Charlie's Requiem: Democide (33 page)

Sure enough, the fence ended at the shores of the lake. We walked down to the shimmering water and tested the depth just past the end of the barrier. Holding onto the metal fence, we swung ourselves to the other side and entered the backyard of a restored plantation mansion.

Moving quietly, we left the area and encountered very few problems other than a couple of occupied homes. Whether our movement was just too quiet to detect, or because the homeowners weren’t looking for trouble, we passed by without challenge and quickly found ourselves on the southern shore of Lake Sue.

Most of the lakefront properties in the Winter Park area had large, newly constructed Florida “McMansions” built on them. The older, single-story houses that had first appeared as weekend lakefront homes for the wealthy Orlando residents in the early 1900’s had been torn down and giant gaudy replacements that maximized the allowable square footage were crammed back onto the land. I was pleasantly surprised to see that these houses on the south side of the lake were still old school, and that most of them were abandoned and many had boats in the driveway. We quietly scouted the houses, avoiding one that had candlelight filtering out from behind the curtains.

“OVER HERE!” Janice whispered loudly. After shushing her, we saw what was so exciting. A Jon boat, with an electric motor attached to the stern next to a 25-horsepower Mercury gas-powered outboard, was docked behind the home.

It was a larger boat, and handled the five of us without problem. The gas-powered outboard motor was retracted out of the water, and the electric trolling motor was lifted out as well. Pressing the peddle of the electric motor produced a whirling sound, as the blades spun up and cut the night air.

“It works!” I said. “Let’s get going.”

“One second,” Jorge replied, jumping out of the boat and pushing open a door to a shed off the side of the dock. His flashlight briefly illuminated the inside of the structure, and a few moments later, he came back out with a deep cycle marine battery. Plopping into the rear, hull-mounted chair, he set the battery down and lowered the electric motor into the lake.

“On the water,” he said. “Batteries are life. This will be a nice backup.”

We unhooked ourselves from the dock and the trolling motor was engaged, slowly but quietly moving us away from the land and out toward the middle of the lake. With the moonlight shining, I realized we presented an easy target to anyone onshore.

“Jorge,” I said. “We’re sitting ducks out here. Can’t we get closer to shore?”

“We either stay in the middle and avoid running aground, or go close to shore. I thought this would be better.”

“It’s a Jon boat,” I countered. “We only need a few inches of water. I’d rather get closer to shore.”

“Makes sense, just keep an eye out for anyone on land. If we’re close to shore, we’re in handgun range.”

Jorge turned the boat and began to hug the shoreline. Sitting just a couple of dozen yards off the backyards of the homes that lined the lake was a surreal experience. The dark and ghostly homes stared lifelessly back at us as we scanned for threats. Two of the homes showed signs of life, with light filtering out from the windows, but none challenged us.

Our goal was a canal that connected Lake Sue with the next body of water to its north, Lake Virginia. We found the canal entrance without too much difficulty when a straight and narrow opening appeared in the shoreline. Barely able to accommodate our boat, it appeared to be more of a canoe waterway rather than one made for motorized travel. Had we attempted the journey with any larger waterborne craft, we would never have fit into the narrow lake-to-lake artery. Fortunately, the shallow draft of our Jon boat kept us afloat and moving.

The motor pushed us along at less than 5 mph, barely faster than a brisk walk. Had it been an earlier time with friends or family, the trip would have been enjoyable; and had I been on the boat with a male companion, it would actually have been romantic. The frogs and other creatures sang their night songs while we silently wove our way through the maze of oaks and Florida scrub brush. Gardenia bushes, their fragrant blooms hanging out from the forested thicket, glowed in the moon’s cobalt-tinted light. Meanwhile, bats and owls hunted in the sky above us as mosquitoes and mice were harvested from the surrounding jungle.

About half way through, the straight and manicured canal emptied into a swampy pond. The natural beauty of the water shone in the night light as several pairs of eyes stared back at our boat. Raccoons, Armadillos and other nocturnal creatures were drinking their fill while we glided through their habitat. A hard right turn in the middle of the small lagoon took us back into the tree canopy and another man-made canal. This one, like the last, was barely 12 feet wide and was lined with the same Florida plants. Reaching out, I ripped a gardenia bloom from its branch and shook it out over the water. Sugar ants loved these blooms, and a quick dip in the water removed any of the insects that remained after I had shaken the fragrant flower.

