The Last Witness

[TWO]

Off Big Pine Key, Florida

Sunday, November 16, 4:02 P.M.

Matt Payne double-checked the lightly laminated NOAA navigation chart, then picked up the binoculars, scanned ahead of the Viking, and after a moment located what he was looking for-the outer markers of the channel that led to Big Pine Key, Little Torch Key, and Little Palm Island.

If he had wanted, he could just as easily have looked at the screen of the GPS unit, which would have pinpointed the exact location of the markers and the entire channel, and the boat’s exact position relative to them, then dialed in the autopilot. But Matt, as much as he appreciated technology, liked to practice his map and compass, dead reckoning, and other navigation skills-believing that it wasn’t a case of if technology was going to fail but when it would crap out on him.

As wise ol’ Murphy made law, “If anything can go wrong, it will-and at the worst possible damn time.”

Only a fool tempts fate at sea. .

The dark blue of the deeper water now gave way to a glistening aqua green. The depth sounder, confirming what he read on the chart, showed they were running in sixty feet of water. Closer to shore, and the clear, shallower water there, the white of the bottom could easily be seen.

When he put the optics on the console, he saw his cell phone screen light up and a text message box appear:

MICKEY O’HARA 4:03 PM

CALL ME ASAP. I’M CHASING DEADLINE AND NEED INFO.

Michael J. O’Hara, a Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter, and Matt had developed an interesting-if unusual-close friendship over the years. The wiry thirty-seven-year-old, of Irish descent and with a head of unruly red hair, was unorthodox but uncompromisingly fair-and thus had earned the respect of the cops who walked the beat on up to the commissioner himself.

It was O’Hara who, when Payne had been grazed in the forehead by a ricochet bullet in his first shoot-out, photographed the bloodied rookie cop standing with his.45 over the dead shooter, and later wrote the headline: “Officer M. M. Payne, 23, The Wyatt Earp of the Main Line.”

I’m not working any cases, Matt thought as he texted back: “OK. ASAP.”

What could I know that he wants for a story?

Matt turned to Amanda, who was reclined on a long cushion beside him, reading a book titled Cruising Guide to the Bahamas.

“Almost there,” he said.

“Great!”

She put down the book and went to stand beside him.

He pointed to a long narrow outer island.

“That’s Big Munson. It’s about a hundred acres of little more than mangroves and mosquitoes.”

“The one where you and Chad reenacted Lord of the Flies?”

He looked at her. She was grinning mischievously.

“Maybe Chad. He’s never shied away from power grabs. For me it was more like Treasure Island mixed with Crusoe, thank you very much. Anyway, Little Munson, which is all beach and palm trees and dripping with creature comforts, is next to it.”

As he made a slight course correction to the north, putting the Viking on a compass heading of 310 degrees, another pack of the go-fasts appeared ahead. It was headed for the same channel, and after the first boat began slowing to idle speed for the approach, the others a moment later dropped their speed almost at the same time. Matt counted nine boats.

He then eased back on the Viking’s throttles. As the big boat slowed, her hull settling lower in the water, he thought he heard the faint sound of a police siren.

Immediately, he muted the music, looked back over his shoulder, and exclaimed, “What the hell?”

There was in fact a siren. And it clearly was coming from a Florida Marine Patrol boat, its emergency light bar flashing over the center console’s aluminum tube T-top roof.

About two hundred yards ahead of the police boat was a twin-engine, thirty-foot-long center console fishing boat. Matt grabbed the binoculars. He could make out a lone, shirtless, dark-skinned man aboard, his dreadlocks flying almost straight back as he stood with a death grip on the steering wheel.

“What’s that boat doing?” Amanda said.

“Not to sound like a smart-ass, but I’d say he’s running. He’s got to have that thing at wide-open throttle. There’s little more than the props in the water. But why? You can’t outrun the cops here.”

“Looks like he’s headed for those Poker Run boats.”

The go-fasts now were beginning to form a single-file line as they approached the channel’s first outer marker.

In no time, the fleeing boat caught up with the back of the pack of go-fasts, the police boat in hot pursuit. It began weaving in and out of the line, coming dangerously close to colliding with the first two that it passed. The captains of some of the other boats, realizing what was happening, quickly maneuvered to get out of the way. A few lay on their horns, shouted, and, fists pumping, made obscene gestures as the boat flew past.

