Electric Barracuda (31 page)

“Pine Island.” They passed several palm tree farms and a scattering of short residential streets named for fish. Mackerel, Trout, Sea Bass, Bonita. Country stores, screen-tented nurseries raising other tropical plants. Then even more isolated homes way back on dirt roads. “And in that direction, remnants of the ancient cross-island canal dug by the Calusas for their canoes. Lived here fifteen hundred years until the 1700s.”

“What happened to them?”

“Europeans,” said Serge. “It’s how they’re hardwired: ‘Hey, I see something really old and excellent! Let’s wipe it out.’ ”

Coleman stared from the window as another grove of coconut palms went by. “I’ve never seen a Florida island like this. Where are all the condos and golf courses?”

“Over in douche-bag land.” Serge took a left onto Pineland Road. “Fat cats haven’t ruined this one yet because it’s got a protected mangrove coast and almost no beach that is essential for assholes to sprout.”

They reached the shore of Pine Island Sound and hugged the coast.

“You’re slowing down,” said Coleman.

“Because this is the place.”

“We’re staying at the Tarpon Lodge?”

“Just our jumping-off point.”

They climbed from the Barracuda and into a blinding bright sun reflecting off the bay.

“Hold it, Mikey.” Serge reached in his backpack. “I’ve got something for you.”

The boy smiled and clapped. “What is it?”

Serge fitted a harness over the child’s chest and shoulders, then hooked the end of a leash in the middle of his back. “There.” He slipped his hand through the leash’s other end. “That ought to thin out the drama.”

Serge led them around to the docks. Or rather Mikey did, straining against the leash.

“Look at him pull,” said Coleman.

Serge leaned back, digging in heels as they went. “It’s like walking a pack of wolves.”

A broad-shouldered man with a ruddy sportsman’s complexion hosed out the stern of center-console whaler. He wore a mesh-back fisherman’s vest, wide-brimmed sailing cap and dark, polarized sunglasses secured around his neck with a sky-blue lanyard.

“Captain Ron!”

The man looked up. “Serge!” He cut the hose and climbed onto the dock. Another big hug. “What have you been up to?”

“I’m on the run.”

A belly laugh. “Same old Serge . . . But who’s this little fella?”

“My son.”

“I didn’t know you had a son.”

“Neither did I. Mom tracked me down and dropped him off at our motel.”

“Whoops. One of those delayed surprises, eh?” The captain bent down and smiled at the boy. “What’s his name?”

“Mikey.”

Captain Ron extended a hand. “Pleasure to meet you . . . Ow, he kicked me in the shin.”

“That’s his way of shaking.”

“He’s definitely yours.”

“Free for a run?” asked Serge.

“For you? Anytime.”

“Let’s do it . . .”

Chapter Twenty-nine

Everglades 1929

J
azz piano drifted across the swamp.

Chandeliers twinkled through cypress and palmettos.

Another Friday night at Al’s.

More and more cars arrived as word spread about the speakeasy in the middle of the Everglades that police couldn’t touch.

Two pressure fronts had met earlier that afternoon over the gulf and moved inland, dropping a thick blanket of fog across the glades that made people think of Sherlock Holmes.

A string of headlamps approached, the only thing visible in the mist until the vintage cars took shape the last few yards.

Bartenders could barely keep up, and a roadster custom-fit with copper tubing in the doors had to make a high-risk, second run of the night. Crazy Murphy skidded around back. Capone’s gang was already waiting with wooden-slat cases of thirsty, empty glass bottles.

Another group stood off to the side—way off, behind the cover of pines. Only four of them, making a final visual sweep for witnesses. When the quartet was satisfied, they formed a rectangle and began carrying something heavy across the swamp like pallbearers.

And faded into the mist . . .

. . . As one unnoticed bystander watched.

Crazy Murphy glanced back at the gang draining moonshine from his car. They wouldn’t be done anytime soon.

He yelled back to them: “I’m going to take a leak.”

“Why are you telling us?”

And Murphy slunk into the swamp.

Brush thickened, ground soggy. Murph was guided at first by the crinkling footsteps and faint voice up ahead—then by a lantern that came on in the distance. It usually provided just enough illumination for the work at hand, but now with the fog, there was a broader glow in the glades, sending eerie shafts that slowly swirled as they filtered through buttonwood and gumbo-limbo.

The curiosity was too much. Anyone with sense would have advised against continuing on, but Murphy was crazy.

Present

Behind the Tarpon Lodge, four people climbed aboard a center-console whaler. Serge fastened a life preserver onto Mikey that practically swallowed the child. Then he cast off davit lines.

Captain Ron pushed the throttle forward. The boat idled away from the dock as gulls and pelicans took flight from the tops of pylons streaked with white poop. The whaler picked up speed through a tight channel of orange-and-green markers. Then open water. Ron gave it the fuel, bringing the boat up on the plane. Salt wind filled lungs and whipped hair.

A tiny arm poked out from under a puffy life vest. “Daddy, look!”

On both sides of the boat, dolphins leaped high in the air, over and over. They seemed to be looking right at them.

“Smile.” Serge raised his camera.
Click, click, click.

The captain banked the vessel to port. All around them in Pine Island Sound: uninhabited mangrove islands. Cove Key, Black Key, Rat Key, Bird Key. And a couple inhabited ones . . .

“I see some buildings,” said Coleman. “What is that island?”

“Useppa, once a secret CIA training ground for Brigade 2506.”

“Who were they?”

“Anti-Castro exiles recruited in Miami for the ill-fated Bay of Pigs invasion.” Mikey’s little feet left the deck, his upper body tipping over the gunwales. Serge jerked the leash, pulling him back on board. “Now a private club of luxury homes accessible only by boat.”

