Predator in the Keys Page 5

  I kicked for the surface, then called over to the others. They dove down alongside me, and the three of us lifted the dinghy and turned it over. On first glance, it looked like there was nothing aboard, but Ange found a small object wedged under the middle bench seat.

  I swam beside her and we both examined what she’d found. It was small, roughly the size of an eyeglass case, and wrapped in tight black plastic. She handed it to me and I was surprised by how soft it was.

  My curiosity taking over, I grabbed my dive knife and poked a tiny hole through the plastic. Ange shined her underwater flashlight, and a small white cloud rose up from the hole I’d punctured. Jack was there now as well, and the three of us stared at the cloud with wide eyes. Each of us knew in an instant what it was. Cocaine.

  Suddenly, we heard the unmistakable low hum of an approaching engine.

  FIVE

  Ange grabbed the package from my hand and pocketed it. Staying underwater, we swam toward the Cessna and rose up alongside its port pontoon. The three of us were experienced freedivers, able to stay down for minutes at a time and cover good distances on a single breath. As we rose up out of the water, our eyes darted toward the source of the engine sounds. Jack had told me that Little Shark River was routinely frequented by fishermen, but we wanted to be prepared for the worst.

  Ange climbed up first, grabbed her Glock 19 from the cockpit, and held it at her side. Jack and I sat on the pontoon, our eyes peeled toward the opening of the river. The silhouette of a boat was cruising our direction at the mouth of the river less than a quarter of a mile away.

  “Police boat,” Ange said, her eyes peering through a pair of binoculars.

  She set her Glock on the pilot’s seat, then hid the cocaine she’d found under the seat, grabbed a towel, and dried off her face before handing it to me.

  A white center-console pulled up to us. The words on its hull indicated that it was a Monroe County Sheriff boat from the Islamorada District. There were two men aboard. Both wore white police polo shirts, black ball caps, and sunglasses. As it motored closer, I noticed a pair of rumbling Mercury 200-hp engines mounted to the stern.

  One of the guys stepped up to the bow and stared at us with his hands on his hips as the other guy brought them right alongside us.

  “What’s going on here?” the guy at the bow asked.

  His voice was higher pitched than I’d expected. He looked to be in his forties and had the gut of a guy who probably spent more time behind a desk than outside.

  “Looking over the wreckage,” I said flatly.

  He tilted his head down, eyed me over the top of his sunglasses.

  “This is a crime scene. You’ll have to dive some other wreck. And if I figure out you’ve stolen anything, I’ll—”

  “We’re not thieves, man,” Jack said. “We knew the deceased. We’re trying to track down who did this.”

  The guy sighed.

  “It doesn’t work like that,” he said, raising his voice. “I’m the detective here, and the authorities will be the ones to track down whoever’s responsible.”

  Ange laughed and shook her head. The guy’s head snapped to look at her.

  “Something funny, ma’am?”

  “Yeah,” she replied. “This guy’s been killing people for years and you’ve failed to catch him.”

  The man was visibly offended, but he quickly composed himself.

  “There isn’t sufficient evidence to make conclusions at this point,” he said. “We don’t know who’s responsible, but we do know that it is our job to handle this, not yours.”

  I stood up on the pontoon and raised a hand.

  “We’re not trying to infringe,” I said. “We’re trying to help. What have you figured out so far?”

  The guy stepped against the boat’s starboard gunwale and slid off his sunglasses. His eyes were staring intently at me.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Logan Dodge.”

  He paused a moment, then removed his sunglasses and looked me up and down.

  “Charles told me about you,” he said, his tone no longer agitated. “I was sorry to hear of his passing. He was a fine lawman.”

  “One of the best,” I said. “And this is my wife, Angelina, and my friend, Jack Rubio.”

  Sheriff Charles Wilkes of the Key West Police Department had been a close friend of mine before he’d been murdered by corrupt members of a private military four months earlier.

