Mama Gets Hitched (16 page)

Navigating slowly through a
lock leading to Lake Okeechobee, I broke into the
Gilligan’s Island
theme song from behind the boat’s wheel: “Well, sit right down and hear a tale …”

By the time I reached the verse about the ill-fated three-hour cruise, storm clouds had gathered on Carlos’ face.

“Sorry,” I said. “Couldn’t resist.”

As we hit open water, several moments passed in silence as I opened the throttle, familiarized myself with the give in the steering, and settled as comfortably as possible in the elevated captain’s chair behind the wheel. There was a big rip on the seat’s plastic upholstery, and I felt a damp spot from the soaked stuffing spreading across the butt of my work pants.

The fish camp’s boat was a 16-foot fiberglass skiff, and only half as crappy as some of the vessels we’d seen at the dock. Carlos sat in the front, on the flat surface of the bow, facing me. I spotted a fish hawk pass overhead, fat prey squirming in its talons.

“Better watch out.” I pointed skyward. “If that osprey drops his dinner, it might knock you out. Talk about your unidentified flying objects.”

Carlos barely raised his eyes. Not even a chuckle. He sat stiffly, his fingertips touching a life vest next to him. There’d only been one vest in the hold. It was mildewed, ratty-looking, and faded by the sun from orange almost to white. Darryl apparently wasn’t big on strict compliance with Coast Guard safety standards. I’d handed the sole life jacket to Carlos.

Frowning, he pinched it between two fingers and held it out for inspection. Even from the back of the boat, near the stern, I could smell the fish stink on it.

“Just keep it within reach,” I’d told him. “I don’t think we’ll be hitting any icebergs.”

Now, we were heading into a notoriously shallow area of the lake. I tilted the motor up, bringing the propeller closer to the surface and away from the sharp rocks and thick grasses that lurked below. The boat’s flat bottom was a blessing. When the lake was low, I’d seen many vessels with V-shaped hulls run aground in these waters.

As soon as we were through the shallows, I lowered the prop and throttled up again. Carlos scanned the vast surface. “All I see is lake. Where’s this Ostrich Island?”

“Osprey.” I bit back a smile. Outsiders! “It’s not much farther.”

The motor purred. The boat might not look like much, but Rabe knew his way around an engine. Though ancient, the Evinrude seemed to be in tip-top shape. The breeze was picking up. Puffy white clouds skidded across a brilliant sky. The wind gave the lake a bit of a chop. The boat thudded over the waves, making for a bumpy ride.

“If—you’d—slow—down—it might—be—a—little—smoother.” Carlos’ words stuttered out in time to the boat’s bounces.

“If I slow down, we might not catch up to Darryl.”

The boat pounded the water. I glanced at him. His face was white.

“You don’t get sick, do you? This chop’s not much, but I know Marty gets seasick staring at a glass of water.”

“I’m not sick.” He clamped his lips shut.

“If you say so. But you might want to sit back here, where you can look forward. And if you do feel queasy at all, it helps to stare at a fixed point on the horizon.” I gestured to the far distance, where blue sky met the dark waters of the lake.

“How—
thud
—do you find a fixed point—
thud
—when you feel like you’re strapped to a basketball—
thud
—in full dribble?”

I looked at my watch. “We’re maybe fifteen to twenty minutes away.”

“You didn’t tell me we’d be navigating the entire lake.”

“Not even close. Lake Okeechobee is thirty miles from east to west; about the same from north to south. After Lake Michigan, it’s the second-biggest freshwater lake that lies entirely within the continental United States.”

“Very impressive, professor, even though I’ve heard the stats before.” He turned his head right and then left. “It’s still too much water for me.”

With an almost imperceptible shudder, he cast his eyes down to the deck.

We were silent for a bit; me watching the compass on the console and the shapes of the clouds crowding the sky; Carlos apparently memorizing the squiggly lines running through the boat’s fiberglass finish.

When the engine sputtered, his head jerked up. “What’s that?”

It sputtered again and then coughed.

“Crap,” I said. “It sounds like we’re out of gas.”

He grabbed for the life vest.

“No worries. I checked the second tank before we left. It’s full.” I shut off the motor. “It’ll just take a couple of minutes for me to change the fuel line to the full tank.”

