Native Tongue (37 page)

Carrie Lanier told the others about the breakneck ride to the veterinarian. “Dr. Rafferty did a great job. We’re lucky he knew somebody over at the Red Cross.”

Between insect frenzies, Danny Pogue struggled to follow the
conversation. “You got shot?” he said to Skink. “So did me and Bud!”

Sharply, Molly cut in: “It wasn’t the same.”

“Like hell,” mumbled Bud Schwartz miserably. The humidity made him dizzy, and his arms bled from scratching the bugs. In addition, he wasn’t thrilled about the lunch menu, which included fox, opossum and rabbit—Skink’s road-kill bounty from the night before.

Joe Winder was in a lousy mood, too. The sight of Carrie’s burned-out trailer haunted him. The fax machine, the Amazing Kingdom stationery, his stereo—all lost. Neil Young, melting in the flames. Helpless, helpless, helpless, helpless.

Skink said, “It’s time to get organized. Those damn John Deeres are back.” He looked at Winder. “Now they’ve got cops on the site.”

“What can we blow up next?” Molly asked.

Skink shook his head. “Let’s try to be more imaginative.”

“All the building permits are in Kingsbury’s name,” Winder noted. “If he goes down, the project goes under.”

Carrie wondered what Joe meant by “goes down.”

“You mean, if he dies?”

“Or gets bankrupt,” Winder said.

“Or lost,” added Skink, glancing up from his mosquito census.

Danny Pogue elbowed Bud Schwartz, who kept his silence. He had spoken again to the butcher in Queens, who had relayed an offer from unnamed friends of the Zubonis: fifty thousand for the whereabouts of Frankie King. Naturally Bud Schwartz had agreed to the deal; now, sitting in the wilderness among these idealistic crusaders, he felt slightly guilty. Maybe he should’ve ratted on Kingsbury for free.

“Mr. X had a terrible run of luck the last few days,” Carrie was saying, “thanks to Joe.”

Skink got up to check the campfire. He said, “It’s time for a full-court press.”

“Each day is precious,” agreed Molly McNamara. She dabbed her forehead with a linen handkerchief. “I think we should move against Mr. Kingsbury as soon as possible.”

Bud Schwartz crumpled a soda can. “Why don’t we hold off a week or so?”

“No.” Skink offered him a shank of opossum on a long-handled fork. He said, “Every hour that passes, we lose more of the island.”

“Kingsbury’s got worse problems than all of us put together,” said Bud Schwartz. “If we can just lay back a few days.”

Joe Winder urged him to elaborate.

“Tell him, Bud, go on!” Danny Pogue was nearly bursting.

“I wisht I could.”

Skink fingered the silvery tendrils of his beard. Towering over the burglar, he said, “Son, I’m not fond of surprises.”

“This is serious shit.” Bud Schwartz was pleading. “You gotta understand—heavy people from up North.”

Wiping the condensation from her eyeglasses, Molly said, “Bud, what on earth are you talking about?”

Winder leaned toward Carrie and whispered: “This is getting interesting.”

“No damn surprises,” Skink repeated balefully. “We act in confluence, you understand?”

Reluctantly Bud Schwartz took a bite of fried opossum. He scowled as the warm juices dripped down his chin.

“Is that blood?” asked Danny Pogue.

Skink nodded and said, “Nature’s gravy.”

Suddenly he turned his face to the sky, peered toward the lemon sun and cursed vehemently. Then he was gone, running barefoot into the bright tangles of the hammock.

The others looked at one another in utter puzzlement.

Joe Winder was the first to stand. “When in Rome,” he said, reaching for Carrie’s hand.

Humanity’s encroachment had obliterated the Florida panther so thoroughly that numerals were assigned to each of the few surviving specimens. In a desperate attempt to save the species, the Game and Fresh Water Commission had embarked on a program of monitoring the far-roaming panthers and tracking their movements by radio telemetry. Over a period of years most of the cats were treed, tranquilized and fitted with durable plastic collars that emitted a regular electronic signal on a frequency of 150 megahertz. The signals could be followed by rangers on the ground or, when the animal was deep in the swamps, by air. Using this system, biologists were able to map the territories traveled by individual cats, chart their mating habits and even locate new litters of kittens. Because the battery-operated collars were activated by motion, it was also possible for rangers to know when a numbered panther was sick or even dead; if a radio collar was inert for more than a few hours, it automatically began sending a distress signal.

