Lost (34 page)

Dug looks sullen but Roy quickly nods assent.

Ricky says, “Kill the girl and bring the boy to me.”

He tells them where and when to deliver Seth Manning, watches them scoot away like scalded kittens, scampering to their precious pickup truck, away to do his bidding. Underlings dispatched, his attention returns to the wounded pilot, who is attempting to crawl away. Not making much progress, either.

“How you doing, Mr. Davis? Did you find your toes?”

Stick whimpers.

Ricky goes, “Inside your head, you know what I see? I see lies and alcohol. I see guns and money and drugs. I see a life wasted ruining the lives of others.”

“Don’t shoot,” Stick begs, holding up his hands as if attempting to catch bullets. “Please don’t shoot.”

“Sure, whatever you want,” Ricky says, slipping the Glock into the pocket of his muddy cargo pants. “Ready?” he asks.

Stick, weeping, asks, “R-r-ready for what?”

Using both hands, Ricky upends the five-gallon bucket of jet fuel, drenching the pilot.

Stick coughs, begins to shiver as the rapidly evaporating, highly flammable fuel cools his flesh. He’s been around, seen some amazing sights in his time, and he knows what happens next.

“Shoot me,” he begs. “Shoot me in the head.”

Ricky apologizes, explains that he’s already put the gun away, and that therefore it will not be possible to shoot Stick in the head.

Then he strikes a match.

7. The Mysterious Mr. Fish

Stuffed animals are not my thing. Not teddy bears, not real bears, stuffed. Not in museums, not in homes, and certainly not in restaurants. Excuse me, but killing an animal and trying to make it look alive, or not quite dead? Creepy. You want to kill a big deer? Catch a big fish? Fine. Eat what you want and throw the rest away. Just don’t expect me to admire it on your wall.

So the Glade City Hunt Club is not exactly my kind of place. Then again, we’re not here to admire the alligators nailed to the paneled wall, or the huge black bear that guards the entrance, glaring at visitors with beady glass eyes and exposed fangs that look like they need a good brushing.

Ugh, disgusting. The bar, where the only thing stuffed is the tip jar, is not my scene, either. In terms of design it’s actually quite pleasant. A curved mahogany bar top with matching brass rails, and wide-bladed ceiling fans stirring the thick, muggy air. Behind the bar, liquor bottles glow like amber jewelry, illuminated by hidden lights. It’s the clientele that turns me off. Too much testosterone, combined with the loud, braying voices of manly men bragging about themselves. Truth be known, I go for the strong silent types, and
silence does not seem to be an option at this particular watering hole.

We’ve been told that if you want to locate Leo Fish, who doesn’t want to be found, start at the Hunt Club. One of the guides will know where to find him, although persuading any of the locals to help an outsider might be tough.

That’s the gospel according to Trishy with the flat-gray eyes. We’re about to see if there’s anything to what she says. Shane glances at his watch, announces, “We haven’t got time for finesse,” and then abruptly strides out onto the screened-in porch, where the raucous crowd clusters two or three deep around the bar. Leaving me at the entrance looking lost and feeling a lot of hot stares checking me out.

Shane is anything but lost. He opens his wallet, extracts some cash and waves his fist high in the air.

“Five hundred dollars to the man who can put me in contact with Leo Fish!”

Wow. The resulting silence is shocking to the ear. An entire roomful of macho hunter-fisher types eyeballing the big guy, sizing him up. Maybe this was what it was like in the Old West when a new marshal came to town. I’m ready to duck in case gunfire erupts, but after a few thudding heartbeats, conversation returns to the previous level. Eyes look elsewhere. We’re being ignored.

Shane waves his fist again. “Hey! Pay attention, you maggots!”

Again, utter silence, not to mention death-ray looks.

Shane, having got their full and undivided attention, explains: “We need to contact Leo Fish because he may be able to help us save the life of a young woman. Anybody who wants the finder’s fee, or who just wants to do the right thing, may contact me in the parking lot at the Motorcourt inn. I’ll
be there for the next hour. The man who helps me find Leo Fish will have a friend for life, as well as the five hundred. Thank you for your attention and have a good night.”

He takes me by the hand and more or less drags me out of the Hunt Club and doesn’t let go until we get to the rental car.

“Sorry,” he says. “The exit was overly dramatic but I wanted to leave ‘em hanging. Wondering who you are. Maybe curious enough to help.”