I was busy, tending to the tanks, pumping the gas, starting the engine to get us underway again.

“Mace?” Carlos said.

“Hmm?”

“Is there supposed to be water back there, inside the boat?”

“Well, a little water is normal. It might be rainwater from that storm a couple days ago. Or maybe some spray from the wake.”

“I’m not talking about a little water. I’m talking about a lot.”

I felt a tiny stab of fear. “C’mon over here and take the wheel. And don’t worry, Carlos. Everything’s fine.”

A moment later, I’d revised that assessment. “Shit.”

“What’s wrong?”

I stooped at the transom, where earlier I’d seen the boat plug securely stuck into the drain hole when we set off from Darryl’s camp. Now, the plug was missing. When I stopped the boat to change the tanks, water had flooded in. It swirled now around my boots, soaking the toes.

“We’ve taken on some water.” I tried to squeeze out all inflection, making it a simple declaration of fact. Neither good nor bad.

“What?!” His voice rose. The boat lurched right as he jumped up from the seat, his shoes hitting a flooded deck. He stared for a long moment at the water eddying around his feet.

“We’ll probably be all right as long as we keep moving,” I said. “The water should drain out.”

I don’t think he even heard me. His breath was coming in ragged gasps.

“This cannot be happening again.” Staring at the flooded deck, his eyes were huge; the color gone from his face.

He stepped away from the wheel. I grabbed it. He moved to the bow, struggling to don the stinking life vest. The frayed strap with a clasp at the end fell apart in his hand. The fear in his eyes scared me. I’d never seen this man when he wasn’t in control of his emotions.

“Hang on, Carlos. We need to keep moving.”

I put a hand on his arm. He shook it off. And then he gave a short nod, almost to himself. He leaned down, removed a revolver from an ankle holster, and laid it carefully on the console.

“You don’t understand. I cannot stay on this boat.”

I had one hand on the wheel, my other arm reaching out to him as he stepped toward the bow. “Wait, Carlos … I …”

I’d barely gotten out those words before he climbed up, shut his eyes, and crossed himself. Then he stepped over the side, dropping feet first into the dark waters of Lake Okeechobee.

Carlos’ arms flailed. The
unclasped life vest floated up, tight against his neck. Water splashed wildly. I cut the engine and stretched out on the bow, reaching a hand toward him.

“Look at me!” I yelled. “Right here! Look at me.”

Panicked, he paid no attention, just kept fighting the lake. The thrashing motion of his arms whipped up the water around him, like a hurricane’s surge. His head went under.

I stood on the bow, wiggled out of my T-shirt and boots, and went in after him. It took just a moment or two to reach the spot where he’d gone down. I grabbed his shirt collar and pulled him back up, still fighting.

“Carlos!”

As he turned his head to the sound of my shout, his chin barely grazed the surface of the lake.

“Stop struggling! You’re okay. Just stand up.”

His brows drew together in a question. The windmill of his arms slowed. Realization slowly dawned.

“The lake is shallow,” I said. “You’re less likely to drown out here than to get attacked by a gator. And with the way you’re splashing around, one of these big boys is going to mistake you for a distressed animal. He’ll make you his dinner.”

Standing now, he untangled the vest from around his neck. A sheepish look crept across his face.

“Walk around to the back of the boat with me. I’ll show you where to climb in.”

“But the boat’s sinking.”

“Not yet. But the longer we stay stopped in the water, the more likely that is. Even if it does sink, we’ll scuttle the piece of crap. We can probably wade all the way to shore.”

I scanned the lake, saw no other boat traffic on this weekday. Where were the weekend anglers, the “bassholes,” when we needed them?

“Good thing you didn’t jump in with your gun,” I said. “We can use it to scare away the gators.”

Casting an uneasy glance over each shoulder, he hurried after me to the stern.

“I guess I looked pretty stupid, jumping over.”

I’d seen real terror in his eyes. Nothing stupid about that. “Not at all,” I said.

Where had that fear of boats and his blinding panic come from? I wasn’t going to ask him. He’d tell me when he was ready.

Once we were onboard, I quickly searched through a bin below the console. A bottle opener. Bug spray. An extra set of keys. A screwdriver. And then, success.

