by Tom Lowe
“Me, too. After what happened, it was a perfect antidote.”
“After that, I fell in love with sailing.” Her eyes searched my face. “I really appreciate the orchids. It’s very thoughtful, but then you’re a caring man. A man who guards his privacy and his friends with a passion.”
There was the distinct sound of gunfire in the distance, somewhere beyond the sawgrass and cabbage palm spits of land. Wynona said, “It’s already starting.”
“What? A war?”
“No.” She chuckled. “Hunting season. It’s not for two more days, but too often the overzealous go out in the glades to shoot their guns up in the air. Sometimes it’s too close to the rez, because what goes up must come down. Two years ago, a twelve-year-old boy was hit in the top of his head by a bullet that fell from the sky. He was treated in the ER, the round almost cracked the boy’s skull.”
“Isn’t hunting prohibited in the glades?”
“Yes, unless you’re hunting for pythons. The park service sanctions those guys—the reptile hunters. Big Cypress National Preserve, which borders the rez, is where hunters are allowed in some areas during the season. They hunt for deer, wild boar, turkeys, whatever is in season.” She glanced at her watch. “I need to get back to work. How about you? Are you working any PI cases for clients?”
“No. It’s pretty much by referral only. And since I haven’t had any referrals in the last couple of months, I’d like to think the crime rate is down.” I laughed.
“You, of all people, Sean O’Brien, know that’s not the case. Well, since it appears that you have a little free time on your hands, I’d like to formally invite you and Maxine over to my home for dinner tonight. I won’t be cooking gator bites, frog legs or catfish, but I can make a great lasagna and glades salad.”
“Sounds good. What time?”
“Will seven work?”
“Yes. It’ll give me time to buy wine and get Max some dog food. Not that she’ll eat it after scarfing down four gator nuggets.” Max, hearing her name, sat up, looked at the empty plates, raising her soft brown eyes up to mine.
There was a second sound of gunfire in the distance. Max turned her head and looked in the direction of the sound. For a brief second, Wynona’s eyes became shielded, as if the visor on her armor shut. She pulled a strand of dark hair behind one ear, what she said earlier echoing like the rifle shot in the distance. Other times, it rises up when I least expect it. A smell can trigger it, or a certain sound.
EIGHTEEN
It was dark, and Joe Thaxton sat behind his makeshift desk in his campaign headquarters, returning emails. Five of his volunteers had left for the night. Only one, Travis Sinclair, remained, finishing a phone call. Travis, tall and angular, was a political science major in college, now about to head to grad school. He ended his call, stood from a desk near the front of the office filled with placards and signs. He stretched, walked back to Joe and said, “If you don’t need anything, I’m heading out.”
Joe looked up from his computer screen. “I’m fine, Travis. Thanks for staying past five o’clock. I really appreciate your time and help with the campaign.”
Travis smiled, lots of straight white teeth showing. “No problem. I so believe in what you’re doing … I wish I didn’t have to go back to grad school. Working with you, I’m getting invaluable training in political science.”
Joe rubbed his temples, his eyes slightly red. “I’m no expert, but as far as I can tell, there’s not much science to it. I use the science and data measured from research to prove points about pollution. As far as this political thing goes, seems to me it’s all about human nature. Giving the voter not what he or she thinks they want to hear, but rather sound reasoning and scientific data, allowing them to make up their minds if the candidate is the right person for the job. And I look at it as a job, not a career. I want to get in there, fix what’s broken, make sure there are provisions in place to keep it fixed, and then leave. I’d rather be out on the water fishing. But I want to fish in water that’s not covered in green grunge.”
Travis nodded. “Your message is so right on the money … we have people calling to volunteer. Our contributions, even at the one-hundred-dollar maximum level you set, are growing. Giving the people a voice, finding candidates that adhere to the U.S. Constitution, making a positive change … all that is why I’m interested in this field. I appreciate you giving me a shot here, thanks. It’s actually better than grad school.”
“You’re welcome. Now go home. Get some rest and come back to hit it hard in the morning.”
“Sounds good. Oh, I almost forgot.” He handed Joe a phone message slip. “The gentleman who called while you were on the phone said his name is Howard Allen. He didn’t say who he’s with, but he said it’s important that he speak with you this evening if possible. He told me he’s very impressed with the campaign, your message, and the professional way you’re conducting the race. Seems like a good guy and a solid supporter.”
Joe took the message. “Thanks.”
“See you in the morning. Don’t stay too late.”
When Travis left the office, Joe pinched the bridge of his nose, looked at the phone number and made the call. A deep voice answered. “Hello, Howard Allen speaking.”
“Hi, Mr. Allen, this is Joe Thaxton returning your call.”
“Excellent. Thank you for the quick call back.”
“No problem. How can I help you?”
“Well, that’s what I wanted to ask you. You’re running a tight ship, facing an incumbent state senator with solid name recognition, a long track record, and a deep war chest. Maybe I can help you.”
“What’d you have in mind? We’re always looking for volunteers.”
