Wading In

By T. Vincent Beck

Wade Nash is lonely. He lost his wife, Catherine, to a car accident after moving down to central Florida to live out their dream life. Dream shattered, this ex-Marine and private investigator has to find something to fill his time. As an avid fisherman, he decides to start his own charter business. Then, in the beautiful confines of Wade’s new state, a woman is found murdered. Now, Wade’s retirement is interrupted as he’s requested down in Southern Florida to investigate. He answers the call, hungry for something to do. Plus, Wade always did love the thrill of the hunt. As far as he can tell, seriously corrupt characters have something to do with the dead woman, but he needs to make the connection. Some would say he’s too old to be going up against ruffians, but Wade survived a bullet in Viet Nam and big city Chicago crime. He’s ready to bring those responsible to justice, like reeling in a fish at the end of his hook.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Aug 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483455327

Book preview

34

CHAPTER 1

W ADE NASH EASED THE BOW of his custom-made skinny-water boat, a purpose-built skiff made locally and just for skinny-water fishing. It was sixteen feet long with a ninety-inch beam and was able to float in less than four inches of water. He slid across the oyster bed protecting the mouth of the two-acre pond hidden in the labyrinth of channels cut here many years ago. Those who created the pond said it was for mosquito control, and it probably was, but it was also the perfect sanctuary for breeding fish in this part of Central Florida.

Wade was hunting—hunting with a fishing rod. He had several rods, in fact, but he was hunting no less. The magic hour was well past—that time that all good fishermen treasure. When night becomes daylight, there is just enough light to see the bank—but just barely—and the fish come alive. Then you can cast a popper plug into an eddy that is either spilling water from the backwaters or filling them. You drop the lure six inches from shore and twitch the plug on and off with a slow retrieve. Pop, pop. Pop pop pop. And if you guess right, you get transfixed as water explodes over your lure. A fish will devour the plug, and the fun is on. This had happened an hour ago, and Wade had a beautiful twenty-one-inch sea trout in the live well. He would have a perfect dinner tonight.

Now, as he poled over water barely six inches deep, he was searching for fins cutting through the water, showing the bronze backs of redfish. Over the oysters, the water became deeper. The deepest was perhaps two feet, and one could wade it but never see a fish. Fifty yards in, Wade was rewarded with the sight he was looking for. There were two, three—no, four fins along the west bank. The redfish were taking in the early morning sun. It was June, and already the water back there was warm. Probably eighty degrees already.

Wade Ivan Nash was sixty-three years old. Well, sixty-three and a half really. At six feet one inch and 190 pounds, he wore a size thirty-four jeans, which he never thought he would see. Wade was an ex-marine. No, scratch that. A marine is never an ex-marine.

In spite of running five miles every other day, he was putting on size more than weight. Once a member of the elite Marine Force Recon Division, he served seven years until a VC bullet nearly took his life in a far-off jungle. That was another life, really, but one that still haunted him occasionally today. Every time a storm approached, his left shoulder ached. Well, at least he didn’t need a weatherman.

Wade worked as a PI in Chicago for a while for a large company that did it all: bail bond jumpers, stolen cars, divorces—oh yeah, lots of divorces. Anything that somebody needed—they did it. The money was good, the hours were terrible, and the stress got to everyone in that trade. In truth, few knew the job was a front set up by the government Wade continued to work for even today.

Wade discovered this part of Florida almost by mistake but loved it immediately. He bought the house he now lived in—not a half mile from where he was currently angling—and settled down with Catherine seven years ago. A lifetime had happened since then.

Swimming from south to north along the bank, the Redfish continued their search for food—mostly baby mullet hatched just a few weeks ago. With the pole he used to propel the boat, Wade angled forty-five degrees from the fish and saw just what he was looking for—a little cut the fish would eventually glide into. Waiting, he picked up his seven-and-a-half-foot St. Croix spinning rod with his favorite Shimano reel spooled with Power Pro ten-pound super line with a number 3 circle hook on the end. The fish were twenty yards away and closing slowly.

Quiet as he could be, Wade reached into his live well and snagged a nice, lively shrimp. Hooking the shrimp through the back just in front of the rear spiny protrusion and just below the shell, he eased himself onto the front deck and waited. Ten yards. Now five, and it was time. His cast was perfect—about eight feet in front of the fish and a yard or so beyond. Twitch. He moved the rod tip up and down. Twitch. A half turn on the Shimano handle brought the shrimp almost in line with the redfish. He was about to do it again when he saw the green line grow taught and start moving faster and faster. A thousand and one. A thousand and two. A thousand and three. Wham! He set the hook with a vicious snap of the rod, and once more this morning, the water exploded.

