Fallen Hunter (Jesse McDermitt Series) Read online

  “Yeah,” Jackson said. “The other fellow that asked me about it, I heard on the news a couple weeks later, he drowned up there.”

  Drowned? No way. What were the odds that he was talking about my old friend Russ?

  “In fact,” Jackson continued, pointing at my left forearm, “he had a tattoo, just like the one you got there.”

  I glanced down at the winged skull with a scuba regulator in its teeth and crossed oars behind it. It's the logo for Force Recon. Both Russ and I were Recon Marines. In fact, he was my Platoon Sergeant for a time. “Just like this?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Jackson said, “Maybe you heard about it on the news.”

  “No,” I lied. “I live up in the Content Keys. No phone, no lights, no motor cars.”

  “Not a single luxury,” Willy T added, laughing. “Man, I loved that show, when I was a kid.”

  “Yeah,” I laughed. “Me too.” Then turning to Jackson, I said, “You seem to know a lot about an obscure Civil War wreck.”

  “Didn't tell ya my last name,” Jackson said.

  “Oh,” I said. “I thought Jackson was your last name.”

  “Nope, Jackson McCormick's the name. Colonel McCormick was my great-great grandpa.”

  “Ahhh,” I said. “That explains it.”

  “This other guy that was looking, he'd heard I was the Colonel's direct descendent and came down here to talk to me. Showed him some letters from gramps to granny, where he mentioned this French fella. Seems kinda funny him and you both askin' me about that wreck and both of ya having the same ink.”

  “Lot of guys were in Force Recon,” I said. “If we served at the same time, I might know him. What was his name?”

  Jackson looked up toward the awning, obviously thinking. “Don't recall the first name, but his last name was Livingston. I remember, cause that was my first wife's maiden name.”

  “Russell Livingston?” I asked, even though I knew the answer.

  Jackson snapped his fingers and pointed at me, saying, “Yeah, that's it. You knew him?”

  “Yeah, we served together in the eighties. I haven't seen him since about 1988,” I lied.

  Jackson seemed to buy it. I don't know why I wanted to keep it secret from the man, but I always tend to withhold information that's not directly needed.

  “So, anyway,” Jackson continued, “your friend seemed to be a decent fella. Sorry to be the one to tell ya. He was interested in Civil War history and said he was doing research on the Second Florida Cavalry. Not a lot of people know about those guys. Gramps was their commanding officer and he wrote to Granny in one letter, saying that he was taking this Douzaine Dior fella to Colonel Harrison of the First Florida Battalion, intending to fund the southern cause.”

  “Why would the French do that?” I asked. “Sorry, I don't know much about the Civil War, except what I learned in high school. And I was more intent on girls and cars, anyway,”

  “Yeah,” Willy T said, “weren't we all.”

  “It's simple,” Jackson continued. “With a fractured country, the French would have not one, but two trading partners.”

  “Makes sense, I guess,” I said. My mind was wandering elsewhere though. I'd have to give Deuce a call and find out if my hunch was right about 'Douzaine Lingots Dior'.

  “Well guys,” I said, as I stood up, “I gotta get. Heading down to Key West for a few days.” I shook hands with both men and headed back to the dock, with Pescador trotting along beside me.

  I stepped aboard the Grady, started the engine and cast off. Pescador took his usual spot in the bow, sitting on the starboard side bench seat. There're shallow shoals just off the campground, directly south of the canal, so I took the channel between the bridges to Spanish Harbor Channel, then turned and went under the new Seven Mile Bridge. I turned southwest until I was almost to G Marker, just inside the reef line in fifteen feet of water, and turned west by southwest. Next stop, Stock Island.

  The more I used it, the more I really liked this boat. The Grady White is a real bulldog of a small offshore boat. Its deep vee slices through the water with ease and being heavier than other boats its size, it takes the rough stuff much better. Comes up a little too high in the bow before it gets up on plane, but with the a little trim tab adjustment, that's no big deal. The head below the center console was a plus, too. Not many center cockpit, open fishermen type boats had a head.

