Carl Hiaasen (26 page)

Yeah, thought Sammy Tigertail, here I am. Risking my dumb ass to help a white man rescue his wacko ex-wife.

The shot had sounded odd; like a firecracker in a toilet.

Skinner was running hard, the Indian close on his heels. Still it took several minutes to cross the island, choked as it was with vines and undergrowth. Eventually the two men burst into a broad clearing and Sammy Tigertail saw, on the other side, his own campsite. Some sort of unholy fight was under way—yelling, grunting, writhing amid the dirt and shells.

No one appeared to have been wounded, despite the ominous echo of gunfire earlier. The Seminole briefly considered dashing to his canoe, for the frenzied scene in front of him promised a messy climax that was certain to further complicate his life. There are at least 9,999 other islands, he thought, where a man might find peace and isolation.

And Sammy Tigertail might have bolted if it weren’t for the improbable sight of Skinner’s adolescent son whaling at a figure whom the Indian recognized as the malodorous mutant he’d clocked with his rifle butt, the one Gillian called Band-Aid Man and Skinner called Piejack. The man had rebounded impressively from the head bashing, for he was able to fend off the boy while at the same time wrestle a youthful and athletically built woman. From her salty dockside vocabulary, Sammy Tigertail pegged her as the kid’s missing mother, Skinner’s former wife. She and Band-Aid Man were struggling for control of a metallic object that looked like a modified shotgun of the crude, chopped-down style favored by redneck felons and myopic urban gangsters. The Seminole heard the weapon make two dull clicks, as if a shell had jammed in the chamber.

Ahead he saw Skinner go down at full speed, tumbling and grabbing at his left knee. What happened next took only a few seconds, but it unfolded before Sammy Tigertail with a halting and grim inevitability. Skinner’s ex-wife pushed away from Piejack and scrambled to Skinner’s side. Their son made two steps in the same direction before Piejack grabbed his ankle and jerked him violently backward, causing him to drop the piece of lumber he’d been wielding.

The man then leered and displayed for the boy’s horrified parents the shiny black .45, which had been jarred from Skinner’s grasp when he fell. “Lookie who’s here!” Piejack cackled at Skinner. “This is perfect! Now I aim to pay you back for what your Latino gorillas did to my hand.”

As the fiend placed the weapon to Fry’s temple, Sammy Tigertail regretted losing his composure and busting his rifle into pieces, as now he had no means by which to end the mayhem. Without moving a step, he took inventory. Skinner was still down and in terrible pain. Honey Santana embraced him, whispering and sniffling softly. Her lower jaw was badly bruised and hanging slack. A few yards away, Piejack kept one arm hooked around their son’s neck, the kid looking sick and dizzy again. Balanced tenuously in Piejack’s bare and gangrenous left hand was Skinner’s semiautomatic, the trigger covered by a discolored kernel of a finger. The discarded sawed-off was on the ground.

“Get lost, asswipe.” It was Piejack, finally taking notice of the Seminole. “This ain’t yer bidness.”

The creep might be right, Sammy Tigertail thought, but here I am.

“Be on your way,” Piejack said, “’less you wanna hole in your belly.”

The Indian could almost hear his uncle saying: What’s happening there has nothing to do with you. It’s more crazy shit among white people, that’s all.

“Can I get my guitar?” Sammy Tigertail asked. He had spotted the Gibson, his fondest connection to the white world, in the cinders of the dead campfire.

Piejack said, “That thing’s yours? Ha!”

Sammy Tigertail recalled a quote he’d memorized as a teenager. It was from Gen. Thomas Jesup, appraising the long Indian war in Florida:

We have, at no former period of our history, had to contend with so formidable an enemy. No Seminole proves false to his country, nor has a single instance ever occurred of a first rate warrior having surrendered.

Sammy Tigertail’s uncle had said it was mostly true. He’d also said there were some in the tribe who’d dropped their weapons and run like jackrabbits; others who’d taken bribes from the U.S. generals in exchange for scratching their names on worthless treaties.

Many Seminoles were first-rate warriors, Sammy’s uncle had said, but a few were not.

“What’re you waitin’ on? Take the fuckin’ guitar and vamoose,” Piejack said, “’fore I shoot your red ass off.”

That’s ugly, Sammy Tigertail thought. Ugly and unnecessary.

Crossing the clearing, he could sense the boy watching him. Skinner’s ex-wife, too. The Seminole fixed his eyes on the blond Gibson, shining among the ashes.