The Shimano drag was set pretty tight, and yet the sound of the line stripping from the reel caused Wade’s heart to beat faster. The reel suddenly grew silent as the old redfish, having given its best, was now just hanging on. Back and forth they went, taking some line and giving some, until at last the old fish was just worn out and was pulled back to the boat.

One thing about a circle hook is that they work as advertised. They hook the fish in the mouth and are easy for the fisherman to remove. Wade slipped his fingers into the mouth of the fish and lifted him into the boat. The measuring stick showed he was twenty-six inches long—one inch shy of the maximum. No matter; with the hook removed, Wade gently laid the redfish back in the water and moved him back and forth a few times, felt the twitch of his tail, and released him back to his home. It was a successful hunt completed.

It’s going to be a warm one, Wade thought. The humidity had made its return again. It never got that hot here, but the humidity was a killer. Still, it sure beat the cold winters up north. And there were mosquitoes as big as dimes that bit like wasps.

Out of the channel, he pointed the bow north, toward home. Pushing the throttle forward, the little flats boat jumped on plane effortlessly as the fifty-horsepower Tohatsu spun up freely. Seems like almost everything is foreign made. Wade had chosen this motor because of its weight—or rather its lack of weight. And little else turned him on more than the smell of two-stroke oil being burned. To him it beat Old Spice and the rest.

Home was soon in sight, and Wade did not have to reach for the remote control to drop the boat lift, as he saw Bobby Joe dropping it at the control panel. He had met Bobby Joe about a year ago when Bobby came around selling bait—something the bait shops in town hated, but hey, it was legal, and Bobby Joe was just trying to make a living.

Wade didn’t buy any bait, but he and Bobby Joe got to talking. They had a beer on the dock. Well, two of them really. Then two more, and two more again. And a friendship began.

Over time, Wade learned that there was a whole lot he didn’t know. Bobby Joe Green had been born in the backwaters of the Okefenokee Swamp of southern Georgia. Bobby Joe was from another century. He and his family were raised eating what they caught, be it fish, raccoon, possum, or squirrel. Mama taught the three kids to read and write and taught them the Bible so they were fully trained. Daddy got kilt loggin’, and Mama died from a broken heart and a bad cough, spittin’ blood, said Bobby Joe. Us kids were old enough to do fer ourselves, so we just lit out. I ended up in Waycross. Wow, city folk sure are different.

Being nineteen or twenty years old, he was a grown man in his own eyes. He stood just short of six feet tall and was rawboned and wiry with incredibly blue eyes that looked like deep blue ponds. Bobby Joe was just country—pure and simple.

Wade was tired. He was retired and was tired of being so damned lonely. And yes, he cried when people couldn’t see him. He had been crying deep inside since his Catherine was killed not twenty miles from home. She had been on I-95, heading home from shopping, when a semi loaded with food crossed the median. There was a barrier designed to stop cars from crossing, but it did nothing to stop the semi. It lost a front wheel because of a weld failure, and the front left axle snapped off, sending it across the median into Catherine’s Lexus RX. The emergency responders said she was killed instantly, and Lord, did Wade hope so if it had to be. The driver of the semi, Wayne Foster, a long-distance driver for over thirty years with a perfect record, cried like a baby. He was in no way responsible, and really, nobody was to blame. And yet Wade’s wife of forty years was gone. That was seventeen months ago. At least he didn’t count the weeks and days anymore.

Wade loved fishing. He loved the hunt, the catch and release, and the occasional ones he kept for dinner. Tired of being lonely, Wade decided that total retirement wasn’t working. The government job he continued was just for show at this point. He had nothing to do but report once a week, and on what? Nothing.

So, liking what he did, he started chartering little fishing trips. Then he found he really needed another boat, so he bought a really nice deck boat. It was a Hurricane twenty-three footer with a bad motor because of neglect. He got it cheap and had a 250 horsepower Yamaha installed. Unfortunately it was a four-stroke, because of Uncle Sam and regulations. But now he had a boat that could take several people out at one time. He didn’t plan on taking them fishing, but there was a big demand for people just wanting to ride in a boat, look at wildlife, take pictures, and see manatees and dolphins. Or they might just want to travel the two plus hours to Inlet Harbor or Down the Hatch on Ponce Inlet, have lunch, and get chauffeured back. So he had the start of a small business. But damn, it was growing fast—too fast to suit Wade. Probably on beer three, he asked Bobby Joe if he wanted a job. After a big swallow, with a huge grin on his face, Bobby Joe accepted. And that’s how he got here.

Wade, Bobby Joe called out as he lowered the boat lift, Herb just called and sez a woman in a little boat is stuck just north of the bridge. She tied up on a fender and could be in trouble. Wondered if we could check it out or should he call those lazy bastards (the lazy bastards being the local police).

