by Carl Hiaasen
“Nothing’s impossible.”
“She’s got a thing for close-ups. Let’s leave it at that.”
Eugenie smiled cheerlessly. “If I’d known Boyd and I were on camera, I would’ve kicked it up a notch or two.”
“You did just fine,” Dealey said.
Gillian confessed that she’d seen only one porn film, at a fraternity-house party. “The Fellatio Alger Story. It was so boring I fell asleep.”
“Boring wouldn’t be bad after the last two days I’ve had. Boring would be a treat,” the private investigator said.
Eugenie was pacing. “How the hell do we get out of here?”
“Talk to him.” Gillian jerked a thumb across the clearing toward Sammy Tigertail, who appeared to have lapsed into a trance while playing his guitar.
Dealey helped himself to another chunk of pineapple. “Well, I’m gettin’ rescued tomorrow,” he said matter-of-factly. “You’re both welcome to hitch a ride—in fact, I’d strongly recommend it.”
“Done,” said Eugenie.
Gillian declined. “I’m totally stayin’. He kissed me tonight.”
“The Indian?” Dealey smiled wearily, thinking: True love in the mangroves.
“He’s an Indian? But his eyes are blue,” Eugenie said.
“A Seminole, most definitely,” Gillian reported. “I’m still waitin’ to get the full story.” She turned to Dealey. “So, Lester. Who’s comin’ to rescue you?”
The investigator said it wasn’t important. “I’m goin’ home to Texas in one piece, that’s all that matters.”
“Without the money shot,” Eugenie reminded him. “Boyd’s wife will be seriously bummed.”
“Ask me if I give a shit.” Dealey took a swig from the water bottle. “Something real bad’s going to happen on this island, and I don’t want to be here when it does.”
“Me neither,” said Eugenie, a millisecond before the blue-eyed Seminole’s rifle went off and Gillian screamed and Dealey dropped like a moose.
Nineteen
Honey Santana believed there might be hope for the world if she could save a man as empty as Boyd Shreave. She wanted to try one more time.
“The Indian shot somebody. I couldn’t see who,” she told him when she returned.
“Get this goddamn noose off my neck.”
“It’s just a slipknot, Boyd.”
The rope came undone as easily as a shoelace. Shreave rolled to his knees and whispered, “You’re a sicko.”
After peeling the tape from his ankles and wrists, Honey offered him some dry cereal. “It’s all we’ve got. The Indian took everything else.”
“There’s somebody hidin’ out there.” Shreave glanced anxiously behind him. “I never saw the guy but he sounded real close. Said he’s watchin’ us the whole time.”
Honey made a torch by fastening Shreave’s natty Indiana Jones hat to a driftwood limb, squirting it with lighter fluid and holding it in the embers. She walked the perimeter of the campsite and found no sign of another intruder. She didn’t look inside the cistern.
“There’s nobody in the bushes, Boyd.” She believed he’d cooked up the story to frighten her into fleeing the island with him.
“Who is he? Tell me!” Shreave demanded.
“Eat your Cheerios.”
Honey reflected upon what she’d done—tracking down this disagreeable stranger and suckering him with a phony Florida vacation. She didn’t feel guilty and she didn’t feel crazed; frustrated is what she was. After Fry was born, her low tolerance of cretins, liars and lowlifes had dwindled to zero. She came to regard all of them, from the leering bag boy at Winn-Dixie to the thieving third-term congressman, as potential threats to the happiness and well-being of her offspring. If a common bottom feeder such as Boyd Shreave could be reformed, Honey reasoned, the future would be incrementally brighter for all mankind, including Fry.
It wasn’t an easy theory to sell, and Perry Skinner had never bought it. Neither had her son. Honey was aware that she sometimes appeared to them as naïve and obsessive, even borderline manic.
“You asked why I did this, Boyd, how come I went to all the trouble of tricking you down here,” Honey said. “Well, apparently I’m trying to fix the entire human race, one flaming asshole at a time.”
Shreave sniggered. “Good luck, sister.”
“You didn’t even ask about your girlfriend. What’s the matter with you?”
Shreave rubbed his arms nervously. “The scream didn’t sound like Genie. It sounded like a girl.”
