Predator in the Keys Page 4

  “Not really,” Harper said. “Other than the fact that all of his victims were in the Glades. But usually, the incidents occur where the Watson River enters into Whitewater Bay.”

  I shot her a confused look. I’d been to the Glades a few times, but I didn’t exactly know the place well.

  “I got you covered, bro,” Jack said. He rose to his feet and headed for the sliding glass door. “Pete, you still keep your charts in your office closet?”

  Pete nodded, then spewed out the chart number and its orientation in a stack. A few seconds later, Jack returned with a cardboard tube. Popping the small plastic lid, he pulled out the chart, unrolled it, and flattened it onto the table using empty glasses.

  “Watson River is here, bro,” Jack said, pointing to the top-center of a chart that included the southern tip of mainland Florida, Whitewater Bay, and Florida Bay.

  “There have been incidents all around that area,” Harper said, leaning over the table.

  “But the Shepherds were killed roughly eight miles west of there in Ponce de Leon Bay,” Jack said, pointing at the chart.

  “Could be this killer,” Ange said. “Could be some other scumbag.”

  Pete nodded. “The Glades have attracted criminals and poachers for years. You should hear some of the stories the real old-timers tell of that place before it became a national park in ’47. Place was a haven for Gladesmen, also known as swamp rats. They weren’t all bad, of course. But they were a different breed of men than you see these days.”

  I nodded, grabbed the picture and the stack of papers, and rose to my feet.

  “Harper, this conversation was off the record,” I said.

  She placed her right thumb and index finger to her mouth and slid them across her lips.

  “My lips are sealed,” she said, “in this matter at least. I’m just here to do what I can to help.”

  “So, what’s the plan, bro?” Jack said.

  I shrugged. “We head out in the morning. The crime scene’s getting colder by the second.”

  “You taking the Baia?” Pete asked.

  “We’ll take the Cessna. The faster we get there, the better.”

  “Alright,” he replied. “Then I’ll take my boat and meet you guys there. Set up some kind of home base to offer support.”

  “Do me a favor and take the Baia, will you?” I said. “I can leave Atticus aboard in the morning and leave the keys in the office.”

  Pete nodded.

  Jack rolled up the chart and slid it back into the cardboard tube. Ange finished her drink and rose to her feet as well.

  “We’ve got an early morning,” I said, nodding to both Frank and Harper.

  “You’re back for less than twenty-four hours and now you’re leaving again,” Pete said, shaking his head. “Thought you might at least catch your breath before going off on another adventure.”

  “Didn’t exactly choose this,” I said. “And I caught my breath enough over the past three months.”

  Before the three of us reached the door, Pete walked over and stopped us.

  “If you’re gonna go after this guy, you need to be prepared,” Pete said. “Whoever the hell he is, he’s been living in the Glades for years. Never been caught. Never left a trace after a kill. He knows the swamps and he’s comfortable there. The Glades are an unforgiving landscape. It’s nearly eight thousand square miles of some of the harshest terrain in the country.” He looked down at the deck. Cleared his throat. “Just be careful, and don’t underestimate this predator.”

  FOUR

  It was nearly midnight by the time we pulled into the driveway of our house over on Palmetto Street. It had been a long day, and Ange and I were eager to get a few hours of much-needed sleep before jetting off in search of justice. We crashed on the master bed with Atticus at our feet. Fatigue hit me hard, but it took a few minutes for me to fall asleep after my head hit the pillow. I had a difficult time driving the thought of the Shepherds from my mind.

  My alarm woke me up well before the sun. I slapped it off, blinked a few times, and saw that it was 0400. My mind and body were hazy as I rolled out of bed, but I quickly shook it off. Four hours of sleep was more than enough. I’d been forced to perform at my best on much less over the course of my life.

  Sensing my movement, Atticus looked up at me and tilted his head.

  “Yeah, that’s all we get tonight, boy,” I said quietly.

