Immokalee

By Lucien O'Kelley

A man and his son reconcile their relationship in a covert quest to find the killer of the family patriarch-a World War II Congressional Medal of Honor winner and, toward the end of his life, a park ranger in the Everglades. In pursuit of justice, the men encounter a nefarious drug operation that is wreaking havoc on a small agrarian town forty miles inland from the west coast of Florida. In Immokalee, culture and economics clash, creating challenges and opportunities for both father and son to overcome the past and face the future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lucien O'Kelley
• Release date: Nov 17, 2012
• ISBN: 9780984792016

Book preview

PROLOGUE

MEDAL OF HONOR CITATION

The President of the United States of America, authorized by act of

Congress, March 3, 1863, has awarded in the name of The Congress the Medal of Honor to:

PRIVATE FIRST CLASS

ROBERTO MANTUCK

UNITED STATES ARMY

Rank and organization: Private First Class, U.S. Army. Place and date: 3 August 1944, near Mulhouse, France. Born: Immokalee, Florida. Citation: Private First Class Mantuck, United States Army, distinguished himself by actions above and beyond the call of duty on 3 August 1944, while serving as a scout during a Special Operations mission in the Lorraine Region of France. The mission objective was to blow up a mine of strategic importance to the enemy. The detonation was planned to occur upon the coupling of a locomotive to transporter cars at the entrance of the mine. With two other commandos, PFC Mantuck traversed an open expanse of marshland, placed the dynamite, and then took cover to observe the explosion. As the locomotive backed up toward the mine, the German commander spotted the charge and dashed toward the locomotive to disarm it. In the ensuing firefight, both his comrades were killed, but PFC Mantuck continued to fire, killing the commander, the engineer, and a German solder that had thrown a switch to sidetrack the locomotive. Under heavy enemy fire, PFC Mantuck crawled to the switch, resetting it back in time to prevent the locomotive from diverting. Then as the train began to slow due to the uphill grade into the mine, PFC Mantuck commandeered the locomotive and engineered it into the mineshaft. When the explosive detonated, the blast catapulted PFC Mantuck into a nearby river, where his unit rescued him. PFC Mantuck’s extraordinary heroism and devotion to duty are in keeping with the highest standards of military service and reflect great credit upon him, his unit and the United States Army.

Not mentioned in the citation was the fact that the Office of Strategic Services had identified the mineral in the mine as uraninite, the primary ore of uranium. The Germans had intended to use it in their atomic bomb program.

1

THE NOTRE DAME CENTER

It was an overcast evening in Immokalee, a working-class town forty miles inland from Ft. Myers Florida, just northwest of the Everglades. The year was 1980. Jesse was six. Despair and discord wracked what was left of his family.

After a raging argument between his father and Aunt Tina, the children’s nanny out of necessity, Jesse could stand it no more. Waiting until Aunt Tina had bolted herself in her room and his father had passed out in his easy chair, an empty bottle of Jack cradled in his lap, Jesse took his twin sisters by the hands and, with no idea where he was going, started walking down the dark streets of Immokalee. They wandered past block after block of shanties, yards strewn with junk and old jalopies rusting on cinderblocks, until they reached the edge of town.

A couple blocks to the north, Jesse could hear the sounds of large trucks rumbling through town along Main Street. His mother’s admonition came to him: Don’t go that way. He turned south onto a deserted dirt road that was bordered on both sides by open drainage ditches full of water. The sounds of frogs croaking and crickets chirping and the distant barking of junkyard dogs scared the little girls. Jesse was also frightened, but tried not to show it. His sisters clutched his hands.

As a cloud passed from under a full moon, the light revealed two ominous figures walking toward them. They wore long dark cloaks. Jesse, thinking they were witches, froze. He could run, but what about his sisters? Quick, get behind me, he whispered. They were too scared to move. Freeing the hand of his throwing arm, he reached down to pick up a stone. The girls began to whimper. Jesse shushed them, but their cries grew louder as the two shadowy figures came closer.