  I'd reinstalled the GPS that I'd found over three months ago, when I came across Russ's killer, stranded on a nearby island. He was nearly dead from dehydration and didn't seem to need it anymore. I switched it on and scrolled through the recent saves. One was dated the same day he was killed and looked to be a spot about two miles out from Fort Pierce inlet. Pretty much where the Marine Patrol had said they found his boat and body.

  I took out the book I'd bought, looked up the marina Angie had told me about, and punched in the numbers. It was about thirty miles, so it'd be about an hour before we got there. The sun had risen while I was talking to Jackson and Willy T and I could feel it's warmth on the back of my neck. There was a light wind out of the south and the ocean was calm, with only slight rollers that offered nothing more than a slight rolling motion, as they went by under the hull. I love being on the water, early in the morning. A small pod of dolphins surfaced just twenty feet off the port bow. Probably moving along the reef, looking for breakfast.

  I rode on, while thinking. I really didn't have any idea what I'd say to Trent when I got there. “Hey, Trent, I hear you been hauling dope.” Guess I'd just have to wing it, kind of feel the guy out. I knew he was a Conch, born and raised in the Keys. His folks were, too. The people who managed to eke out a living on these islands for generations are a hard bunch. They've endured hurricanes, pirates and the drug trade, just to name a few of the many things they've overcome. Though I embraced the island lifestyle, I was still considered an outsider. Someone not to be trusted.

  I was nearing Stock Island so I got my book out, to find out how to get to Oceanside Marina. The book said the channel was a due north approach toward the center of Stock Island, then a channel would cut off to the northeast, before turning due north. The name of the marina was on the roof, easily visible from a mile away. I slowed the boat and looked shoreward, while checking the GPS. It said I was due south of the marina, so I probably needed to go just a little further west. I began a slow turn to the north and pulled my binoculars out of the storage bin. I could easily see the marina and turned toward it. I picked up the channel markers easy enough and the side channel was well marked. A few minutes later, I idled up to the gas dock at Oceanside Marina. After tying off and filling the tank, I paid the attendant and asked where I could dock for an hour or two, to visit a friend.

  “You can just tie off up the dock a ways,” he said. “Away from the pumps, here. It's five dollars an hour.” I gave the kid a twenty and asked if he could tell me how to get to the address Angie had given me.

  “Just go out to the road out front and turn left. It's probably the trailer park just around the bend, on the left.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Keep an eye on my boat for me, will ya.”

  “Sure, mister,” he said. “No problem.”

  “Oh, one other thing. You know of a hotel that allows pets?”

  “Probably a few across the bridge, in Key West,” he said. “None here on Stock Island. Closest would probably be the Double Tree by the airport. I know they allow pets, for certain.”

  I thanked him and walked toward the front of the marina, with Pescador trotting along, sniffing at everything along the way. I went around the bend in the road and just like the kid said, there was a trailer park on the left. One on the right too, and more just up the road. There was a fence around this one and the trailers looked a bit more upscale. I came to a gate, where a road had once been, that had a sign hung slightly crooked that said it was for residents and guests only. There was an old lady sitting on her porch, just the other side of it.

  “Excuse
me, ma'am,” I said. “Is this Harbor Boulevard?”

  “Yep,” she replied. “Who ya lookin' for?”

  “Carl Trent,” I said.

  “Friend a his?”

  “Yes ma'am,” I replied. “From Big Pine.”

  “Third trailer down past mine,” she said. “You can lift that latch there and come through the gate, if ya want.”

  I guess she was the neighborhood watch captain. “Thanks, ma'am,” I said, lifting the latch.

  4

  Friday afternoon

  Trouble on the Water

  I walked through the gate, closed it behind me and walked down the road until I found the address. It was a large double wide trailer, with an enclosed porch that ran around both sides and the front. I walked up the sidewalk and pushed the button beside the door. Hearing nothing, I tapped on the aluminum frame of the door. A woman about mid-thirties opened the inner door and a blast of cold air came out the opening. Country music was playing low inside the house and a little boy was hiding behind her leg.