“I couldn’t get close enough to the Indian’s camp to see who it was. Don’t you love her, Boyd?”
“I’m not gettin’ my brains blown out over some chick who ran out on me.” He snatched a handful of cereal and crammed his cheeks. “Let’s go find those damn kayaks and get away from here.”
Honey saw that he was genuinely frightened. She said, “They’re hidden in some trees on the other end of the island. I spotted them on the way back from the Indian’s.”
“Then what are we waitin’ for?” Shreave leapt up and grabbed her arm.
Honey easily shook free. “Dawn is what we’re waiting for. There’s something you need to see.” One last chance to awaken your shriveled soul, she thought.
He lunged toward her, then halted. Again he turned toward the woods, straining to listen. “This was part of the setup, right? You got some goon in the trees, waitin’ to kick out my teeth.”
Honey said, “Nobody’s there. Nobody’s watching.” She had no fear of Shreave, who was as unimposing as any man she’d ever met.
His voice dropped to a growl. “Listen, you psychotic twat. This is a goddamn suckhole and we’re gettin’ out now.”
“No, Boyd, it’s an incredibly peaceful and inspiring place,” she said, “and I’m not leaving until morning. You want to sail off on your own, be my guest.”
“Un-freaking-believable. You won’t even show me where the kayaks are?”
Honey said no. Shreave called her another crude name and glared into the night. Then he sat down, fuming, by the campfire.
“Try to keep an open mind,” Honey told him.
“Just shut the hell up,” he said.
The rifle slug had ricocheted off a branch and passed through Dealey’s right shoulder, exploding the rotator-cuff joint. As he rocked in and out of consciousness, he wondered if he was dying. It seemed possible, judging by the pain.
He found himself speculating about who might show up at his funeral, in the event his body was returned in a recognizable condition to Fort Worth. The visitor list would be short—two or three other private investigators with whom he occasionally hoisted a few beers; an aunt from Lubbock who was so senile that she was still mailing campaign donations to Barry Goldwater; his landlady and her yodeling poodle; a bisexual nephew who hung drywall in Austin; possibly one or two ex-wives, snorkeling for loose change.
Not appearing at the ceremony would be Dealey’s next of kin, a younger brother who was a halibut fisherman in British Columbia and forbidden by the terms of his parole from leaving the province. Nor would any of Dealey’s past girlfriends be at the funeral, all having married and long ago terminated correspondence.
Dealey was not sentimental, and the prospect of a sparsely attended memorial didn’t bother him. A more nagging concern was the safe-deposit drawer he kept at the Bank of America branch on Ridglea Place. The private investigator regretted leaving no instructions in his will regarding the box, which meant the lock would be drilled and the contents inventoried for his modest estate. His avaricious ex-spouses would insist.
Inside the bank drawer, awaiting the eyes of some unwary probate functionary, was a small trove of trysts, betrayals and adulterous moments, including Eugenie Fonda’s virtuoso number at the delicatessen on Summit. Dealey’s interest in such a collection wasn’t salacious, but rather one of stout professional pride. The photographs and videotapes stood as triumphs of solo surveillance, the greatest hits from his life as a snoop. The paper files he dilig
ently expurgated every three years, but the most sensational visuals were faithfully preserved. Having always felt underrated by his peers, Dealey found comfort and validation in this secret gallery, which he revisited no more than four or five times a month. Of course he’d never intended for such tawdry gems to reach the public domain, as the fallout would be both tumultuous and career-ending.
Hey, there’s the wife of Zeke Gibbons, our new city councilman, checking into the downtown Hilton with her Bavarian riding coach….
And there’s the husband of Mary Lisette Scowron, chair of the local Justice for DeLay committee, nestling on a Utah ski lift with a dancer for the Mavericks….
And, whoa, there’s the middle daughter of the Rev. Jimmy Todd Barnwell, televangelist and on-call spiritual adviser to our governor, entertaining a vanload of longboarders on South Padre….
Fucking beautiful, thought Dealey. It’s just as well I’ll be six feet under when the shit hits.
