Wood's Wall (20 page)

The reef was more active at night. He ignored the lobsters bravely walking across the sandy bottom, seeking new homes, empowered by the night. An octopus floated by him, translucent in his light. In the limited visibility he was unable to find the landmark coral heads, he took forty five frustrating minutes just to locate the rocks blocking the cavern. Now he was concerned about the time — already six minutes past the no-decompression limit, he calculated the stops he would have to make on the way up. Twenty feet for ten minutes, and then ten feet for another ten minutes. Nothing you wanted to do at night, especially without an anchor line to hold on to.

He shivered as he removed the BC and set it on the sand next to the opening. Regulator clamped in his teeth, he moved the rocks blocking the entrance and eased his way in. The light illuminated the coral, and the lead ball was visible where he’d left it. He grabbed for it, pulled out of the cavern and reattached his gear. Ball in hand he grabbed the weighted line and started to ascend. A quick glance at his gauges showed the air pressure well below 500 psi, deep in the red zone. As if on cue, the air came harder with each breath, until it stopped. He didn’t need to look at his pressure gauge to know he was out of air. His depth gauge read sixty feet. At a second per foot, the fastest safe ascent, he would need to hold his breath for a minute to reach the surface safely. He kicked his fins, knowing he was going too fast. Ascending faster than your own bubbles was the first thing you learned not to do in your first open water class. But he had no choice. Better to add a few more minutes to his decompression time than to black out and drown. 

He reached the boat and yelled for another tank. Changing tanks while in the water was risky, but he didn’t have time to get on the boat, swap them and then get back in the water. He needed to start his decompression right now or risk the bends. The seas had increased in the short time he had been down, the wind picking up as darkness cooled the air. The boat bobbed up and down, making it difficult to communicate. 

Hoping the men had understood what was needed, he blew into the purge valve on his BC. The BC inflated allowing him to bob on the surface. He turned onto his back and swam to the boat, giving directions as he closed the gap. Time was the enemy now, every second brought him closer to the bends. 

“Hey, drop the anchor,” he yelled. Two splashes within seconds indicated the anchor had been dropped and at the same time a tank splashed into the water next to him, a line attached to it. The lead ball still in his hand, so he tossed it onto the boat, grabbed the line, and tied it off to his inflated BC. Not wanting to waste the time to change tanks, one hand reached behind his head, unscrewed the first stage from the spent tank, and attached it to the new tank. Then, the full tank cradled in his arms, he turned the air valve on and let the air out of his BC. He sank into the darkness stopping at twenty feet, the line his only connection to the boat.

The boat bounced in the waves above him, pulling the line tight in his hand every time a wave hit. It felt like an hour, but his dive watch showed only ten of the twenty minutes he needed until he moved up the line for another twenty minutes at ten feet. As he hung there, the wave action increased. Another twenty minutes and he calculated he’d be OK. He shivered and settled in to wait. Exhaustion set in and his thoughts drifted to Mel.

He started to doze off on the line, but jerked awake when a large wave must have slammed the boat. The bow lifted in the air, pulling the line from his hand, and within moments it was out of his reach. He finned toward it, panicking at the sudden lack of connection, but couldn’t reach it, the boat’s bulk pushed by the wind and current, moving it faster than he could swim.

***

Trufante was the first to notice that the boat was moving. He’d sobered up enough to feel the hull turn sideways, parallel with the seas. An anchored boat would have it’s bow pointed into them. 

“Dude, check that anchor. That wave must have pulled it,” he grumbled, already moving toward the line. If they moved too far, it would be trouble. Though he couldn’t quite remember why.

Pete went forward and pulled the line Mac was holding. Instead of resistance, the line came in easily. “He’s gone. What now?”

Trufante went to the helm and started the engine. “Pull those lines in quick! Mac should be around here somewhere, we have to find him. How long’s he been in?”

No one answered and Trufante, suddenly sober, fumbled with Mac’s phone, trying to get the GPS to start working again. “You guys keep a lookout for him or the cushion - anything.” He scanned the water ahead of them,desperate, wishing for more of a moon to penetrate the darkness.

***

Mac drifted in the current, the boat’s lights fading in the swells. Even at the crest of a wave, he was unable to see it. He knew yelling would be futile, but he had to do something. His hands went for the BC, instinctually finding the left clip. But he came up empty, groaning. His own equipment had a signal whistle clipped to the left and a multi-tool to the right side. Both clips on the borrowed vest were empty. He got onto his back, the inflated BC keeping his head out of the water. With no need of the full tank, he jettisoned it and floated freely. No point carrying the extra weight.

He had to figure out a way out of this mess.

Trained as a commercial diver, instinct took over. He knew they would be searching for him, but doubted even a trained search and rescue operation would be able to find a lone diver in these kinds of seas at night. At least the commercial boats handed out glow sticks to attach to everyone’s tanks. Shore was five miles away. The next closest structure was Sombrero Reef. He glanced over his right shoulder and saw the light blinking from the 142-foot tower. It looked to be less than a mile away, the seas running toward it. Accepting this as his best option, he rolled onto his stomach and took a quick compass heading. Once on his back he reversed the heading and started to kick, eyes focused on the compass.

34

Cesar stood in the kitchen, Mel’s phone in his hand, waiting for an answer from Mac. He had sent a picture of Mel and Jules as hostages. “Your boyfriend is late. Maybe I should get Jose to cut off your finger or something. I can take a picture and send it to him.” He held the phone up. “Very good for business - these things.”

Jose took the cue and grabbed a knife from the counter and went toward her. Cesar smiled as the girls shrunk into each other on the couch. 

“He had to go out to the reef and dive for it,” Mel said.

He went to her and slapped her face. “Why did you not give me this information before?”

“Doesn’t matter. He’s getting it.”