The police boat broke off its high-speed chase but still followed.

The burly man with the dreadlocks, not slowing, then entered the channel.

Matt saw that a thirty-three-foot Coast Guard boat with triple outboards and its emergency lights flashing had appeared farther up the channel near the end of a small island. It turned sideways, effectively shutting down the channel.

“See? Nowhere to run,” Matt said, his tone incredulous. “He’s headed right into the hands of the Coast Guard.”

The boat then made a hard turn to the right, leaving the channel.

“I’ll be damned! He’s trying to cut across the shoal at Big Munson!”

The boat’s propellers began churning up sea grass and sand as it entered the shallow, maybe two-feet-deep, water. Another center console police boat-this one with a large golden badge and the words MONROE COUNTY SHERIFF on its white hull-then appeared ahead of it, at the far end of the thickly treed key.

The speeding boat started to make a zigzag course, the man with the dreadlocks clearly trying to come up with some evasive course.

Then he suddenly made a hard 90-degree turn to the left.

“He’s going to run ashore!” Amanda said.

The boat was headed directly for the sandy white beach and thick vegetation that edged Big Munson.

Just as the boat got close to the beach, the driver throttled down.

The boat appeared to settle softly in the shallow water-then shot up onto the sandy shoreline and suddenly pitched up. It went airborne briefly before landing in a more or less cushion of mangrove trees, stopping with the bow pointed skyward. The impact had thrown the man with the dreadlocks to the deck.

The boat’s twin outboard engines, their exhausts no longer submerged and muffled, made a deep pained roar. After a long moment, the stunned man was able to get up and, one at a time, shut them down.

Matt could now see that the area forward of the center console had some sort of cover. And people had started scurrying out from under it.

Then, from the tree line twenty yards away, one, then two, then a half dozen more boys in T-shirts and dark green shorts suddenly ran out onto the beach, then turned and went as fast as they could toward the boat. Slung on the shoulder of the last one in line was a medium-sized white duffel bag with a red cross on it.

“Well, how about that,” Matt said. “Here come the real first responders-Scouts in action.”

The burly man with the dreadlocks hopped down onto the beach. The others began to follow quickly, one by one sliding over the side of the boat and landing on the sand.

A couple of them began limping. The man with the dreadlocks helped them to a spot on the beach, then directed the others to sit with them. They more or less made a line paralleling the shoreline.

“Oh my God!” Amanda said, shocked. “They’re okay after that? It’s amazing they weren’t killed! I should see if they need a doctor.”

“There’s no way to get you there-even if I thought they’d let you.”

The Boy Scouts arrived at the scene and immediately began checking the injured and performing first aid.

The police and Coast Guard vessels came in as close to the island as possible without running aground.

“Why aren’t the cops rushing ashore?” Amanda said.

“Why should they? Those people aren’t going anywhere. They’re on an island surrounded by what looks like ten levels of law enforcement.”

Five minutes later, Matt lined up the Viking to follow the Poker Run pack through the outer markers of the channel.

He heard more sirens, these coming from the Overseas Highway. All the action on the water had caused the heavy weekend traffic to slow to a crawl. Weaving through it were two Mobile Intensive Care Unit ambulances, their sirens screaming. They came to a stop beside the water’s edge at the foot of the bridge.

“And here come the paramedics.”

From the corner of his eye, Matt noticed something moving quickly. He looked to his left and saw a big blue-hulled Fountain speedboat overtaking the Viking. It roared around them, then cut its speed and smoothly dropped in behind the last boat in the pack.

Lucky for him it really isn’t a race, Matt thought. He’d have come in dead ass last.

But what a beautiful boat. I wonder if they’re going to screw it up with some stupid shrink-wrap design like those other go-fasts.

Clearly it doesn’t need them to attract hot women. Look at all of them!

Amanda did not notice. She was looking through the binoculars and watching the police. They now were wading ashore and approaching the accident scene.

“Well, that’s curious,” she said.

“What?”

“The people who were on the boat are smiling at the cops like they’re long-lost friends.”