Rising Warrior Read online

  Copyright © 2020

  Published by DOWN ISLAND PRESS, LLC, 2020

  Beaufort, SC

  Copyright © 2020 by Wayne Stinnett

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without express written permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Library of Congress cataloging-in-publication Data

  Stinnett, Wayne

  Rising Warrior/Wayne Stinnett

  p. cm. - (A Jesse McDermitt novel)

  ISBN: 978-1-7339351-7-3 (eBook)

  Cover photograph by Surakit Sawangchit

  Graphics by Wicked Good Book Covers

  Edited by The Write Touch

  Final Proofreading by Donna Rich

  Interior Design by Ampersand Book Designs

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Many real people are used fictitiously in this work, with their permission. Most of the locations herein are also fictional or are used fictitiously. However, the author takes great pains to depict the location and description of the many well-known islands, locales, beaches, reefs, bars, and restaurants throughout the Florida Keys and the Caribbean to the best of his ability.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  More from Jesse

  Maps

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Afterword

  More from Wayne Stinnett

  Gaspar's Revenge Ship's Store

  Dedicated to my grandchildren, Kira, Lexi, Emily, and Jack. May your lives be as full of adventure and love as Pappy’s has been.

  “If your work is deathwork, one weapon is not enough, just as a plumber would not answer an urgent service call with a single wrench.”

  –Dean Koontz

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  Charity Styles Series

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  September 1968

  Collier County, Florida

  The two-lane road was dark and ran straight as an arrow through the swamp. The headlights from a lone pickup pierced the darkness, showing two elongated, yellow pools of light on the broken pavement.

  The truck slowed, and the headlights splashed across a trailer on the corner as the truck turned off the main road and pointed toward the end of the abandoned trailer park.

  No lights burned in any of the trailers’ windows. The deteriorating hulks were mere shadows in the moonlight, some not sitting quite level, as the elements continued to take their toll on them.

  The previous two summers had been dry, and farming had suffered greatly. Each was followed by the normal dry season—the winter months up north—and water levels dropped further. Most of the water had been diverted to the big sugar plantations to the east.

  Many of the residents had simply given up, not having enough food or water to survive the harsh climate. The trailer park was a failed development, built to house migrant workers. It now lay abandoned in the swamp.

  Finally, the summer storms did come, but by the spring of 1968, few people remained in the area. Hurricane Abby had made landfall just ninety miles to the north in early June, bringing much-needed rain to the parched southern half of the state. But the soil had been so dry for so long, and the storm had moved so quickly inland, that very little of the precious rainwater had seeped into the aquifer. It simply ran off, causing flash floods in many areas.

  The sun had blazed for two weeks after Abby, turning Southwest Florida into a sauna, and baking the soil to a dry crust once again.

  Abby had been a tease.

  Then Tropical Storm Brenda landed just twenty miles to the south of Chokoloskee, bringing more rain to the arid soil, now rutted with dried-up runoff creeks that in no way resembled the regimented furrows of the small farms on the mainland.

  And that was it.

  A total of nearly twenty inches of rain fell in two short periods during early June, and nearly all of it had just run down to the Gulf.

  For the rest of June, July, and on into August, the sun had beaten down without mercy, scorching the coast of Southwest Florida beyond endurance.

  Wells dried up and more people left, until only the hardiest remained.

  What nobody knew was that some of that rainwater hadn’t run off. It had pooled around anything that stuck up out of the earth and then leached down alongside it, softening the soil. All through the summer, whenever the wind blew, if you looked closely at the base of a power pole, you might have seen that it was moving.

  But nobody looked. Most had left, given up, beaten, and defeated.

  It wasn’t just the power poles, either. The water had seeped around concrete bridge abutments, fence posts, water towers, buildings, cracks in the roads, and anything else that was built into or on the ground.

  Water was the great equalizer, and Southwest Florida was rife for disaster.

  And then disaster came.

  Not in the form of a massive hurricane, nor even a named storm, but in the guise of a very slow-moving tropical depression that arrived in late August. The storm had formed in the Gulf of Mexico and moved northeast toward the coast far to the north. It was broad, and rain bands reached the small communities to the south days before the storm made landfall.

  When it had first reached the coast near Clearwater, it suddenly turned
south and reemerged into the Gulf. Tropical systems rarely moved southward and this one moved very slowly, not developing in strength. But its counterclockwise rotation brought heavy rain, wind gusts, and pounding surf to the south of its loosely organized center. The storm—later called Tropical Depression Eleven—made two more landfalls; one in Holmes Beach and another near Venice, before turning to the north and setting its sights on Jacksonville.

