One of Rusty’s favorite movies was called Roadhouse, with Patrick Swayze and Sam Elliot as bar bouncers. The bar in the movie, Double Deuce, was a wild and raucous place where fights happened every night and the band played behind a chain link fence. Swayze and Elliot were brought in to tame it. But the old Roadhouse was a dangerous place.
“Yeah,” I said, getting Tank’s attention with my hand. “But she can’t come to the phone.”
Tank was staring, ready. I gave him two signals—move up and hostage. He went into action instantly, first going to Alberto and whispering in his ear, then reeling in both their lines and stowing the gear.
“Down in the galley making lunch?” Rusty asked.
He also knew we were fishing from my skiff. Someone was listening who thought we were on the Revenge.
“No,” I replied. “She’s in the cabin. She got seasick on the way out here to the Gulf Stream.”
“That’s too bad,” he said. “Happens a lot with her, though. When will you be back to the marina?”
Two more clues. Savannah’s lived aboard for two decades and never gets seasick, and we keep the Revenge up at our island. I wanted desperately to know what was going on.
“We should be back there in a couple of hours,” I said.
I suddenly realized that Savannah was on her way there now. And probably only fifteen minutes away. I stifled a gasp.
“Good,” Rusty said. “We’ll see you when you get here.”
I looked down at my phone and the call had ended.
“What’s going on?” Tank asked.
Alberto was up on the forward casting deck.
“Something’s not right at the Anchor,” I whispered, and started the outboard. “I think someone is there looking for me and Savannah and holding a gun or something on Rusty.”
“Then let’s go,” Tank said.
“Both of you, move back here.”
We sandwiched Alberto between us, and I hit the throttle, pointing the bow toward the southwest and Vaca Cut.
“I’ll call Chyrel,” Tank yelled. “Andrew and Tony were coming down to help move some stuff for her. Maybe they got there early.”
He bent behind the small console to block the wind noise.
“What’s wrong?” Alberto said, his voice sounding on the verge of panic.
“We don’t know yet,” I replied. “We’re going to the Rusty Anchor to find out.”
“She said they’re in Layton,” Tank shouted, over the engine and wind noise. “She’s diverting them to the Anchor and will follow them as backup. Didn’t Savannah say she was headed there? You should call her.”
I let Tank reach over and take the wheel as I leaned behind the low console. Savannah’s phone rang four times and went to voicemail.
“Don’t go to the Anchor!” I shouted into the phone. “Something’s going on there.”
I ended the call and tried again but got her voicemail once more.
I put the phone back in my pocket and took the wheel, pushing on the throttle, though it was wide open.
“Should I try to call the police?” Tank asked.
“They won’t get there for twenty minutes,” I replied. “Are you carrying?”
He nodded and I nodded back. I knew Tony and Andrew would also be armed, and probably Chyrel, as well. It was fifty/fifty whether Savannah was, but she also had Finn and Woden with her.
Slowing the boat a little as we neared the channel for the cut, I felt my phone vibrate and pulled it out. It was Tony.
“Where are you?” I asked, as we entered the channel.
“Just hit the four-lane,” Tony said. We should be there in less than five minutes. Chyrel is behind us. What do you want us to do?”
“Head in normally,” I said. “We’re close, just entering Vaca Cut. We’ll come in like a couple of fishermen just returning. Whatever’s going on, they think we’re two hours out.”
We passed under the bridge and I slowed to a normal speed as we came out into Vaca Key Bight. I didn’t want to attract any attention if anyone was watching. I just hoped we’d get there before Savannah. I had no idea what was going on, but I sure didn’t want her in the middle of it.
We followed the channel until we reached Marker 7, then I turned right, staying just beyond the stick farm—a bunch of different colored wood and plastic poles marking the approaches to numerous private channels.
I knew the water was at least three feet deep and every fiber of my being urged me to mash the throttle. I tried Savannah’s phone again. This time it went straight to her voicemail without ringing.
For a moment, my mind flashed back to Alex, and how she’d been abducted from Boot Key Harbor and murdered on our wedding night. I bumped up the speed just a little.
Still a mile from the entrance to Rusty’s canal, I spotted the bow spray of a boat rounding East Sister Rock, off to the southwest. As we got closer, I recognized the familiar lines of my old Grady-White and angled to intercept.
As we neared one another, I pulled back on the throttle as Savannah dropped down off plane.
“What are you doing here?” she yelled across the thirty feet of water between us.
Finn and Woden stood next to her with their front paws on the gunwale. Finn barked a greeting.
“Something’s wrong at the Anchor,” I replied, keeping my voice low; sound travels well over water. “I’ve been trying to call you. Come over and take Alberto.”
She pulled her cell out of her hip pocket. “My phone died. What’s going on?”
We both shifted to neutral and I reached over and grabbed the midship cleat on the Grady.
“I’m not sure. But I think there’s trouble.”
I stood and, still holding the cleat with one hand, scooped Alberto up and lifted him over the Grady’s higher gunwale. “Y’all stay out here until I tell you to come in. Come, Finn! Woden, bewachen!”
Finn leapt over the gunwale and Woden stepped down, turning sideways to Savannah and Alberto in a protective manner.
Without waiting for an answer, I put the Maverick