He felt his suit jacket and shirt being cut away, and he shivered as the night air awakened his wound. Cracking one eye, he saw a handsome ash-blond woman kneeling over him. She appeared to be disrobing.
That cinches it, he thought. I must be dead already.
Eugenie Fonda capably administered first aid, irrigating the puckered entry hole with water heated over the campfire coals. Then she removed a sweater that she’d borrowed from Honey and used it to stanch the bleeding.
“One time a guy almost croaked on me in bed,” she was saying. “Lucky I’d just passed a CPR class. I kept him goin’ till the paramedics got there, and guess what? He still had his hard-on when they carried him out on the stretcher—that’s all you need to know about men.”
Gillian said admiringly, “Wow.”
Downcast, Sammy Tigertail hovered near Dealey’s motionless form. “It was an accident. It wasn’t him I wanted to hit.”
Eugenie doubted that the injured man was going to die. “But a doctor would be helpful,” she said, adding with a wink: “Even a medicine man.”
Gillian tugged the Indian’s shirttail. “I told you he was real, Thlocko. I told you he wasn’t a ghost.” She wiped the blood from the gash on Sammy Tigertail’s forehead. “What’d you do to yourself?” she whispered.
Dealey stirred and briefly fluttered an eyelid. The Seminole remained glum. He dumped out the stolen duffel bag in a futile search for a medical kit.
“Exactly who were you shooting at?” Eugenie asked.
“A dead tourist.”
“If you say so.”
“Thlocko is, like, haunted,” Gillian explained.
Eugenie snapped open Dealey’s travel cases to inspect the camera equipment. The Seminole bent down and felt the investigator’s wrist for a pulse. He said, “At daybreak you two take him back to the mainland. Somehow we’ll squeeze his fat ass into the canoe.”
Gillian didn’t want to go. “Lester said he was gettin’ rescued tomorrow. Why don’t we just wait?”
Sammy Tigertail frowned. “Who did he say was coming?”
“I dunno. Somebody he called on his cell,” she said.
“No! I don’t want anybody else on this island.”
“What’s the difference?” Gillian asked.
“The difference is, I don’t want to go to jail.” Sammy Tigertail believed he would be arrested for shooting the white man in the business suit. He was also fairly sure that he’d killed the fishy-smelling white man with the bandaged hand; the one he’d clobbered with the rifle butt.
And last but not least: the Wilson situation.
The Indian said, “We’re not hangin’ around waitin’ for the Coast Guard or the Collier goddamn County sheriff, understand? You girls are takin’ this poor bastard back to Everglades City soon as the sun comes up—”
“Just a minute,” Gillian cut in. “Lester told me there’s a motorboat somewhere on the island. That’s how he got here.” She looked at Eugenie Fonda. “You remember the way back, right? You don’t need me.”
“No, sweetie, I’d need a miracle.”
Sammy Tigertail said, “I’ll find the damn boat and I’ll draw up a chart, but you’re both going. I’m through.”
He swung the rifle by the barrel, beating it furiously against a tree stump until it broke into pieces.
“Here. Don’t forget this one.” Gillian reached for the sawed-off shotgun.
The Seminole shook his head. He stretched out on the ground and covered his face with his arms. Eugenie aimed Dealey’s Nikon and snapped a frame.
Gillian drew her aside and said, “He’s really not a bad guy. Just majorly messed up.”
“I never meet the ones who aren’t,” Eugenie said.
“But, see, I want to stay.”
“You slept with him yet?”
Gillian blushed. “I’m workin’ on that.”
“Well, he is good-lookin’—”
“Please don’t try to snake him for yourself.”
Eugenie chuckled tiredly. “Just so you know, I’d do whatever it takes to get off this island, and that includes hand jobs, blow jobs, butt jobs, even singin’ opera stark naked. Nothin’ personal, okay? But it’s windy and cold and I’d love a bowl of French onion soup, so I’m definitely on my way to the Ritz, one way or another.”
“But Thlocko said he’d find the boat! He promised to make a map.” Gillian understood that Eugenie possessed advanced powers of persuasion over men. “You don’t have to screw him or anything. He’s not like that.”
“Of course he isn’t. You want some free advice?”