“That was an act?” I say, a bit breathless from trying to keep up. “‘Pay attention, you maggots’?”

Shane gets in, fires up the engine and puts the car in gear. “Absolutely. We want the whole town buzzing. If anybody in Glade City knows how to put us in contact with the mysterious Mr. Fish we’ll know in the next hour. And if not, we’ll know that, too, and not be wasting our precious time.”

“Kelly’s precious time,” I remind him.

“Exactly,” he says.

Shane’s idea is to wait outside in the Motorcourt parking lot, so any potential snitches will feel more comfortable approaching under cover of darkness. But the mosquitoes are so bad—they feel as big as blue jays—that we have to remain in the Crown Vic or be drained of blood long before the hour is up.

“How did they stand it around here before they had screens and air-conditioning?” I ask.

“I assume they drank heavily. A habit that doesn’t appear to have died out with the invention of bug spray.”

Shane is trying to keep the conversation light, but I just can’t do it. Can’t fake being wry and relaxed when inside I’m screaming.

“When will they start searching again?” I want to know.

Shane considers, then replies, “There may be ground units
working through the night, investigating known locations. Air surveillance will resume when the sun rises.”

“That may be too late,” I point out.

“All we can do is keep trying,” Shane tells me. “Never give up. That’s the only way to proceed, and you’d be surprised how often ‘never give up’ produces results.”

To his everlasting credit, the promised results are produced about fifteen minutes later, when an old pickup bounces into the parking lot and begins to circle, as if uncertain of what to do next.

Shane gets out, does his raised-fist thing, and the truck stops. A scrawny little dude gets out, looks around to see whether he’s been followed. I’m beginning to recognize the type. Except for the long scraggly hair tied in a ponytail, he could be kin to the sheriff, or to Trishy for that matter.

“What you want Fish for?” he asks suspiciously. “You a cop?”

“Retired. This concerns Ricky Lang. Heard he was married to Leo Fish’s sister, and thought he might help us find Mr. Lang.”

“The crazy injun they huntin’ for?”

“The fugitive,” Shane insists. “Lang kidnapped this woman’s daughter.”

“Um, Leo and Ricky don’t exactly get along.”

“That’s no concern of ours. We just want possible locations. Can you contact Mr. Fish or not?”

The scrawny dude with the ponytail scrutinizes the larger man. “It ain’t like Leo’s got a phone or ‘lecricity. He’s a white man but lives more or less like them Seminole Indians in the old days. He ain’t got a normal home, he camps out deep in the Glades, moving when it pleases him. Take me two hours to get to him by airboat, and two hours back if he wants to come.”

“Take me to him,” Shane says. “I’ll talk to him there, wherever it is.”

Ponytail dude shakes his head. “No way, Jose. Ain’t leadin’ no lawman to Leo Fish. I’ll take him your message, see what he says, but it’ll cost you a thousand.” He looks at me for the first time, nods politely. “Evening, ma’am. Airboat is expensive to run, blows through gas like you wouldn’t believe, that’s why I got to get my price.”

“Two hours?” asks Shane.

“Four or five round trip.”

Shane nods agreement. “Okay. Five hundred to cover the cost of the airboat, regardless. A thousand if you bring me Leo Fish.”

Scrawny licks his chapped lips. “The five up front?”

“When you get back,” Shane says firmly.

“How I know you won’t drive away, leave me for a fool?”

“Because you have my word.”

“Okay, deal.” Scrawny shakes on it, looking like he believes in Randall Shane.

That makes two of us.

8. The Furious Thing

Roy Whittle has Old Sparky on his mind. The electrified killing machine used by the state of Florida to execute death-row inmates. Called Old Sparky because the method—surging two thousand volts through the human body—is not entirely reliable. Sometimes the inmate’s head catches fire and has to be doused with a handy bucket of water, kept nearby for that purpose. Sometimes the heart fails to stop beating and a second or third jolt is required. Sometimes, and this is what really bothers Roy, the inmate starts sizzling like a big ham under the broiler.

If it comes to that, Roy figures he’ll opt for lethal injection, on the grounds that going to sleep and never waking up is way better than cooking to death.

“How you gonna do it?” Dug wants to know as they approach their destination.

Distracted by thoughts of flaming skulls, Roy asks, “How’m I do what?”

“Kill the girl.”