Another hard bank starboard, and they skirted the southern shore. “That other island that just appeared ahead is our destination, Cabbage Key.”

“The next fugitive stop?”

Serge nodded. “We’ve crossed enough bodies of water. Nobody could possibly find us there.”

The dolphins jumped a final time and broke off to join a pod for a mullet run on the low tide. Captain Ron brought the boat around for dead reckoning on a shoal-guarded inlet that led to the freshly painted dock.

“Why does the island look so tall?” asked Coleman.

“Because it’s got a thirty-eight-foot Indian shell mound. No cars or paved roads, just a nature trail, an old wooden water tower like you’d find at a whistle-stop in Flagstaff, and a rustic home atop the mound built in the 1930s by novelist and playwright Mary Roberts Rinehart, which is now a small inn with a breezy restaurant.”

“What do you do there?”

“Nothing,” said Serge. “That’s the whole point. That’s why I love Cabbage Key.”

Coleman began to shake. “Nothing?”

“We can always hang out in the bar.”

The shaking stopped. “Bar?”

“One of Florida’s finest.”

They eased to the dock, and Serge secured the lines. Then just as quickly, the passengers were all on the pier. Lines were off again. Ron gave a big wave. “Until next time . . .”

Serge watched the boat motor away into turquoise water. An impatient tug on his arm.

“Serge, can we go to the bar?” said Coleman. “Please?”

“Normally, I’d veto, but in this case, definitely.”

Mikey pulled them along, climbing the mound and up the front steps.

Coleman stopped just inside the entrance and grabbed his chest. “This is heaven with stools.” He ran and hopped on one. “Whiskey!”

Serge strolled over and grabbed his own seat. “Bottled water. And something with a lot of sugar for my son.”

Coleman’s eyes wandered around the deep-hued paneling and stuffed tarpon on the walls, competing with hundreds of patron-autographed dollar bills. Jimmy Buffett’s dollar had its own frame.

Coleman killed his drink and raised a finger for a refill. “This reminds me of someplace.”

“The No Name Pub in the Keys?”

“That’s it.”

“Makes sense, same vintage and values.”

From behind: “Serge!”

He turned around.

“Rob! How’ve you been?”

“Can’t complain. Wondering if you were dead.”

“I know. It’s been too long, but . . .” He waved around the interior. “. . . You’ve kept the flame burning.”

“Who’s this little guy?”

“My son, Mikey. Surprise.”

Rob bent down to a small child chugging a can of soda with both hands. “Well, hello there . . .”

“He kicks,” said Serge.

“Ow!”

“Coleman, I’d like you to meet Rob, the owner . . . Rob, my untrusty sidekick, Coleman.”

“Pleasure,” said Rob. They shook hands and he turned back to Serge. “So what brings you out?”

“I’m on the run.”

“Who’s after you this time?”

“Nobody,” said Serge. “I’m fleeing unilaterally. You should try it.”

Rob gave a laugh like the boat captain. Then he looked down. “What’s Mikey doing now?”

“Trying to chew through his leash. Listen, we could use a room.”

“Jeez, inn’s full.”

“Cottage?”

“Worth a shot. Check with the desk.” Rob headed off. “I need to see the dockmaster about something, but we’ll talk later. Great to see you again . . .”

It was an off-hour in the heat of the afternoon. Serge and Coleman had the bar to themselves. Almost. A single soul sat by himself on the last stool at the opposite end. Could be mistaken for a wrestler. Burly and muscular, shaved head like Mr. Clean. Hiking shorts, green-and-red Cartagena baseball jersey. Nursing a draft in a sweating mug.

People eventually began trickling in as the day cooled toward evening. A few occasionally approached the man with books to sign.

“Who’s that guy?” asked Coleman.

“Randy Wayne White, the famous author,” said Serge. “This is his turf, so don’t do anything to embarrass me.”

“Yo! Randy!” yelled Coleman. “Your books suck!” Giggles.

“Thanks for sticking with the script,” said Serge, then turned the other way. “Sorry about that, Mr. White. He ate paint chips as a child. And last week.”

Randy just nodded and grinned, and returned to his beer.

Serge swung back to Coleman. “You’re lucky he’s a cool guy or he’d snap you in two.”

“What’s he doing here?”

“Being macho.”

“But he’s just sitting there.”

“In his resting state, he’s macho.”

“What about sleeping?”

“Macho then, too.” Serge gave a subconscious, parental tug on the leash. No resistance. “What the—?” He reeled it in until he came to the frayed end.

“Mikey chewed through?” said Coleman.

Serge dashed out the front door. “Mikey! . . . Mikey, where are you?”

Coleman tumbled down the steps and got up. “Mikey! . . .”

“Daddy! . . .”

“Did you hear that?” said Serge.

“Yeah, but where’s it coming from?”

They frantically scanned the grounds. “Mikey!”

“Daddy! Look at me!”

They found the direction of the voice and gazed up. “He’s on top of the water tower!”

“How’d he get up there?” said Coleman.

“It’s got an observation deck and wooden staircase winding up inside the supports.”

“Daddy! I can hang upside down!”

“Holy Jesus.” Serge scrambled up the stairs and grabbed his son. He wagged a finger again in the child’s face. “No tall structures.”

Chapter Thirty

Everglades 1929

C
razy Murphy crept forward in the night.

He tried to stay as silent as possible, except that was impossible with all the branches and unseen stuff below that crunched as he walked. But whatever noise he did make was drowned out by all the frogs and owls and insects and bursts of intoxication from back at the lodge.

As Murphy drew near, voices became louder. Just a step at a time, he told himself. Plant your foot first, then ease on the weight and carefully lift the previous leg. Soon he saw the first one. And a shovel. Then the other three, all silhouette, backlit by the kerosene lantern, laboring in shadow animation amid the fog.