“Mister, wait,” the kid said.

Sammy Tigertail didn’t look up. He lifted the guitar and wiped it with a bandanna. With chagrin he noted a nasty ding in the finish.

“Don’t you dare leave us here,” said the boy’s mother. “Please.”

The Indian offered no response. He’d made up his mind.

“For God’s sake, Sammy.” It was Mr. Skinner, rising.

The Seminole thought of his great-great-great-grandfather, Chief Thlocklo Tustenuggee, tricked with promises of peace and then imprisoned. Manifest destiny, otherwise known as screwing native peoples out of their homelands, had been a holy crusade among white men of that era. Immune to guilt or shame, they dealt suffering and death to mothers, infants, even the elders. One American president after another, breaking treaties and spitting lies—the boundlessness of their deceptions was altogether stunning.

Sammy Tigertail in his young life had never betrayed a soul. He owned a working conscience that could have sprung from either of his bloodlines. His mother was a moral, hardworking woman; his father had been a decent and truthful man.

“You some kinda retard, or what? I said to get the hell outta here,” Band-Aid Man barked.

“Just a minute.”

“I said
now
!”

The Indian looked up and saw Piejack waggling the .45.

“Bad idea,” Sammy Tigertail said, and began moving toward him.

The man told him to back off, or else. The Seminole continued to advance with long, even strides.

Wide-eyed, Piejack struggled to level the gun.

“Louis, don’t be an imbecile!” Honey pleaded.

When he got six feet away, Sammy Tigertail turned. He stepped up to Perry Skinner and held out the guitar. All he said was: “I believe Mr. Knopfler would understand.”

“Who?” Piejack croaked. “Unnerstand what?”

Skinner took the instrument by the neck and, limping forward, poised it like an ax.

“Duck,” the Indian advised the former Mrs. Skinner, and then he dived to cover her son.

The gun in Louis Piejack’s paw spit an ice-blue spark, but the blond Gibson came down hard, splintering his filthy skull.

Twenty-five

Eugenie Fonda sat on the balcony of her sixth-floor room, fanning her freshly painted toes and watching the sun melt like sorbet into the Gulf of Mexico. Her third Bacardi was sweating cool droplets that snaked down her bare tummy.

The sliding door opened, and Gillian St. Croix stepped out wearing camo flip-flops and a baby-blue tank dress that Eugenie had bought for her at a shop in the lobby. She announced that her mosquito bites had practically vanished, thanks to a magical mint unguent recommended by a Moroccan lady at the spa.

“Check out the sunset,” Eugenie said.

“Yeah, it’s awesome.” Gillian arranged herself cross-legged on the other patio chair. “Wanna hear what he said? Ethan, when I called him?”

Eugenie sipped her drink. “I can guess what he said, sweetie. ‘All is forgiven. Come back home.’”

“Yeah, but you know what I said? ‘Find another girlfriend, loser.’ He’s such a loser, not tellin’ me about those dolphins. Makin’ me think they swam off like Free Willie when all they did was hang around and beg for treats like trained poodles.”

Eugenie had heard the story before but she listened politely. Looking south, she wondered if Boyd Shreave had gotten off the island yet. She hoped that he wouldn’t come searching for her, that he wasn’t dim enough to believe he was still in the mix.

Gillian went on, “Ethan doesn’t really care about me. It’s just the sex.”

“Well, he’s a boy.”

“Why are they all like that?”

“Oh, they’re not.” Eugenie was thinking in particular of Honey Santana’s ex, who’d obviously never stopped loving her. There was no such man in Eugenie’s past; even Van Bonneville had quit writing from prison.

“Rate the massage,” Eugenie said.

“Awesome. Eleven on a scale of ten.” Gillian paused and frowned. “Know what? I gotta find a new word. I’m so over
awesome.
”

“It’s been beaten to death,” Eugenie concurred.

“Hey, how about
super
? I had a
super
massage.”

Eugenie shook her head. “
Super
is over, too. Especially if you’re gonna be a big-time TV weather woman.”

“God, who knows what I’m gonna be.” Gillian laughed. “Did you have the Japanese guy or the deep-tissue redneck? I had the redneck.”

“Me too. Showed me pictures of his darling twin boys.”

“Did he?”

“Yeah,” Eugenie said, “then he took out a vibrator the size of a hoagie and asked me if I was into toys.”