  The eight-day heavy rain, dumping fifteen inches in some places, had been all that was needed. Water filled the now widened cracks again, and the wind gusts used the force of the water like a hydraulic ram, pushing out more soil from around the bases of everything man-made.

  The combination of wind and rain brought down the power grid, but that was just the beginning. The storm surge and wind-driven waves as high as ten feet flooded out bridges and undermined roads, as well as water towers and other structures, which toppled in comedic slow motion. Many buildings were left damaged to the extent they might as well have been destroyed, as foundations settled, and walls cracked.

  Many homes became uninhabitable, because the pilings they were built on sank at different rates, fracturing floors, walls, and ceilings.

  So, the trailer park was empty.

  All the former residents were gone, and the developer had been left with cracked roads, damaged trailers that were sinking into the mud, no electricity or water, and no means to make repairs or pull the trailers out to sell elsewhere. The wooden bridge to the island the trailer park was built on was barely passable, and impossible to cross while pulling a heavy trailer. After the storm, the developer had just pulled up stakes and left, leaving the trailers to the elements.

  The same had happened to scores of other would-be settlers throughout Florida’s history. The beautiful beaches and waterways were enticing, but the climate was too severe for all but the heartiest.

  The truck moved slowly along the road. It was a Power Wagon built in the 1950s. It came to a stop, its brakes squeaking. The headlights went off and the engine stopped, then the single working brake light also flicked off. The driver opened the door and got out, looking all around as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

  He’d been to this little island many times in the past, but back then, he’d used his small bateaux to cross over from the mainland. Or simply walked through the swamps and tidal creeks.

  The storm that had destroyed the electrical grid and finally ruined the lives of so many in the area had only happened two weeks before, but it was doubtful much of the area would ever recover.

  The man standing by the truck had visited this trailer park twice since the storm to confirm that it was abandoned, both times on a Monday, just like tonight. The trailer park was north of Goodland on the main road to Marco Island and just a little past the swing bridge.

  Nobody was around and it was deathly quiet.

  He was a slight man, gaunt, with a raw, bony face that was showing signs of a man half again his thirty-eight years. He and his kin were some of the hardier ones—people at one with the swamp. Once he was certain he was alone, he walked to the back of the truck and unhooked the chains, dropping the tailgate.

  He was glad the island was once more abandoned. The man considered it his own and knew every inch of it. Or he had, before the trailers were brought over the bridge that connected the island to the main road.

  There was a squeal from the bed of the Dodge.

  “Well, hey there, Miss Twenty-four,” the man said, as he moved some cinder blocks off a tarp. He threw the canvas to the front of the bed and looked down at his prize.

  A girl lay tied hand and foot, moving a little against her bonds.

  The man smacked her on the ass. “Girl, you’d best move a bit more’n that onced I git yo’ purty little ass inside.”

  He grabbed the knots that bound her feet and dragged her roughly to the end of the truck’s bed, causing the hem of her dress to ride up. Then he paused and pulled a silver flask from the back pocket of his dirty overalls. His eyes filled with lust just looking at her thighs.

  The girl squirmed and looked up at him, panic in her eyes.

  “Hang on there, Twenty-four. Imma need a snort before I tote’cha up them steps.”

  He took a long pull from the flask, then his lips pulled back as he closed his eyes tightly and grimaced. “Hoo wee, that’s some good mash.”

  The girl tried to scream, but only a muffled sound came from the dirty rag that was tied securely in her mouth.

  “Ya know,” he said, as he put the flask away and leaned closer to her face, “it was a good bit of luck, I come up on ya when I did. We probly never woulda met, if’n you had’na had that flat tire on yo car.”

  Twenty-three girls before her had come out of whatever store or bar they’d been in, only to find their car had a flat. And twenty-three times, the wiry little man had “come up” on them. The last two times, he’d brought them to this same trailer, which had nothing but swamp for a backyard. With the gators so close at hand, he hadn’t had to dig a hole.

  He grabbed the girl by the rope at her wrists and pulled her closer to the end of the bed, then took her hair in one hand and forced her to her feet.

