degrees. Some said that it is not a lie if you believe it. That would be the easiest way to rationalize the action. Wood couldn’t stomach that. He knew right from wrong.
Outright lies tended to come back full circle with an oversized serving of karma. The better tactic was, to tell the truth, leaving out a few key details.
While Waller studied the object, Wood prepared his story.
“Never know what’s going to come up in that bucket. Found all kinds of crap over the years. Not much in the way of valuables.” All true. Excavating around the bridge piers had turned up all kinds of things, some tossed on purpose, others not.
“Looks to me like this was just opened.”
Wood stepped closer to see what the officer was looking at. The shackle, which had been inside the body of the lock until they had broken it, was clean. “Must have been Travis messing with it.” He paused. “Something like this doesn’t need to be reported, does it?” Wood knew his question didn’t matter. Waller had been told what to do whether he found something or not. This just made it easier.
“Doesn’t seem like much to me, but I’ve got a boss to deal with. He’s going to ask questions. No way around taking this as evidence.” Waller panned the light around the deck again. “Don’t see anything else of interest. I’ll bring this in and see what happens.”
Wood already knew the die had been cast and had to restrain himself. He’d been patient until now, but Waller was clearly doing Wigner’s and the sheriff’s bidding. “You do what you have to. I’d like it back when you’re through. Kind of a souvenir of a crappy job.”
Waller was still holding the lock. He looked around for something to put it in. “You have a bag or something?”
Wood was to the point where he would do anything to get the officer off the barge. He was tiring by the minute, both from fatigue and the lawman’s visit. Wigner, who had no doubt instigated the report, would pay for this. He remembered his lunch sack in the cab of the excavator. “Hold on. I’ve got something.”
Waller followed him and waited while Wood climbed up to the controls. He reached in and handed him a brown-paper bag.
“Sorry, man. All I got.”
Waller made a face but took it and turned the bag inside out before placing the lock inside. He rolled the top.
“You sure that’s there is?”
Wood did an inventory in his head. Wigner had the chest. Ned had the contents, and the two silver bars were in his workshop.
“That’d be it.”
“Hold on, then.”
Waller removed his radio from his belt and walked toward the edge of the barge. Wood strained to hear what he was saying, but a boat was passing through the channel, and its engine noise covered the call. Waller was still talking when the wake slapped against the barge, shifting it slightly.
Wood could tell a boater from a landlubber by their balance. Waller had almost fallen from the slight disturbance. That was amusing, but the stern expression on the officer’s face when he approached Wood didn’t.
He knew he was in trouble when Waller reached behind his back and removed the handcuffs from the holder on his belt. Going to jail would not get the work completed. Worse, it would give the state time to investigate the site. Once they moved in, everything would grind to a halt.
“You don’t need those. I’ll go willingly.” Even as he said it, Wood was looking for an escape. “Besides, you need the skiff to get back.” After seeing Waller’s reaction to the wake, Wood played the boat card.
“No funny business, then.” Waller replaced the cuffs.
Wood breathed out, but he’d only delayed rather than avoided disaster.
Wood moved to the port side, where the skiff was tied off, and boarded. Waller was a large man and had to drop to his knees and swing his body. There was enough time for Wood to have taken off, but he wasn’t going to leave the officer on the barge.
He started the engine and waited for Waller to come aboard. Just as he seemed to get comfortable, Wood asked him to free the lines. It was something he could easily have done himself, but the little jab made him feel better. Once Waller had again taken his seat, Wood started toward the ramp.
Before the bow touched concrete, Wood had decided to run. Jail would still be there if he got caught. He wasn’t even sure what he was going to be charged with. A good lawyer could probably have met him at the station and gotten him freed immediately. Wood didn’t have that option. He tended to alienate those kind of professionals.
Wood dropped to an idle as they approached the ramp. He wasn’t caring about Waller’s footwear right now, but earlier he had nudged the boat in so the officer wouldn’t have to wade out. He could use that precedent to escape. Inching forward, he waited until the bow hit the concrete and stopped.