  I moved into the closet, shut the door behind me, and flipped on a light. Opening my biometric safe, I grabbed a few necessities, including an extra Sig Sauer P226 9mm pistol, my handgun of choice since my early days in the Navy. I also grabbed my M4A1 assault rifle, a Winchester 1300 shotgun along with a box of number four buckshot, primarily to take down pythons, and a small wad of cash.

  The door opened behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Ange step into view.

  “Don’t forget my sniper,” she said.

  I nodded, grabbing her collapsible .338 Lapua sniper rifle along with an extra magazine, then locked the safe up. Resting on a dresser in the closet was my black waterproof backpack that contained various essentials I’d gathered over the years. I grabbed it, and we also filled a few duffle bags with extra clothes, boots, hats, rain gear, sunglasses, MREs, bug spray, and various other items.

  Ange reminded me that the gift my old Navy buddy, Scott Cooper, had given me was on the kitchen counter. It was a brand new top-of-the-line surveillance drone. We both figured that it would come in handy during a search of the Glades, so we grabbed the black hardcase and set it beside the rest of our gear.

  After a quick shower, I dressed in a pair of cargo shorts, a Salty Pete’s tee shirt, and my black sneakers. Ange whipped up a mango-banana smoothie and packed a few sandwiches into a small cooler as I loaded everything into my Tacoma. Once everything was set, I locked up the place and the three of us cruised out of the driveway.

  Jack was waiting for us at the edge of the parking lot over at the Conch Harbor Marina when we pulled in. He was standing beside a large cart filled with dive equipment. I hopped out and gave him a hand loading his weights, fins, wetsuit, mask, and dive flashlights into the truck. I’d told him the night before that I’d wanted to start off the day by freediving the site where the Shepherds’ catamaran had sunk.

  I kept the truck idling and made a quick trip down the dock to slip twenty-four, where I kept Dodging Bullets moored. After grabbing Ange’s and my gear, I locked it up and turned the security system back on. I left our scuba and rebreather gear aboard the Baia, figuring that if we needed it, Pete would have her moored at the southern part of the Glades in a few hours.

  Gear in hand, Ange and I headed over to the marina office. Gus Henderson, the owner, was just stepping out of the main door when we walked by.

  “Little early, isn’t it?” Gus asked.

  He was wearing pajamas and rubbed his dreary eyes.

  “Give these to Pete,” I said, handing him the keys to the Baia. “And top off the fuel for me, will you?”

  He nodded. “Good to have you back. Heard about the Shepherds. Damn shame. And heard they don’t even know who did it.”

  “For now,” I said. “Oh, and Atticus is below deck on the Baia. Got the windows cracked and his bowls filled. Pete should be here soon, so no need to walk him.”

  Gus nodded.

  I thanked him, and the three of us headed up the dock, dropped our gear into the back of my truck, then hopped in. We drove over to Tarpon Cove Marina and loaded everything into Ange’s Cessna. She’d owned the 182 Skylane for four years and had been flying since she was a teenager. She’d convinced me to get my pilot’s license a few years back but was still much better than I was, so she usually piloted.

  Her bird was outfitted with two large floats that had forward and aft storage compartments. We loaded most of the dive gear into the floats, distributing them evenly, then hauled the rest into the back seat. Jack squeezed into the back, and I plopped down in the copilot’s seat beside Ange.
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  She efficiently ran through all of the preflight checks while I performed verifications from the copilot seat. Once ready, Ange called in and got the all clear from air traffic controllers at Key West International Airport. I hopped out, untied the lines, then shoved the port pontoon away from the dock.

  “All set,” I said, climbing back into the cockpit and buckling my seat belt.

  With the sky and ocean just outside the cove clear, she started up the 230-hp engine and accelerated us away from the dock.

  It was a calm, eerie morning out on the water. The sky was dark, would be for a few more hours. The only light came from the silver glow of the waxing crescent moon that managed to radiate through patches of clouds.

  Keeping a thorough eye on the surrounding water, Ange accelerated us up on plane at just over twenty-seven knots. With the floats in a planing attitude, the water supplied little resistance and she was able to accelerate us into a smooth takeoff.