  “Is Carl home?” I asked.

  She eyed me up and down and said, “Who are you?”

  “Name's Jesse McDermitt. I'm a friend of Angie's.”

  She turned away from the door and I could hear her say something, but couldn't make out what it was. Then Carl came to the door. I could see in his eyes that he recognized me.

  “Hey Carl,” I said. “Angie asked me to stop by. She said maybe I could give you a hand with something.”

  “I know who you are, Jesse. Come on in. Fool girl called last night and said you might be down here.”

  He opened the door and I turned to Pescador and said, “Find some shade.” He walked over to a bougainvillea and sat down under it, facing the road.

  “He'll run off, if he ain't tied,” Trent said.

  “Never has before. We could drink this whole six-pack,” I said, lifting the Hatuey's, “and he'll be sitting just like that, two hours from now.”

  “Takes you two hours to drink three beers?” he said, with a chuckle.

  I walked inside and the woman turned and headed into the kitchen. She came back with two glasses, took the six pack from my hands and poured the glasses full, then went back into the kitchen, with the beer.

  “Have a seat, Jesse,” Trent said. “What's on your mind?”

  I sat down on an overstuffed couch and he sat in an equally overstuffed recliner. The place was nice, lots of comfortable looking furniture, clean and orderly.

  “Angie and Jimmy came up to my house yesterday. They told me about the trouble you're in.” I figured that straight ahead approach would be the best route and just let him think on it. He did, his eyes never wavering from mine. He wasn't a big man, maybe five feet nine, or ten and 180 pounds. He looked hard as granite, with a dark, lined face and hands and his hair bleached from the sun. I'd guess him to be close to my own age, but he looked older.

  “Wasn't her call to involve you, or Jimmy for that matter.”

  I kept my eyes on his and said, “A man's gotta do what has to be done to take care of his family. Whatever it is.”

  “Yeah, you're right about that. But, what I did was too risky and now I can't get out of it.”

  “That sort, you just can't reason with,” I said. “They've lost their souls.”

  He sighed then and looked down at the floor, at his feet. I could almost feel his dejection. After a minute, he looked up and said, “Truth is, I just don't know what to do, or where to turn. Been a shrimper all my life, my dad before me. His dad was a long liner. Business took a down turn a couple years back and I been losing money since.”

  “Who's the one making the threats?” I asked.

  “Man name of Carlos Santiago. He's from up in Miami, one of the Mariel people. Was just a kid when he came over, I guess. About thirty-five years old now and goes back down to Cuba on a regular basis. At least, this is what I hear. I also hear, his dad was one of the one's Castro turned loose from the prisons. Bad people, man. Real bad. But I didn't know that, the first couple times I ran for him.”

  “I know, Carl. People up in Marathon speak highly of you.”

  “Thanks, I hear the same about you.” He took a long pull from his beer and set it down on the table between us. “I just don't know how you can help, man.”

  I thought about it for a minute. Usually I break things down by just following a course in my mind and predict the outcome. When one course breaks down, I back up and try another. Putting my thoughts into words this way, is something I've never done before.

  “Okay,” I said, “let's just run it down. What'd he say when you told him you wanted out?”

  “Said that if I didn't keep hauling for him, I'd come home one day and find my house burned down and my family dead.”

  “Well, that's not an option,” I said. “What do you think he'd say if your boat broke down, or you sold it?”

  “Not an option either, man,” Trent said. “I'm a shrimper, nothing else. Can't sell it and if it breaks down, I gotta fix it. This whole thing's making me sick.”

  “There's an idea,” I said. “What would he do, if you got sick? Like, real sick?”

  “One of my crew's in his pocket,” he said. “They'd go out anyway.”

  “Not without a licensed Captain,” I said. “Any of your crew got papers?”

  “No,” he said. “Santiago'd put his own Skipper on board.”

  “Not if you hired one,” I said. “What do you think he'd do about that?”

  “Not sure. What you getting at?

