Deadly Catch (9 page)

The sheriff had one other surprise in store for me: “I’d like to deputize you, McClellan.”

My jaw dropped.

“With our budget, I’m a little short-handed and could use your help. I’ve checked your military files. Your fitness reports say you were a top-notch Marine. Good combat record, so you know how to handle yourself. If my niece’s death is somehow linked to drugs like I believe it is, well, let’s just say those boys don’t fool around. I’ll be up front with you; it could get dangerous.”

Pickron stood and leaned toward me, both meaty hands on the desktop. “You’d be working undercover and reporting only to me. Sniff around, see what you can find out about Barfield, how my niece wound up in the bay with her skull cracked by limestone rock; how the Panama Red might be connected. What do you say?”

I thought it over a minute. “Why the deputizing bit? Can’t I just do some snooping on my own?”

Pickron grunted. “Have it your way. This is still a free country, but if you run into any trouble, you’ll be on your own. My way, you got the law on your side. How about it?”

As I got up to leave, I remembered Kate’s words about steering clear of Bo Pickron. “I’ll think about it.”

My gut instinct told me the sheriff was on the up and up, and I tended to trust my gut; it had served me well in Kuwait and Iraq. During our meeting there’d been no patronizing, no “call me Bo, call me Mac” bull hockey. His niece was dead; Brett Barfield was missing, probably on the lam. And Pickron was convinced there was a connection between Maddie’s death, Barfield, and the Panama Red that washed up on Five-Mile Island and found its way aboard my rental boat.

Deputy McClellan—it had a nice ring to it. Not quite the weight First Sergeant McClellan carried, but deep down I think I missed the rush that combat brought. This undercover gig might be a nice change of pace from fishing. Still, there was the advice Kate had offered about Pickron the day I discovered the body. What had happened, or what did she know, to tell me to steer clear of him? I needed to know that before I made a decision one way or the other.

I’d already decided on one thing: to become a legal resident of Florida. It would be a requirement if I chose to be deputized, but that wasn’t my main reason. I genuinely liked the area and most of the people I’d met, Bo Pickron and Ben Merritt being the exceptions. I figured I could find whatever I was looking to do with my life here as well as anywhere. If I had a change of heart later, I could always hitch up my trailer and move on.

And I won’t deny that Kate played a big part in my decision.

That evening I mentioned my intentions to Jerry and Donna Meadows. They were tickled to hear the news. I signed a six-month lease for site 44. It was not only a much better rate, but the lease would help prove my residency. I already had a post office box rented in St. George that would help, too. In the next day or so I’d apply for a Florida driver’s license. That should do it.

Now, there was the matter of Kate Bell.

I spent Tuesday morning changing the oil in my truck and thinking over Bo Pickron’s offer to deputize me to work undercover for him. The fact that the arrangement would strictly be between the two of us bothered me some. Could I trust him to cover my back if the shit hit the fan, or would he leave my ass hanging out to dry?

Last evening I’d called Kate and learned she worked only half a day Tuesday. I’d been itching to do a little sightseeing to see what the area had to offer besides great fishing, and Kate suggested a day trip to Wakulla Springs State Park that afternoon after she got off work.

“It’s a breathtaking place,” Kate said, assuming the role of travel agent. “Wakulla Springs is one of the largest and deepest freshwater springs in the entire world. Divers have explored and mapped out hundreds of miles of underwater passages, and it’s an archeologist’s dream.”

“Just how much stock do you own in the place?”

“Very funny, Mac. You’ll love it. Besides, they have a great restaurant.”

“I knew there had to be a catch in there somewhere.”

I pulled into Kate’s driveway a little after one. She came bounding down the steps wearing a pair of white shorts and a green button-up blouse with the tail knotted at the midriff, leaving enough skin exposed to immediately cause a stir in my nether regions. Her auburn ponytail was threaded through the back of a matching white ball cap sporting a blue marlin logo.

“Phew, is it just me, or is it hot in here?” I said, pretending to wipe my brow as Kate slid onto the seat next to me.

“It
is
warm today,” she said, buckling her seat belt without picking up on my joke, “but just wait till summer really gets here.”

Wakulla Springs was a little over an hour’s drive from St. George. We headed east on Highway 98, enjoying the beach scenery and each other’s company. We drove through Apalachicola, home to what the locals, along with many others far and wide, call the best oysters in the world. Once a sleepy fishing village, the downtown area is fast becoming a popular artists’ colony and weekend shopping destination for southern Alabama, Georgia, and Panhandle residents. I’d spent a couple of days there before moving on to St. George.

At the eastern end of town we passed the Gibson Inn, a large, early-twentieth-century three-story wooden structure with wrap-around porches and topped by a cupola. I’d visited their bar at happy hour one evening, and the place was hopping.

“The Gibson is haunted, you know,” Kate said, turning in the seat to catch a better glimpse as we drove by.

I snickered.

“It’s true, Mac. The ghosts of an old sea captain and a young woman roam around the place. They’ve been seen by the staff and so many guests that there’s no way they could all be making it up.”

I laughed. “Yeah, well they’ve got a great bar in there, too. I never noticed any spooks when I was there, but I’d bet my money that it’s mostly spirits conjuring up the spirits.”

We crossed the John Gorrie Bridge into Eastpoint, and several miles later we turned north onto Highway 319. I couldn’t know it then, but a couple of weeks later I’d be traveling much this same route on more serious business. A few miles farther on I turned onto Wakulla Springs Road and soon came to the park’s entrance.