  We rose quickly above the dark tropical landscape. Ange banked steadily, making an arc over Dredgers Key and putting us on a northeasterly course. We flew over the hundreds of sporadic islands that make up the Great White Heron National Wildlife Refuge as Ange brought us up to our cruising altitude of twelve thousand feet.

  Just under thirty minutes later, we finished the sixty-mile jump across the Gulf and reached the Florida mainland. The sun was just peeking over the eastern horizon as we flew over the southern tip of the Everglades. The sky was mostly devoid of clouds, allowing us to look out over the seemingly never-ending expanse of untamed swamps.

  The killer is somewhere down there, I thought.

  From a distance, the task seemed nearly impossible. It was easy to see how a man who knew the swamps could stay hidden in such a place. He had the terrain to his advantage, and it was obvious that he utilized it.

  During the flight, Jack gave me the phone number for the head park ranger in the Everglades and I gave him a call using my sat phone. It would’ve been nearly impossible to hear anything over the sound of the Cessna’s roaring engine, so I unplugged my headset from the dash and connected it to my sat phone.

  It was my first time talking to Mitch, but it was clear within a few seconds that he was a smart guy. He gave me the location where the Shepherds’ catamaran had sunk and let me know that we’d probably run into a detective or two if we went sniffing around the scene.

  Before hanging up, I asked him if there were any leads so far.

  “It’s pretty barren in that regard,” Mitch said in a smooth Southern drawl. “But there is one thing. A local claims to have seen something suspicious the night it happened. Said he saw two boats flying out of Whitewater just after sunset. Said he heard gunshots, too.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Don’t know,” Mitch replied. “Guy didn’t give his name. We checked the reservations and Oyster Bay was supposed to be vacant that night. He called the morning after, during all of the helicopter commotion. He also said he saw the smoke.”

  “Smoke?”

  “The cat was set ablaze after the two folks were killed. Not much left at the scene. Even the bodies were charred to the bones.”

  I paused a moment and swallowed.

  “Any idea where I can find this guy?”

  “No clue. But judging by his description, he was most likely staying at Oyster Bay Chickee when it happened.” He paused a moment and cleared his throat. “I want you to know, Logan, that I’m not in the habit of giving out information like this to people I’ve never met before. But I want this guy gone bad, and both Pete and Jack speak very highly of you. If I can be of any further help with your search, you know how to reach me.”

  “Thanks, Mitch,” I said.

  We ended the call and I connected my headset back into the dashboard. I relayed to the others what Mitch had said. There wasn’t much to go on, but we’d learn more once we were able to check out the scene.

  At 0700, we splashed down in Ponce de Leon Bay on the western part of the Everglades. Ange had little trouble landing on choppy water, so the splashdown was smooth over the glassy bay. She kept the engine running, putting us on a southerly course with the edge of the Glades off the port side.

  “That’s Shark River Island,” Jack said into the headset, pointing to a mangrove-infested patch of land to the left. “Just around the corner we’ll run into the mouth of Little Shark River.”

  “That’s where the cat sank, right?” Ange asked.

  Jack nodded. “Mitch told me the wreck is just a few hundred yards up river.”

  Ange motored us around the tip of the island, then turned west, heading into the wide opening of the river. It’s called a river, but it’s really more of a channel, as the water appears to stand still, moving imperceptibly slowly and shifting with the tides. Even that early, we’d spotted a few boats in the Gulf, but none were close to us as we headed toward the site of the wreck.

  “Almost there,” Jack said.

  He was sitting in the back and had a chart opened up and a small GPS in his hand.

  Ange brought us into a small cove, and I decided that it was time to get wet. Grabbing one of my bags from the back, I snatched my fins, mask, and snorkel. Then I pulled off my tee shirt, removed my shoes, and opened the starboard door.

  “I’m gonna hold on to the pontoon and scan underwater as we move,” I said. “I’ll raise my hand and give a thumbs-up if I see anything.” Ange and Jack both nodded, and I added, “How deep is it here, Jack?”

  “Looking at around twelve feet according to the chart,” he said. “But it varies, bro.”

