by Carl Hiaasen
Even though many of the buildings in Everglades City have been fixed up since Irma, I wasn’t expecting to see much wildlife. The eagles are a nice surprise. I’m definitely going to tell Mom they’re the same ones.
It’s too buggy to cook outdoors, so we go to a restaurant I remember near the stone-crab docks on the Barron River. The place looks brand-new. Photos on the wall show the wreckage of the kitchen and splintered docks after the hurricane.
We take a table by the water. Dad says he and Summer will start the long drive home to Montana tomorrow, after dropping me off in Fort Pierce.
“You’ve got to go back so soon?” I ask.
“I promised Lil,” says Dad. “I’ve been away a lot lately. Too much.”
And I get that.
“Billy, you think Belinda would like Montana?”
“I don’t know. All depends.”
Summer cackles. “It’s humanly impossible not to like Montana.”
“Belinda’s got the boyfriend thing going on,” I say.
“Me too. But if I had to choose between Davey and the Rocky Mountains, Davey’s history.”
Dad says, “Just for a visit, I was hoping—before she goes off to college. Your mother might want to come along, too. Lil won’t mind.”
It’s like he’s trying to bring all the people in his life together with one big move. That might be a tough fit.
“I’ll ask Mom,” I promise. “And Belinda, too.”
We order fish tacos, slaw, corn on the cob, and a pitcher of iced tea. While we’re waiting, an osprey swoops down and plucks a shiny mullet from the river. It occurs to me that the same kind of bird is doing the same kind of thing to some poor trout, two thousand miles away on the Yellowstone River.
After dinner, Dad says he wants to witness my snake-grabbing skills in person. Summer’s down for a night drive through the Everglades, too. I tell them about a prime reptile zone along a dirt road in the Big Cypress Swamp. By the time we arrive, it’s already dark. Usually this is when the action starts.
My father switches on his high-beam headlights and brakes the truck to a crawl. Traveling snakes often stretch to their full length, but sometimes they rest in the shape of an S. Other times they just coil up. They’re not always easy to spot from a moving vehicle, but all three of us have sharp eyes—especially Summer, it turns out.
On the first pass our catch is two garter snakes, a four-foot king snake, a corn snake, and a little ringneck spied by Summer moments before the truck almost flattened it. Summer and Dad get out to observe each of the captures. One of the garter snakes nicks a knuckle when it snaps at me, but that doesn’t count as a legit bite.
We didn’t bring a pillowcase, so I release every snake after we take a few pictures. Dad gets a cool shot of Summer with the black-and-orange ringneck curled around one of her pinkies, like an exotic piece of jewelry. He texts the photo to Lil, while Summer texts it to Davey the boyfriend.
On the return drive we don’t see any more snakes, although there’s other critter activity. At one point Dad stops the pickup to let a mother raccoon lead her three babies across the road. Later we roll up on a fat old opossum that won’t budge; it just blinks at the headlights and bares its pointy teeth, a standard opossum bluff. Dad casually lifts the snarling grouch by its pale hairless tail and moves it into the woods. Personally, I’d rather deal with an angry snake any day.
The campground is silent and dark by the time we return to Chokoloskee. Unfortunately, the mosquitoes aren’t asleep. We dash for the tent and zip ourselves inside. There’s not much room to move around. Snug is a polite way to describe it—father, son, and stepdaughter packed together like sardines. For some reason it was easier to talk in the car. Now that the panther mission is over, I’m not sure what kind of conversation to start, if any.
By the glow of a battery-powered lantern, Summer and I each tap out goodnight-mom texts. Dad’s listening to a voice message on his phone.
“#@%&!” we hear him mutter.
What now? I’m wondering.
He tosses the phone into his duffel. “That was my, uh, informant.”
Summer sighs. “You can say her name. We know who she is.”
“Lincoln Baxter isn’t driving straight home to California, like I thought.”
“Then where’s he going?” I ask.
“He told his wife he’s got some ‘unfinished business’ in Montana. To me, that sounds like another grizzly hunt.”
Summer elbows me in the ribs. We’re both thinking the same queasy thought.
“What if his ‘unfinished business’ isn’t a bear,” I say to my father. “What if it’s you?”
SIXTEEN
Mom liked the picture of our old house in Everglades City.
“I knew it was sturdy!” she said.
“I saw your eagles, too.”
“The same ones, Billy? They came back?”
“Just like I told you they would. And they made it through the hurricane just fine.”
“Well, that’s awesome.”
Here’s the roster at lunch: me, Mom, Belinda, Summer Chasing-Hawks, and Dad.
Summer and Belinda are seated next to each other, a little awkward because they’ve got almost nothing in common—and completely opposite opinions of my father. Meanwhile, Mom and Dad are directly across the table from each other. She looks at him more often than he looks at her. There wasn’t much he could reveal about our so-called camping trip, so that strand of conversation lasted about two minutes. Now it’s mostly small talk, and Belinda acts like she’d rather be at the dentist. When Dad congratulates her on the Cornell scholarship, she pretends it’s no big deal.
