The Killing League

21.

Mack

Mack set the cooler in place, lowered the boat hoist until he felt the boat rise in the water on its own accord, then pushed off and set the motor at its lowest setting. This part of the Estero River was a no wake zone until it widened near the Pelican Bay boat launch.

When he made it around the first bend, he cracked his first beer and drank deeply. As always, with the first drink, he felt a bit of a hypocrite. People loved to compliment him, tell him what a great guy he was for taking care of his sister who had pretty much destroyed her brain with alcohol.

But he wasn’t a great guy. At times, he felt just as weak and helpless as she must have felt, while she was swimming in alcohol.

He pushed the thought from his mind. He’d been over this again and again. He knew the problems, the risks he was taking.

But some days, like today, he wanted to have a drink. No, he needed the drink, he could admit that. He just wanted…what was that song? Something about laying around the shanty and putting a good buzz on. That’s all he wanted right now, to take his brain to somewhere bright and fuzzy, away from the dark places of his memory.

For just a little while, he wanted to escape from the murderers and the victims. From the blood and the fury and the hopelessness.

He couldn’t always get away from the black spots on his own. He couldn’t always stop the brain from going there by himself. But he usually could with the help of some beer, or wine, or Jack and Cokes. They could do it quite well, actually.

He cruised down the Estero River, glancing at the homes along the banks. The boats, the swimming pools. Some were modern and expensive, others were old-style Florida. He liked the vintage establishments the best, even though he lived in a relatively new house.

He caught the scent of a woman’s perfume, or it could have been the bougainvillea that skirted some of the mangroves.

The river opened up and Mack slid the boat into Estero Bay. The bay was huge, with hundreds of small inlets and islands. Mack went right and skirted Mound Key, a small island made up almost entirely of shells discarded by the Seminole Indians way back when.

The ice cold beers went down smoothly as Mack navigated his way around the bay. He saw a pod of dolphins cruising near Drowned Man’s Key, and an osprey watched from the bare branches of a towering, dead tree. Eventually Mack made his way back to where the river dumped into the bay. He pointed the nose of the boat upstream, and headed back toward home.

The buzz was on and it felt good, like an old sweater or a favorite pillow after a long day.

Mack cruised back up the river, hanging to the right side as a large party boat cruised past, reggae music floating down from the crowded deck. He recognized the lyrics of a Ziggy Marley song.

It was completely dark on the river by the time Mack made it home. He pointed the skiff toward the boat hoist when his body jerked.

There was someone standing in his yard, between the dock and the house.

Mack couldn’t tell if they were looking out at the river or back toward the house.

What he did know was they were entirely in shadow.