Wood's Reef Read Online Free PDF Page B

mirror. Even in Key West, he looked a little out of place. All fancied up, looking Middle Eastern for sure, and most certainly leaning toward boys. Trufante wondered what his story was. The curiosity ended when Behzad took two vials from his silk pocket. He handed everyone a pill from one and tapped the other on the mirror, releasing its white powder. 
    Trufante, too, was feeling gracious and more than a little buzzed. He had the gift of the storyteller, and now felt he owed his host a story. 
    “We had a hell of a day out there. Ya’ll will never believe what me and Mac pulled from the bottom today. We were out there lobstering about twelve miles into the bayside, pulling traps, when Mac decided to dive for some grouper.
    “Over the years, we’ve pulled up all kinds of stuff from the bottom, but nothin’ like this. God damn if it wasn’t a whole Navy bomb. Looked kind of weird, not like the stuff you see in the movies at all.”
    As he told the story, Behzad leaned closer.

Chapter 7
     
    The tide had just started to rise when he pulled anchor. The trawler moved through the maze of mangrove-lined channels, Mac’s hand on the wheel, steering from memory, as it retraced its course back to the gulf side. Once under the Seven Mile Bridge, he headed east toward the fish market to unload his catch. 
    An hour later, Wood’s place came up on the horizon, after an easy run through the bay waters. Mac pulled up to the single piling he had tied up to the day before and secured the boat. He scanned the shoreline and called out for Wood. Seeing no sign of him, he hopped over the side of the boat and waded ashore. 
    There was a well-disguised trail off the beach, where a mangrove branch dragged across the opening acted as a gate. Mac removed the branch and followed the trail inland. It was a small atoll, roughly 100 yards by 50 — close to the size of a football field. Only half of it was dry. He slapped mosquitos from his face and neck as he worked his way past the mangrove swamps on his left, wondering how Wood could live among these creatures in peace. For Mac, mosquitos were the biggest downside of the Keys, besides the tourists. 
    The trail followed a serpentine path for 100 feet before he reached the clearing where Wood lived. The site was carefully crafted, allowing the maximum use of space with minimum visibility. The small house was elevated ten feet above the sand below. This served several purposes; it allowed the breeze to reach the shuttered windows and porches, as well as keeping the mosquitos below. It would take a major hurricane packing a direct hit, with the moon and tides in perfect alignment to create a storm surge big enough to reach the living quarters. The main roof was made of woven palm fronds, with a steep pitch to shed water. The porch faced southwest, with solar collectors on it for power and open basins for water. The house was accessed by stairs leading to the porch. Once inside, the finishes and craftsmanship belied the location. Mahogany flooring and wainscot, with built-in bookcases and hand-plastered walls, provided an old-world feel below the palm frond ceiling. 
    Though rustic in outward appearance, the house was also in excellent repair. Put this up on the internet with a few good pictures, and this place would rent out as a vacation dream spot. Then the renters would see where it was and back out.
    Mac saw no sign of his old boss. He climbed the stairs and sat down in one of the chairs on the deck to wait. 
    Half an hour later, he heard the sound of a small outboard motor pulling up to the beach. He went to the beach and watched as Wood gunned the engine, gaining just the right amount of speed before hitting the kill switch and tilting it out of the water before the propeller hit bottom. He aimed for the two trenches cut into the beach. Close to the high water mark, an old truck axle with mismatched tires stood waiting. The boat came to a rest with the bow a foot from the axle.
    “Get