Obscured by the gloomy light and their strange attire, Jesse thought these apparitions were floating across the surface of the road. When they were within thirty feet, the girls went silent. Brandishing the stone, Jesse demanded, Stop where you are! They halted.

Sister Catharine and Sister Anne were dumbstruck. Before them were three children—a small but fierce little boy and two toddlers. Sister Anne was first to speak, Children, my goodness, where are you going so late at night?

Her voice was warm and gentle, like Jesse’s mother. Jesse relaxed his grip on the stone, but couldn’t think of what to say. After several seconds, he stammered, Ru-ru-runnin’ away from home.

Where are your parents? asked Sister Catharine.

Again hesitating, Jesse replied, Mama’s dead and . . . and daddy’s . . . sick.

Jesse could hold onto only one sister and still wield his stone. The free sister toddled toward the nuns. Jesse called out, No Jolene, come back! but she kept going. Her twin pulled away and followed.

Sister Anne knelt down with arms outstretched to embrace the girls. Having never seen a nun in full habit before, Jesse was spellbound. Before he knew it, Sister Catharine had gently taken his hand and was leading him toward his sisters.

No amount of questioning could pry out of Jesse his name, or where he lived, so the nuns took the children back to a rundown house their order had recently purchased. After the children were fed and bedded down, Sister Catharine called the Sheriff’s office to report the runaways. The police had more than they could handle that evening and asked if the nun would shelter the children for the night. She readily agreed.

***

Jesse’s father, BJ, woke to the sound of an empty whiskey bottle crashing to the floor. Stumbling into the kitchen, he focused on the clock. Damn! Ten minutes, he muttered. I’ll be canned if I’m late one more time. He ran out of the house without checking on the kids.

The next morning when he dragged in shortly after eight, Tina was still locked in her bedroom and the children were nowhere in sight. BJ stepped out onto the back porch and yelled for Jesse. No answer. He called for the twins; again, no reply.

After searching the neighborhood, BJ called the police to report the children missing. A desk clerk logged in his call without checking the prior night’s report. Child neglect was commonplace in Immokalee. It was an agonizing six hours before BJ was reunited with Jesse and the twins.

By the time he pulled into the nuns’ driveway, BJ had gotten over blaming Tina and was beating himself up about being a derelict dad.

Sister Catharine answered the door and ushered BJ into a sparse living room. The twins were playing on the floor. When they saw their father, they ran over for a hug. Jesse was out back throwing rocks. BJ approached him, saying, Hey, Jess, you okay? Jesse didn’t reply. He kept flinging rocks—one he’d hurled so hard, it stuck in the soft bark of a tree.

BJ glanced back at Sister Catharine and shrugged. She nodded, and then said, The boy needs some space. Let’s go out to the front porch and talk. Riddled with guilt, BJ followed her back through the house.

They sat on two rickety chairs. Sister Catharine said, Your son is a tough little guy. Last night out there on that deserted road, he brandished a stone and ordered us not to come any closer. He was protecting his sisters. It wasn’t until he’d finally fallen asleep that I was able to pry that stone from his hand. I put it on the floor next to his bed, in case he felt he needed it in the morning. It’s still where I left it.

BJ barely managed to respond. After an awkward pause, he said, Jesse is a good kid.

Then Sister Catharine asked BJ about himself. She did it in a way that was natural, not prying. BJ responded, My wife, Angelina, died last year of encephalitis and my father, Tuck, who was a Park Ranger, was killed while tracking down poachers in the Everglades. Been a rough year.

He continued, I work as a guard at the jail. The graveyard shift. The kids’ Aunt Tina watches them when I’m gone, but she’s just eighteen. She loves Jesse and the twins, but I guess she resents being tied down.

Sister Catharine said, When I was eighteen, I ran away from home with my boyfriend. For almost a year we rode around the country on his motorcycle. She hesitated. After that, I entered the convent.