Wade had a wrap of electrical tape on the right rear lift guide so he knew when the lift was down enough in the water to slide the boat on. When it disappeared under the water, he gently nudged the skiff to the front, where the two front lift guides just bumped the boat. Then, with the remote control, he raised the boat level with the dock for now, where it would remain until it was clean again.

Herb said not to hurry, so you know what that means. You wanna go, or should I call him and tell him to call Chief Doughnut? Herb Moncrief, one of the bridge tenders on the lift bridge two miles south, was a character in himself. If Wade had to guess, he’d say Herb was near seventy years old. In need of a haircut and shave with a scraggly beard, Old Herb did his job with relish. Because the old fart put the bridge up and down, he had the catbird seat above the bigger boats and yachts that passed under. With very good ten-power binoculars the state provided, Old Herb got to see plenty of pretty ladies—some in very, very small bikinis. Some gals were as naked as jaybirds as they slipped below him. As he said, I might be old, but I ain’t dead, or Just ’cause there’s snow on the roof don’t mean there isn’t some fire in the furnace yet.

No, I’ll go, said Wade. Listen, I know you have plenty to do, but how about cleaning this trout I caught. It will be a perfect dinner tonight. Oh, and after you flush this motor, see how much gas we have in her. I may need it tomorrow. There was no gas gauge on this baby. Everything unnecessary had been removed to reduce the weight.

You got it, Boss, Bobby Joe said just to see Wade cringe a bit. Wade hated to be called Boss.

Stepping on the dock with the still-flapping trout, Wade heard a near door slam and knew what was coming. He soon spotted his next-door neighbor, Beatrice Worthington—all eighty-four years of her. All bubbly and full of life, the soul of the neighborhood was on her way. Bea had lost her husband Bob seven years ago to prostate cancer and was one of the rare ones who grieved but a short time and then told the world that life goes on and so would she.

Oh good, I see you finally got that trout you promised me, said Bea.

When Wade fished from his dock, he would often catch Bea watching from her Florida room, and should Wade catch something of size, Bea would be over in seconds, grab the landing net, and bring it in. Dressed in her usual floral housecoat, Bea walked over and grabbed the hose and started spraying a stream of water on the skiff, washing the salt off. Bea always pitched in and helped when a boat was involved. She and Bob had owned several boats over the years. Most of their skiffs on their big boats would dwarf Wade’s little skiff.

Bobby Joe looked at Wade, who just nodded a bit and said, You bet, Beatrice my love. Got him with your name on him. Now Bobby Joe, you know Miss Bea doesn’t want two fillets. She likes them whole, so just gut and scale this for her.

Course boss, Bobby Joe said as Wade gave him a look that said asshole.

There you go again, Wade, with that ‘my love’ stuff, said Bea. One of these days, I’ll get your ass in my bed and show you what my love can do.

Bea professed to have been in a fevered heat for a man since an hour after her husband, Bob, died. The trouble was, Wade half believed her. Maybe three-quarters believed her. The sight of the two wasn’t very pretty in his mind, but he loved her just the same.

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One mile due west at this time, on the western bank of the water, where Bulow creek flowed and a park existed, a young lady in a bright red kayak paddled a few strokes and rested. Lifting up her camera, she snapped several digital pictures of a majestic great blue heron feeding among the mangroves. She concentrated on the majestic bird and automatically set the aperture on the lens, gathering a bit more light. Next she employed the zoom, bringing in just the head of the bird. The bird was aware of the lady but so far was not alarmed enough to take flight.

But suddenly, it did. With a six-foot wingspan and a swooshing sound, the bird rose skyward. It left not because of the lady but because of an almost silent crack that alarmed it. It flew due east and in mere seconds was well out of harm’s way.

The lady never saw the bird leave. Nor did she hear the almost silent crack. Nor did she feel any pain as a projectile entered her skull. She never felt herself fall in the water. The dinner bell sounded for the blue crabs. A fresh feast was at hand.

CHAPTER 2

W ITH THE SUN BREAKING OVER the house’s roofline now and the heat starting to build, Wade backed slowly from the dock and turned the wheel to the left, causing the bow of the Hurricane deck boat to swing to the right. Once the vessel was clear of everything, he checked up and down the water. He then nudged the shift/throttle lever, engaged the transmission in forward gear, and idled away. Although a two-stroke motor proponent, he had to admit that the deep bass sound of the 250 horsepower Yamaha sounded intoxicating. Gradually bringing the boat up to speed heading south toward the bridge, with the wind in his hair while wearing his Costa del Mar sunglasses with amber lenses, Wade pushed the throttle forward and felt the twenty-three-foot-wide-beam boat leap into action, quickly getting up on plane.

