Skinny Dip (41 page)

In a monotone Chaz recited his academic credentials, which caused the man to squint down at him in brutal incredulity.

“Won’t you hear my side of the story, Captain? Please?” Chaz scarcely recognized his own voice.

The madman leaned back and frowned at the rising sun. “We need to be moving along. I expect somebody’ll come searching for you soon.”

“Nobody I’d ever want to find me.”

“Then let’s go, junior. There’s no time for a pity party.”

With dull obedience Chaz followed the one-eyed hermit away from the shaded knoll and into the broiling flat savanna. The saw grass sliced Chaz’s flesh with every step, but the sensation no longer registered as pain. Not far away, crossing the same stretch of marsh, were two creamy-colored snakes as thick as tugboat cables; they moved with a fluid and fearless tropism, as energized by their wild new surroundings as Charles Regis Perrone was cowed by his.

“I realize I’ve been an asshole,” he called ahead to the stranger, “but people do change if they get the chance.”

“Haldeman didn’t,” the man snapped over his shoulder. “Besides, I don’t think of you as a garden-variety asshole, Chaz. I think of you as a nullity.”

Chaz wasn’t sure what that meant, but given the context, he assumed the worst. Ricca had doubtlessly painted a most unflattering portrait.

As they advanced deeper into the hostile wasteland, the leaden weight of Chaz’s predicament settled fully upon him. Christ, he thought, I can’t catch a break to save my life.

Literally.

After what seemed like an hour, the derelict in the shower cap stopped marching and held out a dented canteen, for which Chaz lunged unashamedly. As he slugged down the water, it occurred to him that the hoary bushman would probably know precisely how many penises a bull alligator had.

Another question to which there was no soothing answer, Chaz decided upon reflection.

Still another: What happens to me now?

It was as if the crazed wanderer had been reading his thoughts.

“Did you ever study Tennyson? I’m guessing not,” the man said. ” ‘Nature, red in tooth and claw.’ That’s a very famous line.”

To Chaz, it didn’t sound promising. “I’m not going back to Boca Raton, ami?”

“No, Dr. Perrone, you are not.”

A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Carl Hiaasen was born and raised in Florida. He is the author often previous novels, including Sick Puppy, Lucky You, Stormy Weather, Basket Case, and, for young readers, Hoot. He also writes a regular column for the Miami Herald.

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