Gillian hooted. “See! They’re all the same!”

Eugenie drained her glass. The sun was gone, the horizon aglow. There were scads of little kids running up from the beach, shouting and giggling and kicking up sand.

“Patience,” she said to Gillian. “That’s the secret. Once you start rushin’ into these things, making lousy choices, it’s awful hard to dig yourself out. By that I mean it’s hard to change.”

Gillian said, “You haven’t done so bad. Look where we are, Genie—the beach, the ocean, rum drinks! The rest of the country’s freezin’ their butts off.”

Eugenie thought: Treading water is where I am. Maxing out my credit card.

“What happens is, you start to give off a certain vibe,” she said. “Why do you think that masseur came on to me and not you? Because he knew, sweetie, that I’m not above fucking the help when I get bored. They’ve got radar for it, men do, the boredom vibe. You be careful about that, okay?”

Gillian went and got a beer from the minibar. She took a slug and said, “Wait for the good ones—that’s what you mean by patience?”

“They’re out there. I know for a fact,” Eugenie said.

“Like Thlocko?”

“Find one from earth, Gillian. His
baggage
had baggage.”

“But he’s different. I like him.”

Eugenie said, “Me too.”

“Totally not boring.”

“That’s true.”

“Thanks for not sleeping with him. I mean it.”

“Anytime,” said Eugenie.

Gillian tipped the last half of her beer into a clay planter. “I better head back to Tallahassee tomorrow—I’ve gotta buy my books for the new term. What about you?”

“I’m on a non-stop to DFW. Gonna quit my shitty job and start over.”

“Yeah? And do what?”

“Quilts. I hear they’re coming back. Or maybe scented candles,” Eugenie said with a straight face. “Something where I can work at home and never have to meet any jerks.”

Gillian watched a flock of gray pelicans crashing bait in the waves. “What a crazed trip—I mean
crazed.
Maybe we should, like, celebrate.”

Eugenie Fonda agreed. “I’m thinking lobster,” she said, “and a Chilean chardonnay.”

“Magnificent,” said Gillian with a wink. “How’s that for a word?”

Ninety-one miles away, Boyd Shreave finally got to change his pants.

He’d waited in the poinciana tree until dusk, listening for the two men who had accosted him at gunpoint. Then he had commenced a nervous descent that transpired in stages, the first being baby steps and the second being a spontaneous heels-over-head plummet. By some miracle, he’d landed short of the cactus patch. And although he’d torn off his windbreaker and bloodied his palms on a ridge of loose oyster shells, Shreave was overjoyed not to have crippled himself.

He removed his soiled boat shorts and searched hurriedly through the Orvis bag for a dry pair of Tommy Bahamas. He settled for apple-green Speedos, which he’d packed in the fanciful expectation of appearing well matched with his bethonged mistress on the beach.

In the pup tent that he and Eugenie Fonda once shared, Shreave found an open bottle of water, which he chugged. From Honey Santana’s tent he appropriated bug spray and a small halogen headlamp; from his own gear he took his NASCAR toothbrush and the paperback of
Storm Ghoul,
for toilet paper.

Choosing an escape route was easy—Shreave aimed himself in the opposite direction of that taken by the men searching for Honey. While cowering in the tree he’d heard two small concussions that might have been gunshots, several minutes apart, indicating that something dangerous was happening on the other side of the island. Shreave headed briskly the other way, flaying a rough path through the vines and bushes and spiderwebs.

There was still a rim of amber along the skyline when he lurched through a slender opening in the mangroves. Heedlessly he waded into the water, the soles of his expensive deck shoes grating across a jagged shoal. He hoped to position himself to signal the first passing vessel, but of course no boats would be coming; mainly dope smugglers and poachers traveled at night through the Ten Thousand Islands, and they were not renowned for their Samaritanism.

The flats were turbid and cold, and Shreave in his glorified jockstrap began to shiver. As darkness closed in, he employed Honey’s headlamp to scan the intricate tree line for the menacing reflection of panther eyes. Instead what he spotted was a shiny tangerine-colored canoe, canted among the spidery roots.

Excitedly Shreave dragged the craft to open water and, on his fourth attempt, bellied himself over the side. With his lacerated hands he snatched up the paddle and felt an exultant rush—at last he would be free of the place!