He had chosen this motor, which had the maximum power legally allowed for this boat, as he simply liked power in motoring. Both this boat and his Audi A6, with a powerful turbo diesel, gave him a thrill. As the tachometer climbed past 5,500 rpm, the speedometer topped fifty-five miles per hour, and once more, on the slight chop of the water, he felt the chine walk. Chine walk can happen for several reasons, one being too much power for the boat. When too much power is applied, the rear end swings from side to side, much like the walks of certain girls. Most don’t walk in such a way, but those that did really captured Wade’s attention. He had a theory that girls that walked that way would be the best in bed. It was just a theory with no experience to back it up. However, Catherine had walked that way when she was younger. But that was the past.

The speed limit on the water changed from thirty miles per hour to twenty-five miles per hour as he entered Volusia County less than a mile from his dock. The boats that held to that limit were the boats that couldn’t go any faster. A fun time was when the cigarette boats gathered for their annual run. These thirty- to fifty-foot sleek speedboats, fifty to sixty of them, would all fly hell-bent, first heading north to St. Augustine, thirty miles away. A few hours later, the same boats, some with well over a thousand horsepower, would come back in all their painted splendor, some cocking the propeller up, throwing rooster tails fifty feet high. Almost all of them came equipped with very sexy ladies, some of them topless. The shame was they only made the run once a year.

Closing rapidly on the bridge, Wade backed the throttle down, knocking the boat off plane far before he reached his objective. He didn’t want to cause his wave to upset what looked like a twelve-foot aluminum johnboat—a flat kind of bathtub-looking affair best used on small ponds. This one had a small outboard on the back, and he could see the boat was tied to a fender plank. Fenders are walls built of wood, mostly, and attached so a boat will stay in the channel and not bump or bang the bridge structures itself. These structures also made for dandy fishing at certain times. Especially night fishing for the game fish of all game fish here—the famous snook.

Wade was not aware of it, but the lady in the jonboat had been tied up on the fender for almost an hour and was frightened, especially when the bridge tender sounded a very loud bell and the bridge above her head rose, half of it toward the east and the other half toward the west. She didn’t know it, but the bridge tender was very aware of her situation, and after raising the drawbridge, he spoke to the captain of a thirty-nine-foot Catalina sailboat of the situation, and the captain took all care to pass the lady ever so easily and calmly.

Yet fate had it that no other fishing boat came in or out for the hour or so she was stranded. Then, looking south, she saw a boat with two guys in it. They had fishing rods standing up in their holders and were cutting power to bring their boat in, as fishing was done for the day for them. At exactly the same time, Wade rounded the slight bend in the waterway coming hell-bent for leather. Herbie got along well with Wade and wanted to see him make the rescue. It would be something to talk about over a beer one day. So he waved off the fishing boat, saying a rescue was minutes away.

The damsel in distress was sitting back by the motor, and with a meek wave of her right hand, she let Wade know this was his target—as if there were anybody else there except for Herb Moncrief.

Leaning over the side rail on top of the bridge was Herbie, who yelled, Hey Nash, you old son of a bitch, what took ya so long? He grinned from ear to ear.

I was out springing those damned traps you set, Wade answered, so now you gotta get out and do it again. This was a joke between the two, both keen conservationists. A while ago, some slimeball set traps in the backwaters to illegally catch fish that they would then sell at deeply discounted prices. Wade, Herbie, and a few others had kept springing the traps for a couple of weeks until the poacher moved on. They never caught the bastard though.

With the transom of the Hurricane much taller than the little skiff, Wade reached over and put his hand on the motor of the little boat, holding it close to his boat.

Before he could ask, Miss Bleach Blonde said, Mister, please help me. This thing won’t start, and I gotta pee so bad, and that old man keeps looking down at me, and well … I really gotta go.

It’s not so easy for a girl in this situation, he thought. He had a porta potty in the head on his boat, but on shore, not two hundred feet away, were real toilets. Unfortunately she couldn’t see them from where she was tied to the fender.

Careful, Miss. I’ll steady your boat as much as possible, but it’s gonna be rocky, so stand up real easy. Be careful. It’s gonna rock a lot. Wade held her boat as tightly as he could.

With her hands on his boat, she eased her left leg over, just as the skiff immediately decided to slide away as her weight pushed it that way. A second before she fell in, Wade reached quickly, grabbed her arm under her left shoulder, and easily pulled her aboard, saving her from a sure bath in the not-so-clean water.

Thank you. Do you have a toilet on board, mister?

I do, but you’ll find a better one right around the corner. I’ll have you there in a minute. Wade settled behind the helm once more.

She turned to him and said, I have a lot of camera gear in that bag on the boat. I can’t leave it. It’s really all I’ve got. It’s how I make a living these days.

Looking up and down the