He says, “You should come out to Montana before college starts. Your mother, too. Billy said he mentioned it to you.”
I did. Belinda’s reaction was chilly.
She makes a bored face. “Right, there’s so much to do out there.”
“We can float the river. Hike in the mountains,” says Dad. “Do you like to ride horses? Come on, I’ll take care of the plane tickets.”
Mom looks interested. Belinda grunts.
Trying to be upbeat, Summer starts chattering about the golden eagles, how huge and graceful they are. Mom gets pretty excited, as expected, and fires off a bunch of questions about the birds. What’s their wingspan? Do they mate for life? Do their nests blow away in a blizzard?
My sister just glowers at the half-eaten burrito on her plate.
I’m not saying much because my mouth is crammed with food. The long ride home from Chokoloskee made me hungry as a horse. Along the way, Dad stopped at an electronics shop in Fort Lauderdale to buy a new quadcopter. He picked a super-expensive model, but it’s still not waterproof.
Mom is very curious about the Crow Indians, so Summer gives a brief history of the tribe, the reservation, and her family. At last, Belinda seems to be paying attention.
Dad and I go outside to assemble his new drone. This one is black. He downloads the control app onto his phone and mine, promising a future flying lesson.
“Out west would be the easiest place to teach you,” he says.
“You’ll be too busy for that, with Baxter hot on your tail.”
“Billy, how would he ever find me?”
“He slashed the tires on your truck, so he must have seen the license plates.”
“So what? Only cops can trace a private tag.”
“Can’t you find another poacher to spy on?”
“Baxter’s number one on my list.”
“Then go after number two,” I suggest.
“Number two is temporarily out of action. He fell out of a tree.”
“Dad—”
“After shooting himself in the foot.”
“Dad, you need to be more careful.”
“I’m alway
s careful.”
For a test flight, he sends his new drone cruising across the Indian River to peek at Mom’s bald eagles. The high-res camera finds one of them sitting on a limb overlooking a small bay. The other bird is probably in the air scouting for fish—or for an osprey clutching a fish. Baldies are master thieves.
Dad guides the quadcopter back to our neighborhood and smoothly lands it in the backyard. As soon as we enter the house, Mom announces:
“It’s a done deal, guys. We’re flying to Montana next week!”
I’m not sure who’s more stunned, me or my father.
“Next week?” he says.
I can tell what he’s thinking. He’d rather have us visit after Lincoln Baxter is out of the picture, safely back in California.
Apparently, while Dad and I were outside with the drone, Lil called Summer, and my mother asked to speak with her.
“What a cool lady!” Mom says. “I told her about your invitation, Dennis, and guess what? She knows a motel where we can stay for twenty percent off. There’s even a Laundromat.”
Belinda is nowhere in sight. She’s probably fuming in her room.
Dad says, “Honestly, I was thinking more of August. It’s one of my favorite months—”
“August is gonna be way too crazy around here. So much shopping for Belinda’s college wardrobe—she owns basically no winter clothes. Not even a hat! No, Dennis, I think now would be the perfect time for us to come.”
“What about your gig with Uber?” he asks.
“Oh, they’re super-flexible.”
“But don’t the kids have summer jobs?”
Mom says, “Don’t worry, we’ll get all that stuff worked out.”
My father caves. This was, after all, his idea.
“Chrissie, you’re gonna love it out there,” he says.
“I know! I am totally psyched to see my first golden eagle.”
Summer glances up from a bowl of ice cream and smiles at me. I’m glad to be going back next week. The sooner the better, especially with Lincoln Baxter unaccounted for.
“Let’s hit the road,” Dad says to Summer. “It’s a long drive home.”
* * *
—
There’s always a waiting list for part-time jobs at Publix. Mr. Voss says that he’ll have to fill my position but that I can reapply at the store when we get back to town. It’s pretty much what I expected, and truthfully I’m not heartbroken. I’ll miss the extra money, but not the social demands of bagging groceries.
On my way out of the store, I spot Chin and his father again. I try to slip by with just a wave, but Chin sidesteps quickly, blocking my escape.
“ ’Sup?” I say.
“I’ve got something for you.”
“Uh…okay.”
“Can we go outside?” he asks.
I accompany them through the busy parking lot to one of the striped safety lanes where people drop off their shopping carts. Privacy isn’t as crucial as avoiding bad drivers. Chin’s dad hangs a few steps back, arms at his side. From the way he’s looking at me, I know that he knows what happened in the D-5 hallway, that I’m the one who saved his son from the loser lacrosse player. It’s ancient history to me, though obviously not to Chin and his family.
The kid says, “I was afraid you didn’t work here anymore. We haven’t seen you in a couple days.”
“I went camping with my father in the Everglades.”
“Sweet,” Chin says. “We’re going to Yosemite in July. Dad rented an RV.”
“Sweet.”
“Here. Hope you can use this.”
A handmade pocketknife is what the kid gives me. A coiled rattlesnake is carved into the polished wood handle. Etched on the other side are the letters B.A.D.
My initials. Billy Audubon Dickens.
This blows me away. I open the knife and use my thumbnail to test the impossibly fine edge of the blade. It feels sharp enough to split a hair.