Roy slows the truck to a stop, shifts the stick to neutral, and looks his brother in the eye. “We’re not killing no girl, get that straight.”

Dug has that stubborn look he gets. “Ricky said.”

“Ricky Lang done lost his mind,” Roy reminds him. “Think about it. We kill the girl, there’s nothing left for us. Ain’t like he’ll be around to pay us our share. Whatever he’s got planned, it ends with him getting his head blown off.”

“He told you that?”

“Hell no! Didn’t have to. The crazy bastard thinks he’s Superman. He thinks bullets can’t touch him. And sooner or later, he’ll find out different.”

That silences the slower twin for a few moments as he processes the information. “I could do it if you want,” Dug eventually offers. “Tap her down.”

Most observers would conclude that Roy Whittle shows remarkable patience with his brother, but even he has his limits. “Listen to me, Dug. Get this straight. The girl is our only remaining chance of getting anything out of this. We’ll trade her for money once Ricky’s gone.”

Dug makes a face, stares at his hands. “Ricky burned Stick,” he points out.

“Yeah, he did, and he burned the plane, too, but he ain’t going to burn us. You’re gonna take the boy to him, like he
wants. That’s all he really cares about, the rich man’s son. He won’t know if the girl’s alive or buried in the swamp. We’ll keep her somewhere safe till this blows over, then see what we can get for her. If her family won’t pay, we’ll find someone who will. Good-lookin’ white girl that age is fully negotiable.”

Dug is clearly troubled, but mutters a reluctant acceptance of his brother’s superior judgment. “Whatever you say, Roy.”

Roy sighs, keenly aware their prospects have plummeted. “I know what you’re thinking and you’re right. A thousand percent right. We messed up, getting in with Ricky Lang, but I’m gonna fix it. That’s a promise. Carolinas here we come.”

They drive until the road ends, then hike half a mile through the saw grass, following an old Indian trail so obscure and overgrown you have to know it’s there. A perfectly good ATV waits on the other end, designed for terrain like this, but Ricky has insisted it only be used for transporting the captives, and that at all other times it remain hidden under camo-netting, far away from prying eyes.

The Whittle brothers make do, proceeding afoot, having covered the same ground several times recently. The night is especially dark—no moon, and the stars obscured by heavy clouds. Roy illuminates the way with a flashlight, figuring if satellites can pick up flashlights they’re screwed anyway. Dug grunting as the sharp grass whips at his legs but Roy knows his twin could go like this for miles, even in the night. Maybe especially at night, if there’s something to hunt.

Say what you like about Dug, he’s never been scared of the dark. Almost the reverse, like he’d come up with a notion that darkness protected him from those who tormented him by daylight. Namely their father, until Dug got too big to beat,
and the kids who taunted him during his brief and disastrous stint in school.

They come upon the remains of the old settlement just beyond the saw grass, at the edge of where the wetlands begin. One of Ricky Lang’s backcountry lairs. The settlement, originally an Indian camp, had eventually included a dozen or so ramshackle trailers, as well as a few decrepit chickee huts and a tarpaper shack or two. Population, as Roy understood it, had been mixed. Members of the Lang clan, some mixed-blood Seminoles, a few cracker trappers who’d gone native or who just liked living outside of civilization. At the end, tribal drug runners had used it as a storage depot. A little world all its own, or so Roy imagines, having seen similar type settlements in the Ten Thousand Islands, where the populace was pretty much white, though equally impoverished.

Park rangers had eventually taken over, clearing out the trailers, burning the shacks. Then at some point the area had been zoned inside the Nakosha Reservation and mostly forgotten. Not by Ricky Lang, though, who liked the fact that it could be accessed by land or by water. Plus, from the air it looked like nothing more than a small clearing in the saw grass, one of thousands of such bald spots within the Glades. The useful bits that remain are undercover, out of sight.

“I’ll check on the girl,” Roy tells his brother. “You get the other one, take him to Ricky.”

“Where you gonna put the girl?” Dug wants to know.

“Dunno. Closer to home, I guess. Someplace Ricky doesn’t know.”

Truth is, Roy isn’t sure he wants Dug to know the location. He’s got it fixed in his mind the girl needs killing, and Roy knows his twin well enough to understand that his stubborn notions can become obsessions that must be acted upon. Like
the neighborhood pets when they were boys, and a few other much more serious incidents later on.