No such alarm was transmitted if an animal became abnormally active, but the rangers were expected to notice any strange behavior and react accordingly. For instance, a panther that was spending too much time near populated areas was usually captured and relocated for its own safety; the cats had a long and dismal record of careless prowling along busy highways.

Sergeant Mark Dyerson had retrieved too many dead panthers that had been struck by trucks and automobiles. Recently the ranger had become certain that if something wasn’t done soon, Panther 17 would end up the same way. The Game and Fish files indicated that the animal was a seven-year-old male whose original range stretched from Homestead south to Everglades National
Park, and east all the way to Card Sound. Because this area was crisscrossed by high-speed roads, the rangers paid special attention to the travels of Number 17.

For months the cat had seemed content to hunker in the deep upland hammocks of North Key Largo, which made sense, considering the dicey crossing to the mainland. But Sergeant Dyerson had grown concerned when, two weeks earlier, radio readings on Number 17 began to show extraordinary, almost unbelievable movement. Intermittent flyovers had pinpointed the cat variously at Florida City, North Key Largo, Homestead, Naranja and South Miami—although Sergeant Dyerson believed the latter coordinates were a mistake, probably a malfunction of the radio tracking unit. South Miami was simply an impossible destination; not only was it well out of the panther’s range, but the animal would have had to travel at a speed of sixty-five miles an hour to be there when the telemetry said it was. Unlike the cheetah, panthers prefer loping to racing. The only way Number 17 could go that far, Sergeant Dyerson joked to his pilot, is if it took a bus.

Even omitting South Miami from the readings, the cat’s travels were inexplicably erratic. The rangers were concerned at the frequency with which Number 17 crossed Card Sound between Key Largo and the mainland. The only two possible routes—by water or the long bridge—were each fraught with hazards. It was Sergeant Dyerson’s hope that Number 17 chose to swim the bay rather than risk the run over the steep concrete span, where the animal stood an excellent chance of getting creamed by a speeding car.

On July 29, the ranger took up the twin Piper to search for the wandering panther. The homing signal didn’t come to life until the plane passed low over a trailer park on the outskirts of Homestead. It was not a safe place for humans, much less wild animals, and the panther’s presence worried Sergeant Dyerson. Though the tawny cats were seldom visible from the Piper, the ranger
half-expected to see Number 17 limping down the center lane of U.S. Highway 1.

Later that afternoon, Sergeant Dyerson went up again; this time he marked the strongest signal in thick cover near Steamboat Creek, on North Key Largo. The ranger couldn’t believe it—twenty-nine miles in one day! This cat was either manic, or chained to the bumper of a Greyhound.

When Sergeant Dyerson landed in Naples, he asked an electrician to double-check the antenna and receiver of the telemetry unit. Every component tested perfectly.

That night, the ranger phoned his supervisor in Tallahassee and reviewed the recent radio data on Number 17. The supervisor agreed that he’d never heard of a panther moving such a great distance, so fast.

“Send me a capture team as soon as possible,” Sergeant Dyerson said. “I’m gonna dart this sonofabitch and find out what’s what.”

The twin Piper made three dives over the campsite. Joe Winder and Carrie Lanier watched from the bank of Steamboat Creek.

“Game and Fish,” Winder said, “just what we need.”

“What do we do?” Carrie asked.

“Follow the water.”

They didn’t get far. A tall uniformed man materialized at the edge of the tree line. He carried an odd small-bore rifle that looked like a toy. When he motioned to Joe and Carrie, they obediently followed him through the hammock out to the road. Molly McNamara and the two burglars already had been rounded up; another ranger, with a clipboard, was questioning them. There was no sign of Skink.

Sergeant Mark Dyerson introduced himself and asked to see some identification. Joe Winder and Carrie Lanier showed him
their driver’s licenses. The ranger was copying down their names when a gaunt old cracker, pulled by three lean hounds, came out of the woods.

“Any luck?” Sergeant Dyerson asked.

“Nope,” said the tracker. “And I lost me a dog.”

“Maybe the panther got him.”

“They ain’t no panther out there.”

“Hell, Jackson, the radio don’t lie.” The ranger turned back to Joe Winder and Carrie Lanier. “And I suppose you’re birdwatchers, too. Just like Mrs. McNamara and her friends.”

Beautiful, thought Winder. We’re bird-watchers now.

Playing along, Carrie informed the ranger they were following a pair of nesting kestrels.