  “I’m Detective Milton,” he said. He sighed and added, “Truth is there isn’t much here. Most everything’s been burned, as I’m sure you’ve already seen.”

  “Where are the bodies?” Ange asked.

  “They were recovered early yesterday and taken to the Monroe County medical examiner.” He paused a moment, looking out over the water. “I’ve seen some grotesque things in my time, but…” He cleared his throat. “There wasn’t much left of them.”

  “Any word from the ME yet?” I asked.

  “Aside from the severe burns, he said they each had a few gunshot wounds. And the guy had a broadhead burrowed in his side. The arrow burned away, but the tip was still intact.” He looked down at the water. “You guys find anything?”

  I made quick eye contact with Ange, then looked back at the detective.

  “Found a dinghy,” I said. “Had a few arrows lodged in the transom, but that’s about it. It’s murky as hell down there, tough to see anything.”

  Milton nodded. “Our diver had that same problem yesterday.”

  We talked for a few more minutes, then told him that we had plans to meet a friend of ours over at the Flamingo Visitor Center. He told us to inform him if we discovered anything else, and I lied and told him we would. I respect what they do as keepers of the peace, but as far as I was concerned, they’d had their shot. It was time for us to take ours.

  We stowed our gear, untied the line, loaded up, and gave a quick wave through the windows as Ange fired up the engine and accelerated us up off the water.

  “You didn’t tell him about the coke, bro,” Jack said into the headset.

  “He didn’t know the Shepherds like we did,” I said. “The last thing I want is him suspecting they might be drug dealers or something.”

  Ange pulled back on the yoke, and we quickly gained altitude.

  As she started to bank us around to the south, I said, “Let’s swing by that place where the guy spotted the two boats.”

  “Oyster Bay Chickee?” Jack said.

  “That’s the one.”

  “It’s east of here,” Jack said. “Just over those islands. Probably five miles or so.”

  Ange nodded, straightened the controls, then eased us all the way around so that we were facing the rising sun. Jack grabbed the rolled-up chart and took a look.

  Ange brought us down as Jack pointed through the windshield at a tiny dock resting just off the leeward side of a narrow island. Keeping an eye out for kayakers and airboats, Ange brought us down softly and motored us around the island. It appeared as though nobody was home as we looked around the channel and the “chickee” in front of us.

  Chickee is the Seminole word for house, and today it’s used to describe a rustic dwelling with a log frame and a raised floor. The Everglades are littered with the simple structures, which are essentially a dock with a roof and a porta potty. The National Park Service allows you to reserve a space on a chickee for the night, and I’d set up camp on them a few times during python-hunting trips.

  I felt somewhat dejected as Ange killed the engine and I hopped out to tie us off. Though I knew it was unlikely that whoever had called in would still be around, it would’ve made tracking them down a hell of a lot easier.

  The three of us caught our breath as we took a look around. It was perfectly quiet aside from the soft breeze through the mangroves and the water lapping against the cypress frame. A flock of sanderlings flew by, their wings flapping just a few inches above the water’s surface. I’d read once that over four hundred sp
ecies of birds live in the Everglades and that it’s the most significant breeding ground for wading birds in North America.

  A great egret stood in the shallows just a few feet from an overgrown bank across the channel, and off in the distance I could see the dark outline of a crocodile sunbathing on a muddy bank. The edges where the Glades meet the Gulf and Florida Bay are the only places in the States where you’ll find crocs.

  The place was teeming with life, just no human life. I stood on the edge and looked out over the water, imagining two boats flying by in the dark. George and Rachel on one, running for their lives. An unknown murderer on the other.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking about those arrows in the dinghy,” Jack said. “I don’t know a lot about bows, but for an arrow that size to puncture an aluminum hull, I’d say it had to have been traveling well over three hundred feet per second.”

  “Must’ve been a nice bow,” I said. “Probably a seventy-pound draw to do damage like that. Maybe more.”

  “Right,” Jack said. “So how does a guy shoot a bow like that three times while piloting an airboat?”