“I wish I could be sure of that.”

“Call Trufante, then. I’d bet he’s with him.”

Cesar scrolled through her contact list and dialed the number. It started ringing and he hit the speaker button and placed the phone on the counter. 

“Yo Yo Yo - You OK?” Trufante answered.

“This is not the lady. I think you know this voice, Cajun.”

“What have you done with her?”

“Don’t worry, she’s fine. She’s right here. Maybe if you cooperate, you’ll get to see her again.” He eyed the girls.

“Mac went after the box. We have it, but we lost him.”

“What do you mean, you lost him?” Cesar yelled into the phone. Mel’s head snapped toward him, fully alert now, and he listened as Trufante spoke.

“Screw him. You are going to bring the box and meet me at the bait shack in an hour. If you are late I may have to take some more pictures.”

***

“We got complications,” Trufante said. 

“This is going to get worse?”

“We don’t have a chance in hell of finding Mac out here, but he’s got the skills to deal with this. The dude says he’s going to kill the girls if we don’t meet him in an hour.”

“Fine. Call the Coast Guard and let them do their job,” Jeff said. “We’ll go deal with this guy. But I’m not just handing this.” He passed the lead ball between his hands. I want something in return. That bastard killed my wife and two friends.”

“We need to just put this behind us,” Pete said. “He’s got all the leverage. He’s got the drugs and the hostages. What are we going to do?”

“I’ll think of something. We call the Coast Guard, they’re going to want to talk to us. The man here says he has the skills to deal with this, so let him.” Jeff said.

They stopped the search and pointed the bow toward shore. 

“You drive.” Jeff handed the wheel to Trufante. 

Trufante took the wheel and brought the boat up on a plane, spray flying as they cut through the waves. He tried to put Mac and the pain from his mind as he navigated toward the dock at Monster Bait. He had to get those girls to safety, or Mac would never forgive him. It meant leaving Mac out there for the time being — which he didn’t like to do — but they’d be back for him soon. If they could find him.

As for Cesar, he wouldn’t expect him to bring the boat in there. He could reach the dock a good half-hour before the meeting time. If there was a chance to surprise him and make a move, this was it. Cesar would be looking toward the road, not the docks.

***

Mac surfed each wave on his back, riding it until it fell into a trough, then finning to catch the next one. His training had taught him that this was the most efficient method for long swims with gear. He shivered as he looked over his shoulder at the lighthouse, it’s white light blinked every ten seconds. The light on top of the 142’ tower marking Sombrero reef was getting closer. Maybe a quarter mile he figured, using some quick geometry, that he’d been two miles away when he started. The base of the lighthouse had been invisible when he had began his swim. His body was starting to shut down from exhaustion and hypothermia. Fortunately the current was helping him towards his goal. He kept a steady pace for an hour. A white light suddenly appeared on the water. As the mast and then the sailboat came into view he pushed harder, reassured that he could get out of the water. Ten minutes later he was at the dive ladder, startling the couple on deck.

“Hey, can you help a guy out?” he yelled from the water.

It took a minute before a head appeared over the side of the ladder. It looked right at him and pulled back. He could hear voices, but not make out the conversation. 

“We’ve got to help him,” the man said.

“What if he’s a pirate or smuggler or something?” Mac heard the woman. He was floating on the surface, his BC inflated, holding onto the dive ladder. 

“We can’t just let him sit out here. I’ll call the Coast Guard and see what’s up.”

A few minutes later, both heads appeared over the side.

“Can you give a hand?” he gasped, nearly spent. He needed to get out of the water. After at least two hours, between the dive and the swim, even the eighty degree water could induce hypothermia. 

They pulled him onto the boat, out of breath, exhausted from the effort. 

“We were going to head into Boot Key and anchor there for the night. It’s getting a little nautical out here.” The man said. “We’ll get you ashore before we anchor.

Mac took off the tank and BC then collapsed on the deck. 

***

The buoy marking the entrance to Knights Key was close when he came to. He scanned his body checking for injury. The couple had given him a blanket and he had finally warmed up. Hypothermia was no longer a threat and he seemed fine, except for the joint pain and headache. Knowing the symptoms of decompression sickness was one thing; fixing it now was out of the question. He didn’t have time to get to a hyperbaric chamber — he had to get to Mel and Jules. The woman appeared with a bottle of water. He rubbed the cold plastic against his head as he reviewed everything he could remember about the bends. 

“You OK?” the woman asked.

“Yeah, thanks for everything. My place is just up about a half mile. Would you mind dropping me there?”

“Sure thing,” the man answered. Mac could tell from his expression that he was relieved to get him off the boat - still alive.

The ten minutes it took to reach his dock passed in silence, the boat moving at the five mph harbor speed limit. His dock was dark and empty as the man helped offload the dive gear, and Mac said thank you and goodbye. As the boat pulled away he left the gear on the dock and headed up to the house. He yanked at the crime scene tape, tearing it in half, and rolled up the garage door. With the exception of the blood,tape and numbered markers on the floor the workshop and his office looked as he had left them. Once in the office he grabbed the laptop and headed upstairs. In the bathroom he grabbed a handful of aspirin, went back to the kitchen and downed them with a shot of Scotch. He eyed the bottle, taking two more hits from it as he waited for the computer to boot up. 

The screen came to life, icons popping up one by one. He went to the internet browser and then to his wireless carrier, clicked on the option to track his phone, took another shot from the bottle, and waited for the spinning wheel on the screen. With his tendency to lose his phone, Mel had installed the software to help locate it. Finally a map displayed a red icon that represented his phone, the dot was moving through the harbor. He cursed himself for disconnecting his land line in favor of his cell phone, which meant he was now unable to call anyone. From the direction of the icon, it appeared that they were at Monster Bait.