“Perhaps my time would be better served simply providing you with the resources to conduct your campaign on a higher level. Your opponent will flood the television airways soon with slick campaign ads. The creation, production, and purchasing of TV advertising time requires a substantial war chest.”
“You’re right. I’m hoping that if we get enough donations at a hundred dollars each, we’ll be in a position to produce and buy ads. But I don’t want to throw mud in smear and attack campaigns. All my ads will stick to the facts, the science, and let people know why I believe I’m the person who can most effectively do the job.”
“No doubt.” There was a pause for five seconds. “Joe, you’re not the average Joe as you contend. You can relate to the voters on a level that resonates with them. That’s a natural gift that you have. It can’t really be taught. The gift that we can help you with is finances, more than enough to be competitive in the race. I promise you this, you will need it. You can’t win by posting pictures on social media and doing talk radio interviews.”
“You said we … who are we?”
“A number of people in executive positions to fund your campaign. We can help take you to the winner’s circle. From what we can tell, and I’m talking about politically savvy consultants who’re closely following the race, you might parlay a win at the state senate level into the governor’s office later. And because Florida is such a large state, doing a sound job in the governor’s office could open the door for a run down the road to the White House.”
Joe laughed. “I really appreciate the vote of confidence, it’s flattering. But I have no desire to become president of the United States. Same goes for the governor’s job. Don’t want it. But I do want to work as a team member with whoever wins the governor’s race so together, we can turn back the tide of water pollution in Florida.”
Joe could hear the man release a long breath before saying, “I’m not sure if I’m making myself clear. You will never make it at the rate you’re going. Granted, you’ll build some initial interest and then the heat will fade. It’ll fade because your opponent, Senator William Brasfield, will hit you with so many attack ads that even you won’t know who you are after the defecation starts flying. We can change that with resources to go the distance.”
“Nothing really. No big political announcements or declarations. What we’d like to see, however, is for you to tone down your rhetoric about pollution. As a marine biologist, you’d be one of the first to admit pollution comes from many sources, farming is not the sole reason. We believe you can still run an effective campaign without a lot of unsubstantiated finger pointing. Do you follow me?”
“Absolutely, I follow you all the way to the main source of the pollution and the money trail like yours that allows it to exist in the first place, harming our fish and wildlife, and ultimately the people.”
“Joe, we’re in a position to make incremental PAC funding in your campaign well into seven figures, okay?”
“No, it’s not okay. I can’t be bought, Mr. Allen.”
“Stay average, Joe. See how far you get. You’ll regret your decision. If our funding doesn’t go to you, it goes to your opponent. We won’t lose.” The man disconnected. Joe looked out the window, the homeless woman pushing her cart across the parking lot, one hard rubber wheel out of alignment, and wobbling.
NINETEEN
Later that evening, the home filling with the smell of baked lasagna, I watched Wynona do what I never did. And in retrospect, maybe I should have done it. She walked to a small end table near a large window overlooking her backyard and spoke to her new orchids as if they had ears. She said, “This is your home, your new spot in the universe. You can see out into the backyard, but you’re far enough away from the window to keep the direct sunlight off your delicate floral faces.” She turned to me and laughed, her hair down, wearing black jeans and a white button-down blouse.
I stood in the kitchen, poured two glasses of wine, Max stretched out on Wynona’s couch. I said, “I’m thinking that’s what I did wrong with some orchids I had. Forgot to chat with them.”
She walked back across the room to me. “You have to make them feel welcome and at home. It’s more than just water and light. It’s giving the plants their own sense of feng shui. Plants may not have ears, but they are perceptive, and they have moods.”
“Well, I think you not only put them in their happy place physically, but you’ve elevated their feelings.” I handed her a glass of wine. “Cheers … long live your new orchid friends and happy birthday to you.”
She touched her glass to mine, sipped the wine, the flicker of candlelight swaying in her eyes. She said, “I have a plant joke for you.”
“Okay, but can you tell it in mixed company. We don’t want to embarrass the new arrivals.”
“It’s rated G for all plant audiences. Ready for this … why do some plants go to therapy?”
“I have no idea.”
“To get to the root of their problem.” She giggled, turning to the orchids and saying, “Now, I hope you guys are not in need of therapy. If so, let’s talk about it, and we can work through any orchid issues.”
I laughed. “That’s better than what the big flower asked the little flower when he looked down in the garden and said … what’s up bud?”
“Very good, Sean. Did you hear that from your new friend in the glades, the orchid man … what’s his name again?”
“Chester.”
She set her wine on the table. “I love the name … Chester. You don’t hear that name too often anymore. I never heard it on the rez, not that Chester wouldn’t have been a good name for a member of the tribe. Oh, the lasagna.” She moved quickly beyond the kitchen counter, grabbing thick mittens to lift a dish of bubbling lasagna from the oven. “Just in time. We can let it cool for a while before serving. In the meantime, I’ll make a salad.” She glanced across the room to a wide-screen TV monitor mounted on the wall. “Do you mind if we catch the news while the lasagna is cooling? I want to see if the local stations are carrying the story about a large-scale embezzlement that I’m investigating.”