  I smiled and nodded, wondering why I hadn’t thought of it.

  “So, there was more than one guy.”

  “It’s the only explanation,” Jack said.

  Great, I thought. Now we’re going after two murderers.

  “Well, what’s the plan now, bro?” Jack said after a few seconds. “Time to head over to Flamingo?”

  I nodded and took in a deep breath of fresh air.

  “Anybody need to use the head before we leave?” I asked, motioning toward the bright blue porta potty.

  Jack laughed. “Wouldn’t go in one of those unless I absolutely had to. I can hold it.”

  I smiled. “Ange?”

  When she didn’t reply, I turned around and spotted her standing on the other side of the chickee. She was staring intently at the floorboards and the base of one of the side beams.

  “Ange, you find something?” I said, striding over the planks toward her.

  “Maybe,” she said, keeping her eyes trained down. “Check these out.”

  I moved in close with Jack right on my heels. Ange pointed along a few of the planks.

  “There are names carved into the wood,” she said. “And dates.”

  I smiled and nodded. “Good eye. Nice to see that at least one of us is good at this.”

  There looked to be nearly a hundred carvings and most of them were worn and faded to the point of illegibility. But the most recent ones were readable.

  “Here,” Jack said, pointing halfway up the support beam. Ange and I rose and examined the wood. “T-J-S,” Jack read the barely legible letters out loud, “Eight nineteen through…”

  Even though the wood looked like it had been freshly cut, it was one of the hardest to read.

  “Looks like he carved it away,” I said. “Or at least he tried to. He must have decided last-minute that he didn’t want anyone knowing that he was here.”

  “Or when he was here,” Ange said. “He didn’t write the day he left like all these other people did.”

  “Yesterday was the twentieth,” I said. “Must be our guy.”

  I strode over to the Cessna, grabbed my sat phone from inside, and dialed Mitch’s number. He picked up on the third ring.

  “Might have a fix on the caller,” I said. “Initials T-J-S ring any bells?”

  The ranger paused a moment.

  “Teagan Suggs,” he replied. “Shit, wish I’d taken that call. I’d have been able to tell it was him right away. His voice is raspier than a career coal miner’s. Probably burns two packs a day.”

  “Any idea where we can find him?”

  Mitch paused again.

  “He’s retired. Lives in Homestead, I think, and sometimes spends weeks out in the thick of it. Far as I know, his truck’s still here, so he’s somewhere out there. Wish I could be more specific than—”

  He cut himself off mid-sentence. I heard a few muffled words as he brought the receiver away from his mouth and spoke to someone else.

  A few seconds later, he said, “Logan, you still there?” After I told him I was, he added, “Martha here says that she saw Suggs over near Hells Bay half an hour ago.”

  He gave me a quick description of the guy—about six feet tall, heavyset, with a dark beard, medium-length hair and a silver earring in his left ear. He also said that he’d be cruising around in a Cottonmouth airboat that was painted dark green with a silver lightning bolt across each side.

  “Oh, and if you find him, call him TJ,” Mitch said. “His first name’s a sore spot for him.”

  I thanked him and hung up.

  “Well?” Jack said, raising his eyebrows at me.

  “Looks like we’ve got a trail,” I said. I stepped over to Ange, wrapped an arm around her and kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks to Nancy Drew here.”

  SIX

  Soaring over thirteen miles of marshy landscape, we reached the eastern side of Whitewater Bay in well under ten minutes. Ange lowered us to just a few hundred feet when we reached Hells Bay and swept into a wide turn so we could get a better look. I peeked through the window and scanned the seemingly never-ending patches of green dotting the water beneath us.

  We spotted an airboat at the northern section of the bay but turned back when we flew close and realized that it wasn’t dark green and didn’t have the silver lightning bolt Mitch had mentioned. As Ange turned, I saw a guy standing on the shore near the airboat. He was far away, but it looked like he was waving a fist in the air at us.