He navigated Dismal Key Pass with equal measures of zeal and ineptitude. Despite the slack tide he expended more energy correcting his frequent course oscillations than he did advancing the canoe. The exercise served to warm him, however, and present the illusion of pace. Never had Shreave attempted anything so daring as a getaway, and he regretted that neither Genie nor Lily was there to witness it. He chose to believe that they would have been dazzled.

After an hour he paused to rest, the canoe drifting noiselessly. With a stirring anxiety he contemplated the depth of the night; nothing but shadows and starlight and a pale sickle of moon. Far from being soothed by the silence, Shreave was fretful. It was as if he’d been sucked through a time tunnel into a bleak primeval emptiness with no horizons. He couldn’t remember feeling so alone or out of place, and he yearned for evidence of human intrusion—a car’s horn, a boom box, the high rumble of a jetliner.

Not being the spiritual sort, Boyd Shreave saw no divine hand in the unbroken wilderness that lay before him; no grand design in the jungled labyrinth of creeks and islets. Such unspoiled vistas inspired in Shreave not a nanosecond of introspection; when it came to raw nature, he remained staunchly incurious and devoid of awe. He would much rather have been back in Fort Worth, watching
American Idol,
swilling beer and gorging himself on microwave burritos.

Grimly he picked up the paddle and went back to work. He hadn’t a clue where he was or what direction he was heading, although he suspected that the vast gray body of water to his right was the Gulf of Mexico—no place for a puny canoe. After an hour of ponderous stroking he was in profound discomfort. Unfamiliar with toil, his arms burned, his lower back ached and his abs were cramping. He’d already decided to quit for the night when he heard what sounded like an engine, and the soft slapping of waves against a hull.

Shreave shoved the paddle between his knees and fumbled to activate the small lamp strapped to his forehead. He swiveled his neck owlishly, playing the narrow white beam back and forth across the water until he located the source of the noise: a small flat-bottomed craft motoring parallel to the canoe, about seventy-five yards away. A tall man stood in the stern of the boat, facing away, one hand on the tiller of the engine.

“Hey!” Shreave called out. “Over here!”

The man appeared not to have heard him.

“Help!” Shreave steadied the headlamp, trying to center the light on the passing boat. “Hey, you! Come get me!” he yelled.

The man continued to look the other way. Shreave was nettled; even if the guy was unable to hear him over the motor, he surely saw the flickering from the headlamp.

“What the hell’s the matter with you!” Shreave hollered angrily. “I’m lost out here! I need help!”

The flat-bottomed craft was moving so sluggishly that Shreave wondered if it had mechanical problems. He saw no smoke when he shined the light at the engine, although he noticed two ropes leading tautly from the transom to a lumpish object dragging in the backwash. Shreave couldn’t see what the stranger was towing, and he didn’t care. The guy obviously knew his way around the islands, and Shreave desperately needed a ride out.

“Hey! Over here!” Shreave shouted again. “Are you fucking blind?”

The stranger stiffened, turned and scowled into the light. Shreave sucked in his breath.

It was Genie’s Indian. The one who’d called him a “damn litterbug” and left him to rot in the poinciana tree.

The man’s response was firm and unambiguous. He took his hand off the tiller and held it up, flush in the headlamp’s beam, extending the middle digit for Shreave’s mournful contemplation.

Shreave dimmed the light, slumped low in the canoe and waited for the sound of the motorboat to fade away. Then he picked up the paddle, cursed under his breath and went back to work.

Sister Shirelle was bent over at the waist, bracing her arms against a storm-toppled pine, when she saw the light.

“Look there!”

Brother Manuel was deeply absorbed—gripping her by the hips, thrusting from behind while breathlessly invoking a deity. His robe was undone and his chest beaded with perspiration. The other moaners were well out of earshot, dancing and spinning around the fire pit on the beach.

“Brother Manuel, there’s a man on the water!”

And indeed there was a man, pale and spectral, wading across the shallows and pulling a fruity-colored canoe. A harsh pinhead of light shone from the stranger’s brow.

“Help me!” he called out.

Brother Manuel withdrew from Sister Shirelle and hastily tucked his unholy wand.

“Is it Him?” Sister Shirelle rose upright, tugging at her undergarments. “Is it our Savior, home at last from His divine voyage?”

“Hush, child,” whispered Brother Manuel. “Compose thyself.”

The man sloshed ashore and, after removing a canvas satchel, flipped the canoe to drain the water. He was garbed in a flower-print shirt and an alarming green pouch of a swimsuit, to which Sister Shirelle’s gaze was wantonly drawn.