“This is what we need.” I held up a spare plug. “As we get underway, bail as quickly as you can with that bait bucket. If we can get moving, the boat will angle up on plane, and the water should drain.”

I started the engine as Carlos set to work. His confidence seemed to grow with each bucketful of water he tossed overboard. The lighter we got, the faster we went, until water streamed out through the open hole.

“Can you navigate again, while I see if I can get the plug in?” I asked. “We’re headed back to the camp, so just keep the compass pointing east.”

Grabbing the wheel with new assurance, he turned his face toward the sun. It seemed like he’d faced some awful fear, and was grateful to have survived to see daylight again.

I leaned over the transom, felt for the drain hole, and worked the plug in with the heel of my hand. “I got it!” I finally yelled. “Hallelujah.”

I saw Carlos’ shoulders relax. I was still soaked, and the rush of the wind felt cold. I stripped off my wet bra and was about to shrug back into my dry T-shirt, when he turned his head to say something. I couldn’t help but notice how his eyes flickered across my breasts. I quickly pulled my shirt over my body.

He’d seen me naked before, of course. But for some reason I felt embarrassed. I found a nylon jacket under the bench seat, and tossed it to him.

“You might want to take off that wet shirt. The sun feels warm now, but you’ll get cold at this speed in the wind.”

He caught the jacket. I stood next to the captain’s chair, steering as he changed into the dry jacket. When he was done, he took back the wheel, and I moved to the side to lean against the gunnel.

“Thanks, Mace. And thanks for saving us.”

I waved a hand, like it was nothing. “Guess we won’t end up in watery graves at the bottom of the lake after all.”

A look of pain raced across his face. I immediately regretted my lame attempt at levity.

“Sorry.”

He shrugged. “I should be used to it. It’s been many years.”

“But you’re not.”

“No.”

Neither of us spoke for a time. The engine whined. The throttle was fully open. We still headed east, back to the camp. A shift in the wind had smoothed the lake’s surface.

“Do you want to reverse course, go find Darryl, now that we’re not taking on water?”

“No. I need to regroup.”

“Regroup how?”

He lifted his wet pant leg and showed me his ankle, trailing lake vegetation. “Well, dry clothes, and minus this green stuff in my holster, for example.”

“It’s called water lettuce.”

Ignoring my botany lesson, he said, “I want the upper hand when I meet up with our friend Darryl. Do you think he sabotaged the boat?”

As soon as Carlos mentioned sabotage, a news story from a few years back popped into my head. The focus was on dirty tricks in a bass fishing tournament. And then I got a quick image of a spool of fishing line I’d seen on a table under the thatched-roof of the chickee hut.

“Oh, man.” I slapped my forehead.

“What?”

“Fifty-pound test line. When I saw it today at the camp, I wondered why anybody would have such strong line for lake fishing. It wasn’t for fishing. You tie a length of it to a boat plug, add a big hook at the end, and where the water’s shallow, the hook snags something on the bottom. Pop. There goes your plug.”

Carlos cocked his head toward the transom. “Would Darryl know that trick?”

“I’m sure he has knowledge of anything that’s illegal, unethical, or just plain mean. But would he take a chance like that with a cop, given what surely must be a prior record?”

Carlos nodded. “Good point, which raises the next question: Who all had access to this boat before we set out on the lake?”

I thought about Rabe, lurking by the dock the day I talked to Darryl. I hoped Carlos’ answer implicated Darryl instead of his stepson.

“My money’s on Darryl,” I said, remembering how his black eyes had glittered with cruelty. “And speaking of predators …”

I pointed to the lake. A big gator glided by, head atop the water, powerful tail moving to and fro under the surface. The distance from eyes to snout tip was at least a foot.

“
¡
Dios mío
! That’s a monster.”

“Twelve feet, at least,” I agreed.

Carlos swallowed hard. “What if he’d been swimming by a few minutes earlier?”

“Well, he wasn’t,” I said. “We were lucky.”

His eyes got a faraway look. “Just like I was lucky before.”

I didn’t want to push him. But my curiosity was growing. And he
had
brought it up.

“What do you mean, ‘before’ ?” I asked.

He took so long to answer, I thought maybe the wind had swallowed my question.

“
Mi hermano
.” His voice was so soft, I had to lean in to hear him. “My brother.”