I paid the attendant the six-dollar daily fee, handed Kate the park map, and followed her instructions to the Waterfront Visitor’s Center. After finding a parking spot that offered some shade, we hurried across the lot to the ticket window. I shelled out another sixteen bucks for our River Cruise tickets, then we strolled about the grounds to stretch our legs while waiting for the three-thirty cruise.

At three-thirty sharp we boarded the tour boat, a thirty-foot rectangular vessel with open sides for good viewing and a top to provide shade and keep the rain off. Our guide, a young state park employee with longish blond hair and a matching mustache, gave us the official spiel as we glided over the main spring for a moment, which due to recent rainfall was a bit murky instead of the crystal-clear aqua Kate had bragged about.

According to our guide, the bones of mastodons, saber-toothed tigers, and other extinct animals still lay at the bottom of the spring where they had rested since the last Ice Age. We turned downriver, and before long scores of alligators came into view, some sunning on the banks or logs, others watching us drift by with only their eyes and snouts visible above the water.

One curious eight-footer approached the boat way too close for my comfort. Kate leaned over me and snapped photos while I moved my arm away from the rail. No free meals at my expense. And I didn’t object when she asked to switch places.

Our guide pointed out a pair of ospreys nesting in the top of a giant cypress, brilliant purple gallinules, the rare limpkin, and other feathered inhabitants of southern swampland swimming or wading in the shallows along the banks. The guide really grabbed my interest when he mentioned that several of the early Tarzan movies starring Johnny Weissmuller had been filmed here, as well as the cult classic
Creature from the Black Lagoon
, one of my all-time favorite flicks as a kid. He even pointed out the huge tree where Tarzan stood beating his chest while belting out his famous “Aaaaeeeeeaaaah!”

I hadn’t felt so relaxed in a long time and was sorry to see the tour end. Back ashore after our hour-long, three-mile wilderness adventure, Kate and I visited the rest rooms and then headed for the restaurant for an early dinner before returning to St. George.

Inside the lobby we stopped to pay our respects to Old Joe, a huge stuffed alligator estimated to have been around two hundred years old. Despite his fierce appearance, Old Joe was a docile fixture around the springs before someone murdered the poor beast back in the mid-1960s.

The Ball Room Restaurant, named for the original owner/developer of the Wakulla Springs resort, financier Edward Ball, wasn’t anything fancy, but it was comfortable with an old-timey atmosphere about it. A hostess showed us to a table with a view overlooking the springs through huge arched windows. A few minutes later a cute waitress in her teens arrived with menus. She took our drink orders and then disappeared to give us time to select from the dinner fare.

So far, for the entire pleasant afternoon Kate and I had avoided any mention of Maddie Harper or the case I felt myself being drawn into. Finally, after our platters of fried chicken and fried green tomatoes arrived and I’d ordered a third round of drinks, I worked up enough nerve to get down to business.

“I talked to Bo Pickron yesterday. I can’t tell you exactly why right now, but I need to know why you warned me to steer clear of him.”

Kate pursed her lips and looked away. She took a sip of wine and glanced at me from the corner of her eye. “It wasn’t a warning, Mac, it was advice.”

“You said he could be trouble.”

Her lips tightened even more. She hesitated a few seconds, then turned and stared straight into my eyes. “Okay. I wouldn’t let him get into my pants, and he took offense.”

That wasn’t exactly what I’d expected to hear, but what the hell could that have to do with me? No way could you convince me that Bo Pickron was wired AC/DC. Kate must have read my mind. Her eyes widened, and then she laughed and placed a hand on my arm.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” she said, stifling another giggle. “Bo tends to get a little rough if he doesn’t get his way, or if somebody crosses him.”

Now I was pissed. “He hit you?” I’d kill the bastard.

“No, nothing like that,” Kate said. “Let’s just say he got a little too dang grabby and hard of hearing until I set him straight. Later on, I learned he has a reputation of roughing people up, some on the job, some not, if you get my drift.”

So, Bo Pickron was a self-centered chauvinistic jock, not averse to using strong-arm tactics to get his way. Some fine boss he would make. At least Kate had had the good sense to drop him like hot coals when he’d tried to force his charming ways on her. I admired the lady even more now. I placed my hand over hers. “Thanks for being honest with me.”

By Thursday I had my Florida driver’s license and plates for my truck and trailer. I was now a legal resident of Palmetto County, Florida. Friday morning I drove back to Parkersville for a little shopping excursion. I’d seen several ads for Redmond’s Sporting Goods in the newspaper. If the sheriff was correct about somebody targeting me, I figured I’d better have something other than my fists for protection, deputy or not. I was a decent shot with a pistol, but with a shotgun I was hell on wheels. The combat in Fallujah had mostly been up close and personal, and the pump scattergun I carried while serving as company gunnery sergeant had served me well.

After filling out a ton of paperwork I walked out of Redmond’s with a Maverick Model 88 twelve-gauge pump. With a twenty-inch barrel and synthetic stock, it’s lightweight but packs plenty of wallop—eight rounds of double-ought buckshot worth. I also picked up six boxes of shells. If thirty rounds of double-ought weren’t enough for whatever trouble I might run into, odds were I wasn’t going to walk away from it anyway.

I still hadn’t made up my mind about working undercover for Bo Pickron. No doubt he could be a royal prick, but Maddie Harper was dead, most likely murdered, and I felt I needed to find out why. She’d been Kate’s friend and like a big sister to Sara Gillman.