After inhaling the blossom’s perfume, I gave it to Janice who sniffed it as well. She passed it to Maria who inhaled the flower’s scent, and tucked it into the front of her shirt. The canal took a gentler turn to the right, our boat bumping the small breaker wall that lined the waterway. Finally, after a quiet and enjoyable twenty or so minutes, we were deposited out onto the next lake.

Jorge and I had memorized the approximate location of the next canal, this one wider but potentially more dangerous than the last one. Connecting Lake Virginia to Lake Osceola, the channel cut under one of the most heavily travelled streets in the town. Fairbanks Avenue was a four-lane highway that was a potential spot for an ambush. Coming out of the tree line, I could see people on the bridge that spanned our next leg of the journey.

“Jorge!” I whispered, pointing to the shoreline overpass. “I see some people on top of the bridge.”

He shook his head in agreement and we pulled over to the northern tree line.

“What do we do?” I asked. “We’re easy to see out on the lake.”

“I still think this is the best way to go. If they have the manpower to patrol the road up there, we don’t have a chance over land.”

“I think we need to camouflage our boat,” Garrett said. “Break up our outline a bit.”

Garrett slid out of the craft as we pulled up to shore. He produced a knife and began to quietly cut some branches from the brush on the side of the water. I left the boat and joined him, quickly producing enough foliage to break up the outline of the Jon boat.

“Safeties off,” Jorge whispered. “Index your fingers like we talked about and don’t touch the trigger unless we’re shot at. We don’t want an accidental discharge because someone jumped.”

I placed my trigger finger flat against the side of the rifle, just above the trigger well, thus indexing my finger as instructed. Jorge pressed the pedal of the electric motor and we were once again crawling along the shoreline toward the Fairbanks Avenue bridge overpass.

The men that I had first seen on top of the bridge had disappeared, hopefully just passing across the canal on their journey to who knew where. We crept along and turned left into the mouth of the wide, shallow spillway. Immediately upon entering the mouth of the canal, we heard the bow of the aluminum hull scrape the bottom of the shallow, concrete-lined waterway. Jorge stopped the motor and lifted it out of the water. We all held our breath, praying that no one had heard our noise.

Minutes passed by before we took a collective breath. Finally, Jorge whispered.

“Everyone out. Let’s walk this thing to the other lake.”

We all slipped off the side of the flat-bottomed boat and grasped the edge of the craft. Walking at a slow but steady pace, we managed to safely pass through the channel.

We struggled a bit loading back onto the boat, almost swamping it as we tried to quietly roll into it. Wet, but no worse for the wear, we motored quietly onto the next large body of water. Now, we had just one more canal to go before we would be on the southern shores of large Lake Maitland and our final destination.

Lake Osceola, one of the jewels of the chain of lakes, was too open and visible for us to travel directly across, so we once again hugged the shore. The canal to Lake Maitland opened at the north end of the peanut-shaped lake. As we approached the channel’s entrance, the electric motor began to slow down.

“Running out of juice?” Garrett asked quietly.

“It is running a bit slow,” Jorge confirmed. “I don’t know how much longer we have. I’ve been running it at full power and who knows how much is left in this thing.”

The canal into Lake Maitland was similar to the one coming out of Lake Sue. Tight and man-made with walls about 12 feet apart. Passing under Palmer Avenue, they could hear voices coming from the road above. The voices were fading as the men authoring them moved quickly across the bridge.

“… radio call about contacts out on Lakeshore! Can’t believe the spics are moving in on out territ…” was all the group heard as we left the road behind.

The “little engine that could” began to drag even more as we spilled out of the mouth of the final canal and onto Lake Maitland. The water was a bit choppy as the wind had picked up. Dawn was approaching from our right as the eastern sky began to brighten. The sky was a light pink color, reminding me of the old sailor’s adage, …
Red sky in morning, sailor’s warning
. Without the internet, prophesizing the chances of rain and foul weather had gone old school. Unfortunately, I hadn’t been brought up with that kind of education.

“Take us to the trees over there,” I recommended. “That’s The Isle of Sicily. We can swap batteries under the canopy of those oaks.”

The Isle of Sicily was a projection into the lake that had only the most exclusive homes. Several professional athletes and a Las Vegas comedian all lived on the peninsula. I directed Jorge to a copse of trees and we grounded the boat on the shore next to a large patch of cattails.

“Let me see if the other battery works,” Jorge stated as he fumbled with the electric cables, transferring them to the battery he salvaged from the storage shed back on Lake Sue.