BJ smiled. He liked this down-to-earth nun. She was someone he could confide in. He said, I know Tina needs her own life, but I can’t afford childcare. I can barely afford my house. And wouldn’t you know it, I just got a notice saying the landlord is raising the rent.

Unloading his troubles helped BJ face the obvious. It’s more house than we need. I should find a smaller place.

Sister Catharine sensed a good-heart in BJ and thought there might be a way they could help each other. BJ needed lower rent and what could be lower than free? The nuns needed a strong back around their ramshackle house, so Sister Catharine floated a trial balloon. Sister Anne and I are planning to open a safe haven for children and battered women—here in this house. As you can see, this place is in terrible shape. We’re going to need a part-time caretaker to make repairs, keep it in good condition and maintain the grounds. Then, planting the seed, she added, Did you notice the small cottage out back when you were talking to Jesse? A caretaker could live there, no problem.

BJ mumbled, Uh, no, I musta missed it.

Well, you’ve got a lot on your mind. If you’d like, Sister Anne and I would be glad to keep the children for another night.

BJ was on overload. Was she offering him a job? He needed some time to sort things out, so he said weakly, Thanks, that’d be a great help.

Late that afternoon, BJ and Tina had their first civil conversation in months. By the end, Tina decided to talk to an Army recruiter about enlisting, something she’d long dreamed about.

The next morning, a social worker came by to assess the family situation and BJ’s fitness to keep the children. With the prospect of Tina leaving, he was desperate. That afternoon, he and Sister Catharine talked more about the caretaker job. She let him know that it was his if he wanted it. Her offer was a godsend.

At dusk BJ visited Angelina’s grave. Standing there in tears, he made a pledge to give up drinking. He was good to his word.

BJ moved into the cottage the day after Tina left for boot camp. It was only big enough for one person, so Jesse and the girls stayed in the main house.

On the following day, BJ set up a workshop in the garage and crafted a six-foot sign, which he nailed to four-by-four posts. He set the posts in concrete footings at the front of the property: the notre dame center

The Notre Dame Center was the sanctuary that the Mantucks needed. Jesse and the girls thrived in the nurturing environment. BJ found a confidant and mentor in Sister Catharine.

***

Twenty years later, after graduating from high school and serving a four year stint in the Army, Jesse was in his last two months of college. BJ was a Collier County Deputy Sheriff.

2

HICKORY ISLAND

From his sun-weathered deck overlooking Bonita Beach, John Dalton gazed out toward the Gulf. Brown Pelicans, feeding on invisible schools of fish, patrolled the placid waters. A parade of shellers, joggers, and striders traversed the shoreline. It was another perfect day in paradise.

On the glass table next to him were a cup of coffee and a New York Times. Coffee and the Times—it’d been his weekend routine since becoming the Dean of Student Affairs at Florida Gulf Coast University. That was last fall.

Now it was spring, a cool Sunday in April, and John was torn between lazing the morning away on his cushy chaise lounge and getting some exercise. One glance at his no-longer-rock-hard midsection cinched the decision. He debated between a swim and a nature hike, then thought of a way to do both. Already in his baggy Hawaiian-style bathing suit that doubled as walking shorts, he strapped on a waterproof belly-pack, put in his field glasses for that rare-bird sighting, and trekked a half-mile up the coast to Big Hickory Pass.

Reaching water’s edge, the prospect of the first shock of cold made him hesitate. There was only a slight current coming in from the Gulf, but he knew that the tidal flow would strengthen later that morning. He glanced across the channel to Hickory Island, a popular mooring place for fishermen, which, at that hour, was deserted.

John stepped into calf-deep water. Fifty yards later, the water had reached his waist. A chill rippled up his body. Exhilarated, he plunged headfirst into the cool water and began swimming the hundred yards to the island. By mid-channel, his body had acclimated. The water was refreshing. John lingered for a minute and then did a slow breaststroke to the facing shore.