I picked up the TV remote control, glanced out the window, a three-quarter moon hanging low in the southern sky.
• • •
Amber Nelson stared at the moon from her bedroom window. She held her baby to her shoulder, standing next to the child’s crib, rocking and humming nursery rhymes. Amber looked across the bedroom at her husband, Johnny, who slept with his injured leg propped up on a pillow. She heard him moan, mumbling something in his sleep. The baby cried.
Amber whispered, “It’ll be okay, Michael. Daddy will get well. Don’t you cry little one.” She looked at her baby’s face, moonlight coming through the window, and she sang, “Hush little baby don’t say a word … Daddy’s gonna buy you a mockingbird … and if that mockingbird don’t sing … Daddy’s gonna buy you a diamond ring.” She rocked the infant and gently set him down in the crib. The baby was now drifting off.
Johnny moaned in his sleep. He was back in eastern Syria. He and a squad of ten men walking quietly through what appeared to be an abandoned town of adobe-style buildings, some reduced to rubble after a barrage of mortar and air strikes by U.S. forces. This was one of the last ISIS strongholds. It was the equivalent of their Alamo, a last stand for ISIS militants who still fought, refusing, like so many, to retreat and assimilate in the populations of Syria and Iraq.
Johnny and his men used hand signals to communicate, moving stealthily down deserted alleyways, the smell of charred human flesh still lingering in the desert air. The corpse of an ISIS fighter lay across the threshold of an open door to a two-story building. Flies buzzed and crawled around the bloated face and neck. Eight of the Army Rangers’ men carried MK-16 assault rifles. Two held modified 12-gauge shotguns, both guns loaded with double-aught buckshot.
After forty minutes of searching through abandoned buildings, the men stopped in an alley to regroup. “We’ve counted thirty-nine bodies,” said Jesse Farren, unshaven, lean face, the youngest in the group of Rangers, his southern Cajun accent from the swamps of Louisiana. “I wonder how many of these fellas are stittin’ in paradise with seventy-two virgins?”
“You really think they believe that? Dying in battle gets them a ticket to paradise and women, c’mon.”
“I got no clue.”
There was a sound, almost human, as if a woman cried out.
“What the hell’s that?” Johnny asked. “Sounds like somebody in pain.”
Jesse turned his head. “No, it sounds like a goat.” Seconds later, a small goat wandered into the alleyway, a rope around its neck, the rope tied to a broken piece of wood. “Looks like that goat’s a survivor. Must have come loose from his hitch. I’m gonna take the rope off its neck so it’ll find water and food without draggin’ that wood around the desert.”
Johnny looked at the rooftop of a building across the street. The other men did the same, uneasy, the buzz of flies louder. “Why don’t you just let that goat fend for himself? We got more work to do.”
“This’ll take a few seconds. Hate to see an animal suffer.” He walked over to the goat, the animal bleating, its rib bones showing beneath its hide. Jesse held his rifle in one hand, using his right hand to work the rope off the goat’s neck. When he removed the rope, dropping it to the ground, he said, “Go on now. You’re free.” Jesse turned around to face his squad. He grinned right before his head exploded with a single shot.
“Noooo!” Johnny said, sitting up in his bed, sweat beading on his forehead. He looked around the darkened bedroom, disoriented.
Amber, washing her face in the adjacent bathroom, came running to his bedside. “She turned on a table lamp. “It’s okay, Johnny. You mu
st have had another nightmare. Maybe you’re getting them again because of all the antibiotics in your system.”
Johnny looked up at his wife. She used a hand-towel to wipe the sweat off his brow. “I keep seeing Jesse Farren in my dreams … right before he was shot. Right after he set a little goat free.” He licked his dry, cracked lips, the taste in his mouth like gun metal. He looked from his wife’s face to his propped-up leg, an expression of fear in his eyes. “It’s not getting’ better, Amber. Look, it’s getting worse every hour.”
Amber stared at the wound, her breath catching in her throat. “Something’s not right. The doctor said the antibiotics would stop the infection. It’s not working. We need to get you to a hospital.”
TWENTY
I tried to remember the last time I watched the local news on television. It’d been awhile. I picked up the remote control, turning on the screen. “Any particular channel?”
Wynona looked up from slicing a tomato. “It should be on channel seven out of Miami. They’re usually the most thorough when it comes to reporting crime news, and sadly, that’s about all they report.”
The TV came on, the screen filling with images of Coast Guard boats on the sea in what appeared to be a search and rescue mission. A reporter off-camera said, “The small plane went down about a half-mile off the coast of Jacksonville Beach. Authorities say there were four people aboard. The pilot is the owner of the plane, believed to be a Cessna. He was flying from Savannah to Miami with his wife, daughter, and son-in-law. Officials don’t believe any of the four people survived the crash. From Jacksonville Beach, Sarah Hernandez, Channel Seven News.”
Wynona used large wooden spoons to toss the salad in a big glass bowl. “That’s so horrible. Sounds like the entire family was lost in the accident.”