“This is crazy,” I say to Chin. “It’s not like you owed me anything.”
He’s grinning because he sees how much I like the gift. “The reason I had them put your initials on it,” he says, “is so you couldn’t give it back.”
I’ve got to laugh. “Thanks, dude.”
Carefully, very carefully, I fold the blade closed.
Chin’s father says, “Billy, you did a brave thing.”
Nope. I did the only thing a person like me could possibly do, wired the way I am. No way could I stand there watching a small kid get pounded by a big kid. Not an option. That isn’t bravery, it’s just reflex.
Pedaling my bike down the street, I feel the weight of the knife in my pocket. It isn’t as large as the one Jammer carries, but it’s heavy enough for me.
When I get home, my sister announces that Dawson broke up with her. “You happy now?” she says. “All because of this stupid trip out west. Dawson says he can’t do long-distance relationships, even for a week.”
“I thought you were going to dump him, anyway.”
“So what if I was?”
“You should be celebrating,” I say. “He’s a creep. He tried to shoot Mrs. Gomez’s cat with my slingshot.”
“Muffin? You liar! Dawson wouldn’t hurt a flea.” But Belinda knows I’d never make up something like that.
“I predict you’ll get over him,” I say, “by lunchtime.”
She stomps to her room and halfheartedly slams the door.
Dad and Summer are making good time. She texted me from somewhere in Alabama. Mom is working an Uber job, driving an elderly person to a doctor’s appointment. I’m okay with her taking riders like that.
Something’s been bothering me ever since we got back from Immokalee. I dial the phone number I’d memorized from the scrap of paper in the Range Rover. He answers on the second ring.
“Good morning, Rusty,” I say, pleasant but firm.
“Who the $#@! is this?”
My name isn’t showing up on his caller ID because I blocked it, using *67. I remind him that we met on the ranch road two days ago, in the presence of a sheriff’s deputy.
“How’d you get my number?” he demands angrily.
“Same way I got your name. Your buddy Mr. Baxter ought to be more careful. By the way, did you ever catch up with him?”
“None a your business,” Rusty snaps. “What the hell do you want?”
“Take it easy. This is just a courtesy call.”
“Huh?”
“A courtesy call. To warn you,” I say, “about what’s going to happen if you try to set up another panther kill.”
“I got no idea what you’re talkin’ about.” Rusty’s indignant tone is fake and shaky. He’s worried.
“If you ever do something like that again,” I say, “whether it’s for Baxter or any other low-life poacher, I’m gonna call your boss and get you fired. After that, I’m gonna call the game wardens and get you arrested. Whatever money you have in the bank, you’ll be spending all of it on lawyers—and even then you’ll probably end up in jail for a couple years. But, listen, there’s another path. A smarter way to go.”
“Like what? Be a rat snitch?”
“No, it’s real simple,” I tell him. “All you’ve got to do is make sure nothing bad happens to any of the panthers on that ranch. From now on, Rusty, you be their guardian angel. Chase off anyone who tries to mess with ’em, or call the law. Can you handle that? I know you can.”
Rusty simmers on the other end of the line. Then: “Why should I listen to anything you say? Yer just a dumb kid. Anyway, who’s ever gonna know if one a those cats gets shot, way out in the middle a nowheres?”
Here’s where I’m prepared to do a little exaggerating. Okay, major exaggerating.
“Rusty, we’ve got a network of secret informants and a
whole fleet of high-altitude drones. If one of those panthers gets even an itty-bitty hangnail, we’ll know about it.”
I can sense the ranch hand doesn’t like the idea of being spied on.
He says, “Is this, like, blackmail or somethin’?”
“It’s not blackmail if you’re being made to do something honest.”
He chuckles glumly. “I don’t see where I got much of a choice.”
“It sounds like your heart’s not in this,” I say. “Just forget I even called. You go ahead and take your chances—”
“Now, hold on! I’ll do it.”
What happened at the ranch shook up Rusty pretty badly. He didn’t know it, but he was ready for a phone call like this. Deep down, he’s probably relieved.
“One more favor,” I say. “If Lincoln Baxter calls you back—”
“That ain’t happenin’, kid. I’m the last voice on earth that man wants to hear.”
* * *
—
My mom and dad share the same view on the whole religion thing, which is simple: everybody gets to make up their own mind.
Is there a God? What’s his deal? Or her deal?
I’m not sure what I believe. But the more I see, the more I wonder if God is taking a hands-off approach to the human race. How else can you explain so much bad behavior? I think it’s very possible God got totally disgusted with us and said, “I’m done here. You poor dumb mortals are on your own.”
Working at a grocery store, you meet lots of nice folks and see many acts of kindness. But you also witness scenes that make you wonder if our species is evolving in the wrong direction—backward, into the ancient slime we crawled from millions of years ago, when we were just innocent little fish growing legs.
I remember a Saturday morning when two women got into a shrieking fistfight in the produce section. Each of them weighed like ninety-two pounds, and both were old enough to be somebody’s grandmother. In fact, they probably were somebody’s grandmother.