  His eyes roamed up and down Twenty-four’s body. Her dress was dirty from bouncing around in the back of the truck. One of the shoulder straps was torn, exposing her bra strap, and there was a ripped seam at the side of her waist from his rough handling. She’d realized her mistake minutes after she’d accepted his offer of a ride and gotten into the truck with him.

  She was as tall as him, but at five foot six, that wasn’t saying a whole lot. His wife, Bertha was taller. And after six kids in ten years of wedded bliss, she was nearly as big around.

  “Ain’t you a purty thang,” he said, as he bent and lifted the woman easily to one shoulder. She was tall, but no heavier than a dressed-out doe carcass.

  He carried her to the trailer and mounted the steps. He knew the door wouldn’t be locked. He doubted anyone had been there since he’d brought Twenty-three way out to the trailer park a week ago. Crossing the creaky bridge was scary enough. Balancing the girl, he pulled open the door and stepped inside.

  The man’s need came more often of late. Other things had occupied his time and his mind when he was younger. It’d taken ten years for the first ten girls and only five years since then.

  When he’d brought Twenty-three to the trailer park, he’d pulled a stained mattress from one of the back rooms and put it on the living room floor, pushing the rest of the tattered furniture out of the way.

  He dropped Twenty-four on the mattress and stared down at her. The pretty summer dress she’d worn when she’d come out of the bar in Coral Gables, now torn and stained, had ridden up, exposing her right hip.

  Moonlight streamed through a busted-out back window, falling across her legs and waist. “Yessiree,” he said, as he looked down at her, “me and you gonna have us a fine time tonight.”

  The girl rolled onto her side and looked up at him with tears streaming from her eyes.

  “Cryin’ ain’t gonna do ya no good,” the man said, dropping to his knees. “But you jest go ahead and boo-hoo. I like it.”

  He reached for the neckline of the girl’s dress, intending to rip it right down the middle seam. “Now, let’s have a look at them goodies.”

  Suddenly, he heard the sound of a car turning the corner, its tires protesting on the rough road.

  “Shit!”

  Rising quickly, he pulled a snub-nosed revolver from his pocket and went to the door. He looked out, ready to make a run for it if he had to.

  The truck was stolen, and nothing in it belonged to him. If it was the cops, he’d simply disappear into the swamp and be gone.

  The man’s family had lived in the area since his great-granddaddy had fought in the Civil War. They’d reproduced faster than most families, blurring th
e lines between kin and outsiders when it came to taking a mate. There just weren’t that many people around in those days for a man to be choosy. He had four brothers and three sisters in the area, along with dozens of cousins, nieces, and nephews. All were a hard- scrabble bunch of cutthroats, thieves, and rumrunners. Before he’d taken her for his bride, Bertha had been his second cousin, once removed.

  “Dammit,” the man cursed under his breath. “What the hell’s that fool woman doing out here?”

  He shoved the pistol into his pocket and went outside.

  The door to the 1964 Ford Galaxie opened and the springs creaked as his wife climbed out.

  “C. Roy!” she yelled across the yard at him. “I know what you’re up to in there.”

  “Bertie, what in the Sam Hill are you doing out here?”

  She stomped toward him. “I come to snatch you bald-headed, C. Roy Blanc. That’s what I’m a doin’.”

  “It ain’t what yer thinkin’, Bertie,” C. Roy began, holding up both hands as his mind raced to come up with something. Anything. “Jest give me a minute to explain.”

  “You’re a cheatin’, lyin’ son-of-a-bitch, C. Roy.” Bertha stopped right in front of him. “I know you got another woman holed up in here.”

  She pushed past him and swung the door wide open. The girl on the mattress looked up at her, a newfound expression of hope on her face.

  “It ain’t what it looks like, Bertie! Honest to God.”

  Bertha Blanc turned to her husband, a fat finger pointing down at the girl. “What the hell is that?”

  C. Roy’s face fell and his shoulders slumped. There was no way he could talk his way out of this one. Bertie was way too smart, and he’d always known it. She’d finished junior high before the summer when C. Roy had knocked her up. She was supposed to be his third victim, but she’d kicked him in the balls and taken his knife. Then she’d forced him at knife point to have sex with her, which he found a lot less appealing than sex with him holding the knife.

  Bertha Blanc had been a big girl all her life. And she’d had an attitude to match. She’d been fourteen when C. Roy had pulled that knife, but already a grown woman and a regular at several bars of ill repute. The fact that they shared the same last name didn’t mean anything to her. Half the county did.