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Unfamiliar with the waters around Christmas Tree Island, I anchored the Hold Fast as close to the shoreline as I was comfortable with. I didn’t bother to ask where the best place to moor was. The less people knew what I was up to, the better.

I threw on my swim trunks from my Navy days, swam twenty yards, then waded the rest of the way to shore. In the Florida Keys, you can wade offshore forever in shallow reefs and sandbars. No wonder there are so many sunken ships in these waters. An added bonus is the crystal-clear sea. I could see anything with teeth coming from fifty yards.

As I hit the beach, the smell of a fire burning from somewhere washed over me. I entered the brush, found a sandy trail, and followed my nose. In the center of the island was a commune made up of wooden-debris shacks, tents, tarps and even a goddamn tepee. A few people looked up at me as I walked by but decided a man in only his swim trunks wasn’t much of a threat. They went back to picking a guitar, smoking dope, or just sitting and staring. These people took the Last Resort idea to heart. They were the unwanted, the spaced-out, freedom seekers and fugitives. Freaks from around the country looking for a place to hide and live their versions of the American Dream. In a way, I could relate, and I was kind of jealous.

Beneath a massive blue tarp fastened to a tin shack sat a workbench and engine hoist. I figured that was a good place to start my investigation. The king of the hobos probably lived there.

I stopped beside one of the wooden posts that held one end of the tarp up and checked the sturdiness. An ocean breeze blew through, and the makeshift roof barely moved. I was impressed.

On the workbench were boat parts, radios, oilcans, and lubes. Gadgets and projects jammed the area. In a sunny part near the side of the shack, twelve marijuana plants grew in big clay pots. How someone got all that crap on the island, I don’t know, but I was more impressed with every step. As I got closer to the marijuana plants, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a quick movement. I didn’t have time to react. I wish I had. All I knew was my ears rang for a second, and then my world went dark.

When I awoke, an old man in a red Speedo stood over me. He was thin and had skin like a brown iguana. His sun-bleached hair was matted and dirty. A beard hung to the middle of his chest, and his eyes were wild and gray. A fat joint hung from the corner of his mouth, and in his hand, he held a shovel. The one he had just hit me on the head with only minutes earlier. I was not on my toes, lazy and dull on the edges. I needed to get my head back in the game.

I went to rub the egg on the left side of my head, but the old man had tied my hands behind me. He had me propped against one of the wooden posts that held the big blue tarp up. I looked around. No one in the camp cared if I lived or died.

“What the fuck, man?” I asked.

“Breach my perimeter and you get the hammer,” the old man answered. “Now, who are you and who do you work for?”

“I don’t work for nobody. Untie my hands, motherfucker, or I’m going to put your head in your ass.”

“Oh, an intimidator. Big talk for a man in your situation.”

“And I’m going to fuck your world.”

“Yeah, you’re gonna fuck it all right. You a cop? You got cop written all over you. Where? Miami? Feds?”

“I’m not a cop. Now fucking untie me!”

The old man leaned on his shovel. He pursed his lips, and as he chewed the inside of his cheek, he studied me. A thread of smoke rose from the joint in the corner of his mouth.

“No, you may not be a cop now, but you were. I can smell it. Once a pig, always a pig. Whatchu doing here, boy?”

“Boy? Motherfucker, when I get out of these, I’m gonna—”

“You gonna what? Oh, yeah. You’re gonna put my head in my ass and fuck my world. Well, go ahead. Get out of them ropes. I’ll give you”—he checked an expensive diver’s watch—“all night.”

I worked the ropes, but there was no way I was getting out of them. The old bastard watched with amusement. He even taunted me by offering a toke of his smoke. The more I tried to work the ropes, the tighter they pulled on my wrists. Finally, I gave up and hated myself for doing it, too. Beaten by a skinny old man in a Speedo, stoned on bud. If anyone found out about this, I would never be able to show my face anywhere again.

“All right,” I said. “All right. My name is Lee Cutter. I used to be a Detroit cop. I’m retired now. I’m sorry for snooping your shit. Can I please go now?”

I figured it was best to get it all out and avoid any back-and-forth.

The old man took a long drag off his joint, put it out on his tongue, and sat the roach in a bronze ashtray atop one of the workbenches. A cloud of that sweet Mary Jane smell blew away in the breeze. He turned his back on me, and I saw a faded green tattoo on the back of his right shoulder. When he turned back, he held a fillet knife, the kind used for cleaning fish. Sharp and thin. The knife was no joke. I just knew he was going to skin me alive. Probably turn me into a pair of shoes.

The old man stepped toward me, and I kicked at him. He moved around me easily as I pulled hard on the ropes bound to my wrists. My circulation was cut off and my hands went numb. That son of a bitch laughed.

“Hold up! Hold up!” I shouted.

He grabbed my right arm with a strong grip. His fingers dug into my muscles.

“Hold still,” he said.

“Don’t do this!”

Then he cut the rope from my hands, and I was free and embarrassed. As I rubbed away the rope burns on my wrists, the old man stood over me. He smiled, then laughed like an engine with a misfiring cylinder. He held out his hand and helped me to my feet.