Free Wood's Reach by Steven Becker

the screen lit up. After she pressed several buttons, the map appeared. “It’s here.”
    He glanced over. “Can you zoom out so I can see the canals?”
    She manipulated the screen until he saw a blue dot in the large turning basin they had just entered. The red dot, indicating the location of the house, was in one of the side canals not far from where they were.
    “Got it,” he said. “Keep an eye out for anything you recognize.” He turned right into another unmarked canal.
    She was humming “Can’t Find My Way Home” now.
    The houses and boats passed by as they navigated the waterway. Glancing down at the phone sitting between them on the leaning post, he watched the dots converge until they were right on top of each other. “Anything look familiar?”
    “That one. See? That’s Tru’s bike behind those bushes,” she said, pointing to a dark house.
    Mac turned to port and coasted to a stop along the dock. He looked at her, about to ask for help with the lines, when he saw the fear in her eyes. “Hey. It’s all right. Tru always lands on his feet,” he said, moving forward to tie off the boat before the current could get a hold of it.
    “It’s all my fault. He warned me about buying the house from the auction.”
    He turned to comfort her but saw a pair of headlights turn onto the street. “We gotta get Tru first. Then we’ll talk,” he tried to reassure her. The lights went past the house, and he shut off the engine. “Come on.”
    He hopped onto the dock and extended a hand for her. She looked scared, but she took his hand, her long legs making easy work of the transition. They climbed the back stairs to the house and found the patio door open. He jumped when she turned on the flashlight on the phone and went ahead of him to the bedroom.
    “He’s under the bed.”
    Mac peered underneath, expecting to find him bound there, but it was empty.
    “No. We have to move it. There’s a compartment in the floor.”
    Together they moved the bed, and she showed him where they had taken the carpet up. A minute later, they were staring at the outline of the plywood cover. “I’ll be right back. Gotta find a screwdriver.”
    As he walked away, he heard her singing something, probably to Trufante. The woman was an enigma, but he would expect nothing less from Trufante. For now, all he could do was get the Cajun out of here and find somewhere safe to figure things out. Sending them to TJ’s now, instead of waiting until the morning for them to come down, might be the best course of action. He suspected that Hawk might take some time to lick his wounds, but he’d be back.
    Bounding down the steps two at time, he reached the patio and glanced toward the quiet street, wondering where the car had gone. Curious, he risked a glance around the concrete pilings supporting the house and saw it parked down the block. There were no lights on, but he thought he saw the outline of a head in the driver’s seat.
    Thinking he’d deal with him after Trufante was free, he went to the boat and retrieved the toolbox. Back upstairs, he returned to the bedroom and looked at Pamela’s face in the glow of the phone, rocking softly to some tune in her head. Ignoring her, he set the plastic box beside the panel, opened it, and removed a screwdriver. Using all his force against the handle to prevent the tips from stripping, he extracted the screws one by one and finally lifted the lid.
    Trufante was curled up in a ball, his frame barely fitting inside the cache. A lifeless eye looked up at Mac, who exhaled sharply when he realized his friend was still alive. Pamela appeared next to him, and together they lifted him out of the hole. “You good?”
    “Damn headache is all—champagne will do that to ya every time,” he said, shaking his head.
    “Come on,” Mac said. He noticed something between one of the joists and the plywood below it. “Can you shine the light in there?” he asked Pamela.
    She was on her knees, fussing over