  “Hire me, Carl. Let me run your boat and I'll find an angle. Take your wife and kids up to my island for a week or two. Let's see what happens.”

  “You have papers?” he asked.

  “One hundred ton Masters,” I said. “I've never actually skippered a shrimp boat, but I run my own offshore fishing charter. The crewman that's in Santiago's pocket? It's not your Mate is it?”

  “No, my Mate's a solid young man. He wants out of this too. Said he was gonna quit me if I couldn't find a way out.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “A good Mate can run the boat by himself. Only the Skipper needs to be licensed, right?”

  “Right. Bob, my Mate, does have a First Mate's license, though.”

  “I'd like to meet him,” I said.

  “He lives just around the corner, I can call him. Why do you want to get involved in my mess, Jesse?”

  “Guess I just don't like it when an honest guy gets bullied,” I replied. “Yeah, give Bob a call. See if he's got a few minutes.”

  Trent made the call. While he talked I asked myself the same question. Why was I getting involved? Angie's a friend, but I barely knew her. Jimmy's a good friend, but Trent's two steps away from me, there. I really don't like bullies, is that all it is? Or was it just to occupy myself, to keep from thinking about Alex, since I'd finished the work on the island?

  Trent finished his call and said, “He'll be over in a few minutes. That's it, then? You don't like seeing people bullied?”

  “That's not just it,” I said. “To be honest, I'm not sure. Four months ago, my wife was murdered by some bad people.” I just blurted it out, like that must be the reason.

  “I'd heard about that,” he said. “Couldn't imagine what it musta been like for you.”

  The front door opened and a young man walked in. He was almost my height, but slimmer than my 230 pounds. He had sandy colored hair down past his ears, a deep tan except around his eyes, where he obviously wore sunglasses. He was dressed like a waterman, jeans, tee-shirt and worn topsiders.

  Trent and I both stood up and Trent said, “Jesse, this is my First Mate, Bob Talbot. Bob, Jesse McDermitt, from up in Marathon.” I shook his hand and noticed the tattoo on his arm of a winged staff, called a caduceus, entwined with two snakes, the emblem of the Navy Corpsman. He had a firm, dry grip and clear green eyes that held mine steady.

  “Good to meet you, Jesse,” he said.

  “You too, Doc,” I responded.r />
  He started to say something to Trent, then stopped and looked back at me, more appraisingly. Then his eyes found the Recon tattoo and he looked up and smiled. “Force Recon, huh?”

  I nodded and he added, “Served with some Jarheads, both artillery and infantry, 4/10 my first year, then 1/9.” First Battalion, Ninth Marines had a long, storied history in the Corps. They earned the nickname Walking Dead in Vietnam, but he was way too young for that. I knew that Tenth Marines was an artillery regiment, based at Camp Lejeune, also.

  “Walking Dead?” I asked.

  “Yeah, they were reactivated a few years back. Afghanistan.”

  Trent looked from one of us to the other and said, “You guys know each other?”

  “No,” I said laughing. “But we definitely chewed some of the same sand.”

  “So,” Doc said, “what's this about you wanting to help us out?”

  So, I told both men a little about my background for starters, both in the Corps and since then. We discussed a lot of options, finishing off the rest of the Hatuey's I'd brought. Although Trent didn't like the idea of hiding out, Doc and I convinced him that for the safety of his family, it would be the best thing to do. I told him about my island and that they'd have plenty of room and the use of my skiff and the Grady. He decided that maybe his family could use a short fishing vacation, away from the rat race.

  They were due to go back out in two days and Santiago had a pickup arranged in the Gulf, on their second day out, before returning with their catch. That gave us plenty of time for Trent to get things together. Then I'd ferry them out to my island.

  After two more hours, we had a pretty good working plan. Everything would go as usual, until I showed up at the docks instead of Trent. Bob would act surprised and concerned when I told him that Trent had hired me to Skipper, while he's undergoing hyperbaric treatment at the hospital in Key Largo, suffering from an embolism and decompression sickness, caused by a scuba diving accident.