Waller stepped out at the very front of the boat. He turned quickly when he heard Wood slip the engine into reverse. Wood played it cool, wanting to leave some doubt in the officer’s mind. There was no reason for a high-speed exit. Waller wasn’t going to shoot him, and he couldn’t pursue. There was a chance a police boat was nearby, but with the skiff’s shallow draft, he could easily lose them in the backcountry.
He inched toward the piling, then turned off the engine. The tide quickly pulled him past it. Patience wasn’t one of his traits, but he knew he had to feign a breakdown to give Waller an out, or suffer the officer’s wrath when he was eventually caught.
Wood was pretty sure that Waller was reluctant to take him in. He used that to his favor when he called over. “Engine trouble. Might be a few minutes.” Pulling the small plastic disc that fit into the kill switch, he repeatedly tried to start the engine. Waller hadn’t been comfortable aboard the barge or the skiff. Wood used that observation. An experienced boater might have figured out what he was up to, but he doubted Waller had the knowledge that without the spacer inserted into the slot, the engine was not going to start.
The current grabbed the small boat and pulled it into the main channel, away from the ramp. Wood turned back. Waller had his hands on his hips, standing where he’d been left.
With the skinny barrier of the Keys separating two major bodies of water, tides could be complicated. The ocean side was fairly straightforward. The backcountry was anything but. Comprised of mostly shallow flats for miles, the few channels leading to the open Gulf were forced to carry a huge volume of water. That meant current, which right now worked in Wood’s favor.
When tides were referred to, it was generally based on the ocean, which made them backward from the perspective of the Gulf. The incoming tide poured water from the Atlantic Ocean through the bridges, creating an outgoing tide in the Gulf, which Wood now used to his advantage.
He allowed the boat to drift with the current until he reached Big Mangrove Key, where he felt safe enough to start the engine. Even if Waller was still standing at the ramp, if he was able to hear the sound, he couldn’t be sure it was Wood.
Wood suffered a brief moment of panic when he tried to start the boat without replacing the disc. He laughed at himself, then wedged the spacer into the pin and tried again. The engine fired and caught, the noise seeming much louder than it should have been. Wood wrote that off to the open water and his fear of being heard. Sound also seemed to carry better at night.
Before heading out, he pulled his cell phone from the holster on his belt and called Travis’ home number. It rang several times before a recorded response asked him to leave a message. He briefly explained his predicament and that he would be on the island until he figured out what to do.
Taking a look back, he spun the bow toward the west and headed into the Big Spanish Channel. Navigating the backcountry at night was a challenge. With the numerous flats and shoals, it was easy to run aground. Wood had gone to the Miami Boat Show several months ago and saw a new line of electronics for navigation that showed your boat's position overlayed on a nautical chart. That seemed like the future and were cost-prohibitive at this point, especially for a small boat.
The new technology used satellites. Wood was sure that, at some point, it would replace the Loran C that was now the standard. Compared to the new GPS system, the current rudimentary displays showed only the heading and distance to go. Following that information in the backcountry would be a mistake.
Wood used the lights on Big Pine Key to navigate. The Avenues was clearly visible off his port side and Doctors Arm a mile or so beyond. The two neighborhoods got him through the bridge to the mostly dark, off-grid No Name Key. Once past the bridge, all he had to work with was a faint glow from the houses of Port Pine Heights on the other side of the island. Running at about eight knots, the ride to the island would take an hour. With no need to hurry, he played it safe, following the axiom that if you are going to hit, hit slow.
The channel finally opened up, and he accelerated to ten knots. Wood studied the water. Fortunately, the moon was out, and the sky was clear, allowing him to see the intricacies of the surface. A trained eye could distinguish the flats and shoals by the way the small wind-driven waves interacted with them.
He was relieved when he saw Upper Harbor Key in the moonlight. The island, the last outpost before the open Gulf, stood out like a beacon. Wood knew the waters here and steered the convoluted course to reach Harbor Channel and the island.
A solid hour after he had left Waller standing at the boat ramp, he ran the boat onto the island’s small beach.
Am certainly enjoying this!!!! Thanks!