  “Another one up ahead,” Ange said, pointing through the windshield.

  As we soared over the second boat, it was clear that we’d found a match. The boat was tied off in a small channel, and there was a guy wading in the water a few hundred yards south of it.

  “Looks like a lightning bolt to me,” Jack said through the headset.

  He was leaning and peering through the port back window.

  Ange brought us back around, then landed in the middle of the channel, motoring to a stop beside the airboat. The guy in the water looked over and stared as she killed the engine.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said, hopping out of the cockpit and splashing into the waist-deep water.

  Ange opened her door and leaned out as I sloshed around the tail, heading for the guy who Mitch said was Teagan Suggs.

  “We’ll be right here,” she said, eyeing the guy across the channel.

  “I’m sure we can scratch off this guy as being the killer,” I said. “He probably wouldn’t have called himself in.”

  She smiled and nodded.

  I moved at a leisurely pace, keeping my eyes trained on the guy as he whipped a fly rod back and forth, then cast it far out in front of him. I peeked into his airboat as I passed by. There was nothing unusual or suspicious, just a few bags, tackle, and an extra rod.

  I moved to within ten feet of him, then stopped. He didn’t even turn around, just glanced over his shoulder.

  “Thanks for scaring away all the fish,” he said. He pulled in his line a few times, coiling it beside him, then added, “Something I can help you with?”

  “Are you TJ Suggs?” I said.

  He turned his head forward. “That depends on who’s asking.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” I said. “You stayed at the Oyster Bay Chickee last night, right?”

  He paused a moment, then shook his head.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, irritated.

  “Relax,” I said. “We’re not the police. This is off the record.”

  “Oh—well, then, if you’re not the police, I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” He finished bringing in his line, then lifted his rod and whipped it back and forth a few times before tossing it perfectly, the light fly landing just a few feet shy of a tangle of mangrove branches. As he began to pull in slowly, he added, “Look, I come out here to get away from people. I’m a lone
r kind of guy. The last thing I want is to get caught up in some investigation.”

  “I can understand that,” I said. “But those people you saw the other night, the ones that were murdered, they were friends of mine. They were good people. I look after my friends. I do whatever I can to help them. Just the way I’m wired.”

  He nodded, then paused a moment.

  “Didn’t know they were killed,” he sighed and looked out over the water. He inhaled from his cigarette, burning it to the filter, then flicked it into the water. “I can respect that.”

  He pulled softly on the line, adjusting the fly’s position and creating a small ripple, then turned and made eye contact with me for the first time since I’d approached him. He looked me over, pushed the curly hair out of his face as a gust of wind blew against us.

  “I don’t know much.” He shrugged. “I was tired and hazy. Saw the first boat about an hour after sunset. Nice little skiff. Looked like a Carolina center-console with a good-sized outboard. Maybe around a hundred horsepower judging by its speed. The airboat cruised by less than a minute later. Both boats disappeared out across the bay. Heard gunshots soon after, then saw the smoke in the morning.”

  “Did you see how many guys were in the airboat?”

  “There were two, I think. But it was dark and it was far off. Probably wouldn’t have even noticed anything if I hadn’t been taking a leak. The airboat looked old, but its engine ran well. Was closing in fast on the other boat. It didn’t have any running lights or reflectors far as I could see.”

  “What were their headings?”

  “Both swept into view out of Cormorant Pass, heading west. Then they cut south slightly toward Little Shark River.”

  I nodded. “And you saw nothing noteworthy about the guys? No physical characteristics at all?”

  He shook his head and bit his lip.

  “It all happened so fast. The guy in the pilot’s seat looked big, though. Hard to tell for sure, but his head looked bald. All I saw was his silhouette, so take that with a shaker of salt.” He grabbed a can of tobacco from his pocket, grabbed a pinch, and slid it into his left cheek. He spat a trail of juice and added, “I’ll be back at the Flamingo this afternoon to restock up on supplies. We can talk some more then if you want.”