“Crap!” Jorge exclaimed. “One of the terminals is broken. We’re out of luck.”

Jorge cursed again as he put the original battery back in place and reconnected it to the motor.

Garrett began to crawl out of the craft. “Going to take a leak.” He stated.

“Careful,” I warned as we waited for Jorge to finish reattaching the cables. “Stay in the boat until we know it’s safe. This might not be the best place to get out.”

“No one’s here. I’m sure it’s safe.” Garrett said as he sat on the edge of the Jon Boat, sitting under a canopy of Spanish moss that draped over the shoreline.

“I’m not worried about the two-legged monsters,” I shot back. “Give me a flashlight.”

I shined the beam into the tall grass at the base of the closest tree, and two bright shinny eyes stared back at me.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” I said. “That’s a gator, and it’s a big one.”

I turned to Jorge and asked, “Do you have enough power to get us to a different spot?”

“Sure, just push us back and I’ll move us further east.”

Garrett grabbed a paddle and shoved it into the soft mud at the bow of the boat, pushing us away from land. Once we were offshore, Jorge was able to steer us east and we grounded the craft about a hundred yards away at the base of the peninsula.

“Let’s go!” I said. “We’re in the open here!”

In front of us, a mansion of epic proportions stood sentinel over an Olympic-sized pool. We scurried up on shore, pulling the Jon boat along with us, and we deposited it next to a stone and steel fence that surrounded the swimming pool.

“Let’s push it into those azaleas over there and hide it from view.” I suggested. “We can come back and salvage it later if we need it.”

Once the Jon boat was tucked away, we moved to the side of the house and got our bearings.

“Let’s take Pinetree Road,” I said, pointing to a cross street just east of our location. “We can take that to the Winter Park Racquet Club and cut through the back of its property, then up to Venetian way and we’re home.”

My dad lived in a modest area of town, his house was in an older subdivision a block from the lake. I’d been on this part of Lake Maitland on his neighbor’s boat, waterskiing and fishing the shoreline. I knew we’d be at his house within the hour.

We had moved slowly and carefully up until now, but the rising sun was pushing us to quickly finish our journey. About a half a mile up Pinetree, looking over the trees to the left, I could make out the top of the Racquet Club. The 1920’s brick two-story building sat on a small hill, towering over a sunken grotto-like pool area. The elegant building still retained its distinguished feel, even with weeks of neglect. I directed us to the left up a long driveway and through a mansion’s back yard. Pushing through hedges of Formosa azaleas and a stand of bamboo plants, we squatted next to the club’s brick knee-high wall.

“It looks abandoned,” I commented, anxious to find my dad’s house and call it a day. We were all exhausted and in need of some sleep, which pushed us to move faster than we should have. So far, the last hour had brought us luck as we had let our cautious side get overruled by our impatience.

Just as we were prepared to sprint across the yard in front of us, we heard the sound of someone yelling echoing down toward us from the elevated building. Ducking back into the brush, we held our place as loud and stressed voices grew in intensity from within the old, majestic building.

Gunshots rang out from the club, causing me to duck and Janice and Maria to drop to the dirt. Not hearing any bullets pass by, I inched out from concealment and looked up at the historic brick structure.

The gunfire could be heard coming from the front but not directed at us. The shots quickly reached a continuous crescendo of high pitched cracks and lower pitched booms as a bunch people were trying their best to end the others’ lives.

“Quick!” I said. “Let’s move to the other side. The shots are from out front.”

“Hurry!” Jorge added. “We don’t have much time.”

The five of us sprinted out of the brush and across the back of the property, keeping as close to the lake as we could. Seconds dragged as I pumped my legs, tearing across the formerly manicured back lawn. I felt like I was in mud, my feet and legs seeming to be moving far slower than normal.

Eventually, we found ourselves in the brush on the other side of the tennis club’s property and into another back yard. We stopped within the bushes and scanned the house in front of us, yet another massive mansion with a pool area the size of most people’s entire property.

“Just how much money is in this town?” I asked, shaking my head at the hundreds of millions of dollars in land and house value that surrounded us. “I just can’t figure out who makes enough money to afford these places. I mean, what do they do?”

“You mean what
did
they do,” Garrett corrected me. “Right now, I’ll bet any one of these people would give up all their wealth and property to find somewhere safe.”

“Let’s have this conversation later, like when
we’re
safe!” Jorge exhorted. “Move it!”