At low tide, the bank was steep on the Hickory Island side of the pass. John crawled up the coarse slope of fragmented shells on all fours. When he could finally stand, he found the beach strewn with a fresh deposit of shells and other nuggets of the sea. Three turkey vultures, unfazed by his arrival, roosted in a nearby cluster of half-dead Australian pines.

He climbed a sand dune, then spotted a small motorboat closing in on the island farther up the coast. A few minutes later, as he approached where it came ashore, he found traces of the hull in the sand and two sets of footprints leading to a clump of bushes where the boat had been partially concealed. Nature lovers? he mused.

***

The day before, John and his wife Heather had viewed this part of the island from a half-mile out in the Gulf. They were on a nineteen-foot Skipper, a sailboat that the Daltons were considering buying. The boat moved well, but soon a slow leak, combined with light wind and a malfunctioning bilge pump, made it sluggish. The boat’s owner tried trimming the sails to increase speed, with only marginal results. Adding to his frustration, a much fleeter skiff called a Mud Hen passed them as if they had been standing still.

Sensing John’s waning interest, the skipper threw out a red herring. He pointed to a spot mid-island and said, That’s a nudist beach. For the moment, the diversion succeeded in getting John’s mind off the lethargic sailboat.

John looked at Heather, waggled his eyebrows, and whispered, Hey babe, what you say we check it out?

Heather, playing with her auburn hair, smiled. That sounded like the John of old—an encouraging sign.

***

Now, standing on that same beach, John took a closer look at the motorboat. A shirt, blouse, and two pair of shorts were draped over the gunwale. He thought: Ah ha, naturalists of another sort.

The scene prompted memories of times past when he and Heather had frolicked in nature. He felt a pang of remorse. It had been a long time—not since the tragedy.

John turned inland. The shrubbery thickened. An eerie silence prevailed, broken only by an occasional breeze rustling through the Sea Grapes and mangroves. The sand gave way to muddy silt deposited by frequent flooding.

Picking his way through the underbrush, his senses sharpened. Visibility was limited; a strange smell assaulted him—partly the reek of organic mud flats, partly the rotting smell of death. John warily pushed on. The ground softened and a clearing appeared ahead. It was a lagoon rimmed by mud flats and buffered on all sides by tangles of mangroves. He’d happened upon one of only two openings to the shallow body of water. The other was a few yards away, but dense vegetation obscured his view.

As John stepped out onto the flats to get a better view, his feet sank in the muck. Glancing up, he saw turkey vultures floating on thermals. Something smelled putrid. The vultures circled lower.

Then footsteps and the muffled voices of two men breached the silence.

Damn vultures! cursed one man in a strong South Georgian accent.

Gawd! Would ya look at that? Cain’t leave it here. Someone ‘ll find it, drawled the other.

John crouched down to listen.

Sonofabitch, the stink!

Sheet! Ugh! Hep me get it in the sack. Then, moments later, Let’s haul ass back to the boat.

After the men departed, John waded into the lagoon and circled round to where the men had been laboring. He found a hole the size of a bathtub filling with water as the tide rose. Whatever had been buried there was now gone. All that remained was a rank odor that lingered in the still air. After a final glance around, John started back toward the Gulf, giving the men a wide berth.

When he reached the coast, he spotted the men’s boat—a dingy old fishing trawler anchored a hundred yards down shore. The men appeared out of the brush with the load sagging between them. John ducked behind a bush and retrieved his field glasses. Riveted on the two men, he crept forward to get a closer look. Seconds later, he heard the cracking sound of a branch breaking under foot behind him and felt a sharp blow to the back of his head. His field glasses went flying and for a few moments everything went black.

When John came-to, a young man, buck naked and brandishing a driftwood club, confronted him. Behind the assailant, a lithe blonde girl with an all-body tan clutched her beach towel and took off running to retrieve her clothes. The exposed fellow, his face deep red, chided John, Getting your jollies watching other people, huh? You sorry-assed voyeur! Pathetic pervert!

Accomplished in hand-to-hand combat, John was briefly tempted to render the young man a eunuch, but his splitting headache was a higher priority. As