Goosebumps rose on my arms, and not just because I was still half-soaked.

“He drowned,” Carlos said.

“When?”

“A long time ago. He was seven. I was four. We’d gone to the coast.”

His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. He stared at the horizon.

“My brother didn’t want to take our uncle’s little boat into the ocean. But I begged to get closer to the dolphins we’d seen swimming offshore.”

Carlos’ gaze moved across the lake. Was he seeing those long-ago dolphins frolicking? What else did he see in that endless water?

“My brother wasn’t like other older brothers. He never picked on me, or bossed. He was happiest when he could make me happy. I remember him frowning up at these big, dark clouds forming in the sky. But I wanted to catch up to those dolphins so badly, I cried …”

His voice faded. He shook his head.

“The weather changed?”

He nodded. “The rain fell so hard, it felt like needles piercing the skin on my bare arms. And it was cold. Which is strange, because Cuba was always warm. My teeth chattered. Waves kept sloshing into the boat; my feet were soaked. I complained I was freezing. My brother stood up to look for a towel, or anything dry.”

Lifting a hand over his face, he pinched the bridge of his nose. It was as if he wanted to force the memories far back into his mind again.

“I’m so sorry, Carlos.”

When he spoke again, he sounded emotionless, like an expert testifying in court. “A big wave hit, and knocked Raul off balance. Before I could make a move, he’d fallen over the side. He must have banged his head as he went over. It seemed like it happened so fast. Raul could swim, but I couldn’t. I was afraid to jump in. But I kept watching, calling his name. He never surfaced. And the waves kept sloshing over the sides of the boat.”

I pictured Carlos as a four-year-old: Drenched. Frightened. Watching the water rise in the boat. My heart nearly burst.

“I kept praying for the dolphins to rescue him, to swim him to safety.”

His voice was barely a whisper. I took a step closer. “How’d you get to shore?”

“Some fishermen were coming in, running from the storm. They saw me alone in this nearly sunken boat, out there in the ocean. I told them Raul had fallen in. They looked for him, but I’d already drifted from where he went under. His body was never found.”

He stared into the sky, watching a big cloud. Then he spoke again. “I’m not even sure why I jumped over today. I was afraid of the water, but I was even more scared the boat would sink. It doesn’t make any sense.”

Pure panic never does. I wasn’t sure how to comfort him. What would Marty say? I moved closer and put a hand to his cheek. He leaned his face into my hand, resting it there for a moment. When he pulled away to look at me, his eyes shone darkly with guilt and pain and unshed tears.

I brought my mouth to his ear and whispered, “It wasn’t your fault. You were just kids.”

“That’s what everyone told me. But I heard the talk. I noticed how people stared. I watched my mother turn away. Her grief over Raul was so strong, she could barely stand to look at me.”

I thought of the close relationship between Carlos and his grandmother, and the fact he rarely spoke of his mother. And once, when I’d asked, he said he had no siblings. My mama might drive me crazy, but I couldn’t imagine my life without her, or my sisters.

“Was it just the two of you?”

A short nod. “I must have wished a million times to take back those five minutes on the shore, when I begged him to go. I’ve hated boats ever since.”

I felt my face burn over my stupid jibes. Had I really sung the
Gilligan’s Island
song?

The rise of the dike was clear in the distance.

“We’re getting close to Darryl’s camp,” I said.

He cleared his throat. “Thanks for listening, Mace. You’ve always been easy to talk to.”

“I just wish I could wave a wand to give you a do-over of that day.”

“Me, too.” His smile was tinged with sadness. “You would have liked Raul. He was kind and gentle. Much nicer than me.”

I smiled at him. “Oh, I don’t know, Carlos. I happen to think you’re pretty nice.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Really? As nice as Tony Ciancio with his Rolex watch and sailboat tan?”

“Nicer, in fact.” I touched his cheek. “And you’ve got a pretty good tan yourself.”

Now that the color had returned to his face, his skin looked yummy, like butterscotch toffee. I had the urge to lean over and taste it.

He laid his palm over mine, pressing my hand against his face. Then he turned his head ever so slightly, just enough for his lips to meet my open palm. When they did, what felt like an electrical current jolted me clear down to my bare feet.

“Hmmm,” I said. “That’s nice.”