“Not really. Could you give us, like, some privacy?”
“First show me how to work the video.”
Gillian looked alarmed. “I don’t want me and him on tape!”
Eugenie patted her hand. “Don’t worry. I would never.”
Gillian instructed her about Dealey’s minicam. “I did a fake weather report—you can play it back with that button. I was thinking it might be cool to try TV.”
“You’re cute enough for it,” Eugenie said.
“Check out the video and let me know. A ‘weather personality’ is what they call the job. I’d have to take some, like, meteorology classes and probably switch majors, but that’s okay.”
“So you’ll go back to school?”
Gillian glanced at the Indian, who was lying mute and miserable next to Lester on the ground. She said, “I guess. If this thing with Thlocko doesn’t turn serious.”
Eugenie said, “His kind of serious is too serious, trust me. You got a flashlight I can borrow?”
Gillian found one among the Indian’s supplies and handed it to Eugenie, who went off toting Dealey’s video case into the darkness. Gillian thought: That girl’s not scared of anything.
“Where’s she going?” Sammy Tigertail raised up on one elbow. “Tell her to get back here.”
Gillian walked over and lay down on top of him, her lips lightly touching his neck and her breasts pressing against the warmth of his chest. She could feel his heart pounding, and it made her smile.
“This time you be the alligator,” she said.
The moaners had been right. Somebody was firing a gun.
“Dad?”
“Yeah, I heard it.” Skinner nudged the throttle and aimed the skiff into the waves.
Fry bounced like a sack of apples in the bow. The football helmet felt as if it weighed twenty pounds. Three hundred yards from the island his father raised the engine and started poling again. Fry was in charge of the spotlight.
“You sure this is where the shot came from?”
“Fifty-fifty. So damn windy it’s hard to tell.”
“There’s no beach like at the other place,” Fry observed.
“I’m gonna stuff the boat in the mangroves. Give me some light off the starboard.”
“You got it.” The beam cut a smoky purple groove through the dark. Fry was growing numb from riding in the cold, but numb wasn’t bad. It kept him from breaking down when he thought about his mother.
“Does Mr. Piejack have a gun?” he asked.
Perry Skinner said nothing. He was huffing up on the platform, battling the wind and the current. Fry heard the tip of the pole crunching against a submerged oyster bar.
“Dad, does Louis Piejack keep a gun?”
“That was a rifle we heard.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Piejack’s got a shotgun, a crappy little sawed-off. You can shut down that spotlight now, we’re almost there.”
Fry hardly ever thought about the divorce; when it had happened, he wasn’t surprised and certainly not traumatized. His mother and father were so different that he’d long been baffled by their marriage. He was now old enough to understand that Honey Santana and Perry Skinner cared in some eternal and deep-running way for each other, but from his earliest memories it seemed clear that they had no business living under the same roof. Just as Fry couldn’t picture his own life without both of them in it, he couldn’t picture the two of them together again. For his dad this trip was a mission of duty and not devotion, but Skinner would be shattered—Fry knew—if something happened to Honey.
“Dad, what’s the name of this island?”
“Dismal Key.”
“That’s sick.”
“I’m not jokin’,” Skinner said.
“I know.”
They stepped out onto the flats and pulled the skiff toward the trees. The shoreline was longer than on the other island, and more densely foliated. Fry thought he smelled camp smoke but he couldn’t see any fires.
After securing the boat, Skinner started threading through the mangroves. Fry stayed close and kept quiet, even when the barnacle-covered prop roots raked his legs. They followed the curve of a small bay, searching for an opening.
“Light,” Skinner whispered.
Fry aimed the beam.
“No. Over there.” His father pointed.
The spot fell on a red kayak and a yellow kayak, empty and tethered together.
“Those are Mom’s!” At first, Fry was elated, then queasy with dread. What if they were too late?
Skinner weaved quickly through the trees. Once he broke onto dry land, he began to run. Fry struggled to keep pace but soon he fell, overcome by a shooting pain in his ribs and a hot wave of nausea. Before vomiting he adjusted his Dolphins helmet to avoid soiling the face guard. In a moment Skinner was there, steadying him by the shoulders.