“No kidding?” Sergeant Dyerson said. “I’ve never met a birder who didn’t carry binoculars—and here I get five of ’em, all at one time.”

“We’re thinking of forming a club,” said Carrie. Joe Winder bit his lip and looked away. Molly’s Cadillac took off, eastbound—a crown of white hair behind the wheel, the burglars slouched in the back seat.

“I’ll give you this much,” the ranger said, “you sure don’t look like poachers.” A Florida Highway Patrol car pulled up and parked beside Sergeant Dyerson’s Jeep. A muscular black trooper got out and tipped his Stetson at the ranger.

“Whatcha know?” the trooper said affably.

“Tracking a panther. These folks got in the way.”

“A panther? You
got
to be kidding.” The trooper’s laughter boomed. “I’ve been driving this stretch for three years and never saw a bobcat, much less a panther.”

“They’re very secretive,” Sergeant Dyerson said. “You wouldn’t necessarily spot them.” He wasn’t in the mood for a nature lesson. He turned to the old tracker and told him to run the frigging dogs one more time.

“Ain’t no point.”

“Humor me,” said Sergeant Dyerson. “Come on, let’s go find your other hound.”

Once the wildlife officers were gone, the trooper’s easygoing smile dissolved. “You folks need a lift.”

“No thanks,” Joe Winder said.

“It wasn’t a question, friend.” The trooper opened the back door of the cruiser, and motioned them inside.

The trooper took them to lunch at the Ocean Reef Club. The clientele seemed ruffled by the sight of a tall black man with a sidearm.

“You’re making the folks nervous,” Joe Winder observed.

“Must be the uniform.”

Carrie popped a shrimp into her mouth. “Are we under arrest?”

“I’d be doing all three of us a favor,” Jim Tile said, “but no, unfortunately, you’re not under arrest.”

Winder was working on a grouper sandwich. Jim Tile had ordered the fried dolphin and conch fritters. The dining room was populated by rich Republican golfers with florid cheeks and candy-colored Izod shirts. The men shot anxious squinty-eyed glances toward the black trooper’s table.

Jim Tile motioned for iced tea. “I can’t imagine why I’ve never gotten a membership application. Maybe it got lost in the mail.”

“What’s the point of all this?” Winder asked.

“To have a friendly chat.”

“About what?”

Jim Tile shrugged. “Flaming bulldozers. Dead whales. One-eyed woodsmen. You pick the subject.”

“So we’ve got a mutual friend.”

“Yes, we do.” The trooper was enjoying the fish platter immensely; despite the stares, he seemed in no hurry to finish. He said, “The plane scared him off, right?”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Winder said. “They’re not after him, they’re after a cat. Why does he run?”

Jim Tile put down the fork and wiped his mouth. “My own opinion—he feels a duty to hide because that’s what the panther would’ve done. He wears that damn collar like a sacred obligation.”

“To the extreme.”

“Yeah,” the trooper said. “I don’t expect they’ll find that missing dog. You understand?”

Carrie said, “He’s a very interesting person.”

“A man to be admired but not imitated.” Jim Tile paused. “I say that with no disrespect.”

Winder chose not to acknowledge the warning. “Where do you think he went?” he asked the trooper.

“I’m not sure, but it’s a matter of concern.”

The manager of the restaurant appeared at the table. He was a slender young man with bleached hair and pointy shoulders and brand-new teeth. In a chilly tone he asked Jim Tile if he were a member of the club, and the trooper said no, not yet. The manager started to say something else but changed his mind. Jim Tile requested a membership application, and the manager said he’d be back in a jiffy.

“That’s the last we’ll see of him,” the trooper predicted.

Joe Winder wanted to learn more about Skink. He decided it
was safe to tell Jim Tile what the group had been doing in the hammock before the airplane came: “We were hatching quite a plot.”

“I figured as much,” the trooper said. “You know much about rock and roll?”

Carrie pointed at Winder and said, “Hard core.”

“Good,” said Jim Tile. “Maybe you can tell me what’s a Mojo? The other day he was talking about a Mojo flying.”

“Rising,”
Winder said. “Mojo rising. It’s a line from The Doors—I believe it’s got phallic connotations.”

“No,” Carrie jumped in. “I think it’s about drugs.”

The trooper looked exasperated. “White people’s music, I swear to God. Sinatra’s all right, but you can keep the rest of it.”