  I looked back at him with raised eyebrows. Most of the waters in and around the southern part of the Glades maxed out at around five feet.

  “I know,” Jack said. “This whole little river is uncharacteristically deep.”

  I looked over through the open door at the water below. With all the sediment washed up from the constant coming and going of the tide, the visibility would be terrible. But I figured it would be hard to miss a forty-four-foot catamaran.

  “They don’t call it Shark River for nothing, bro. It’s filled with bulls.”

  Bull sharks are one of the few sharks that are known to attack humans. Known to be very aggressive, they also hold the distinction of being the only sharks able to live in both fresh and saltwater. The biggest adult females can reach over eleven feet long and weigh over five hundred pounds. Many experts consider bulls to be the most dangerous sharks in the world.

  “If one takes a bite, you’ll be the first to know about it,” I said.

  The saying that predators can sense your fear is true. It’s not that these creatures can read your mind, but they can read and sense your body language. If you’re afraid, your pulse and breathing will quicken, and your movements usually become jerkier. A shark or other apex predator can sense those changes in vibrations. For them, it’s like the ringing of a cowbell letting them know that it’s feeding time. The most important thing is to remain calm and focused.

  I dangled my mask with the snorkel attached around my neck, grabbed my fins, and stepped down onto the starboard pontoon. After shutting the door behind me, I took a quick look around, hoping to catch a glimpse of something out of the ordinary. The Shepherds’ cat had a mast that rose seventy feet into the air, but as I looked around, I couldn’t see anything piercing the surface.

  I moved back, sat on the edge of the pontoon as the water sloshed slowly beneath me, then donned my gear and dropped down into the water. It was warm but murky, so much so that I couldn’t see more than a few feet, let alone the bottom. I gripped the pontoon tail rudder with my left hand and streamlined my body, the Cessna dragging me along. Using the snorkel, I breathed calmly in and out and scanned back and forth, hoping something would catch my eye.

  After a few minutes, I felt the rudder twist and kicked my fins to relieve pressure on it as Ange turned the Cessna around, going for another pass. Less than a hundred feet into the second run, I spotted something in the corner o
f my eye. It was white and formed a right angle, something you don’t see in nature. I raised my right hand high over my head and waved back and forth, signaling for Ange to stop. As the engine slowed, I took in a deep breath, let go, and dove down toward the object. After just a few kicks of my fins, it was clear that we’d stumbled upon the catamaran. Or at least what was left of it.

  I swam over the charred pontoons and the main deck, which was disfigured, broken, melted, and black. It bore little resemblance to the beautiful boat I’d sailed from Cay Sal to Key West earlier that year. Being a sailing vessel, Seas the Day wouldn’t have had very much fuel aboard. It was clear just from my initial survey that somebody must’ve spread fuel all over the boat to cause such damage.

  After two minutes down looking for clues, I kicked up and broke the surface. Ange had killed the Cessna’s engine and was floating fifty feet to the right of me, drifting slowly toward the Gulf.

  “You find it?” Ange said, leaning out the pilot side window.

  I nodded. “It’s burned to hell.” I glanced over at a few thick mangrove branches two hundred feet or so behind the Cessna. “Let’s tie off the bird.”

  After securing the plane, Ange and Jack donned their gear as well and joined me in the water. We spent half an hour surveying the wreck, looking for clues. While swimming off the stern along the mucky bottom, I spotted an object and kicked toward it. Moving just over the bottom, I spooked a large flounder that appeared from the sediment and darted away from me in an instant. It was probably the tenth one I’d seen, not surprising since the flat fish love hanging out at the mouths of rivers.

  As I continued to kick, I realized that the object I’d spotted was an upside-down dinghy. The bow of the small boat was facing me and the engine was still attached, sticking up into the water with a handful of sticks pressed against it, carried there by the slow-moving current.

  As I finned closer, I realized that they weren’t sticks. They were arrows, three of them sticking all the way through the transom. They had broadhead tips, three razor-sharp blades that angled together to form a deadly point. As I observed the transom closer, I noticed bullet holes as well.