by Tom Lowe
The picture on the screen cut back to a dark-haired news anchorman behind the desk in the studio. He looked into the camera. “In other news, it’s not politics as usual in some of the state’s races. Joe Thaxton, the candidate who calls himself average Joe with an exceptional plan to restore the Florida Everglades, was a victim today. Thaxton’s pickup truck was vandalized at his rally in Stuart. All four tires were slashed, one wiper blade broken, and a long gash carved into the truck’s paint, front-to-back bumper.”
The image cut from the anchorman to video of Thaxton’s truck as it was loaded onto a flat-bed wrecker, all the tires flattened. There were images of Thaxton, his wife, and others watching the loading. The anchorman continued. “Joe Thaxton is the charismatic fishing guide who’s making a hard-charging effort to win a state senate seat in an effort to sponsor legislation for water clean-up and Everglades restoration. He’s gaining a lot of supporters, and they are not confined only to his district. He’s acquiring a following across the state of Florida and even the nation. Thaxton’s pushing an agenda, not only to restore the water flow to the Everglades, but to end the release of polluted water from Lake Okeechobee into two waterways—the St. Lucie River on the east coast and the Caloosahatchee River on the west coast. Apparently, not everyone agrees with his plan. Thaxton said that doesn’t matter, and he will not be intimidated or bullied.”
The image cut to Thaxton, his truck secured on the flat-bed, the bearded wrecker driver pulling away and waving at the camera. Thaxton said, “We expected to rock the boat with our message, but we never thought someone would be destroying property to scare us. We’ve received threating phone calls. All this means we’re pushing somebody’s button.”
“Any idea who’s behind this?” asked an off-camera reporter.
“I have an idea, but until law enforcement can find out just how far up the chain this goes, I’d rather not speculate.”
The picture returned to the anchorman. “Police say the investigation will continue. However, they say there are no immediate suspects, and apparently no one saw anything because Thaxton’s truck was parked to the rear of the large crowd. Estimates are that it was around three-hundred people who came out to hear him today.”
I muted the sound. “I heard that guy on a radio talk show. He’s articulate, focused, and now is apparently stepping on the toes of either his opponent, William Brasfield, or the people who bankroll the lobbyists. And, in this case, I’d say that’s very deep pockets—irresponsible pockets.”
Wynona nodded. “Just in my lifetime, I’ve seen water levels and the condition of the water drastically change for the worse in the glades. My mother said, when she was a child, the tribe would drink directly from the water that flowed through the glades, through the endless sawgrass. She said the water was crystal clear. Now, it looks like coffee.”
The newscast segued into a weather segment, and Wynona said, “Let’s eat. We can keep the sound off. I’ve had enough bad news for the moment.”
We sat at an antique mahogany wood, octagon-shaped table in the dining room adjacent to her kitchen. Max jumped from the couch in the family room to claim her position on the kitchen floor near my feet. Wynona told me about the case she was investigating, and said she had reason to believe that the suspect had fled the state. “We’ll get him,” she added. “He was sloppy, an emotionally-fueled crime that left a trail. I’d wish he’d fled into the glades. I could probably find him easier in there. If I couldn’t, Joe Billie could. He’s not a cop, as you know, but he can track just about anyone or anything if he’s asked.”
“I haven’t seen Joe in a couple of months. How is he?”
“He comes to the rez less than he used to. After the trial, it seems to have changed him somewhat. He’s even more reserved and harder to find. Not that I go looking for him. But he has family here. I know they’d like to see him more. I guess he still lives in that old trailer near the center of the state. You, Sean, are probably his best friend. Not so much because you proved him innocent of murder, but because you two have always had each other’s backs … way before the trial.”
I sipped my wine, “To see him, I have to go find him. He’s not fond of keeping his phone charged. He has stopped by my river cabin when he’s been out in his canoe fishing.”
She smiled. “He’s one of the few people who don’t check their phones every twenty minutes.”
“The lasagna is excellent.”
“I’m glad you like it. You said you had some orchids and they died. Did you buy them from Chester or somewhere else?”
“They were Sherri’s orchids; and after her death, I inherited them. Max loved following her from plant to plant as she watered them. There were about a half-dozen or so. All very beautiful. She’d kept them alive for years. One-by-one, they seemed to bend their blooms over, like bowing their heads, and then wasted away. I didn’t have Sherri’s green thumb.”
“No, but you had her heart … and she had yours. That never died. And it shouldn’t. I just hope one day you’ll allow your heart to open a little wider to let others inside.” Wynona glanced from me to the flickering candle in the center of the table, the light floating in her eyes. She looked up and said, “That sailing trip we did … Max, you and me. I really got a chance to know you over time in a different world, a different environment. Not the one we’d just left, of pure survival after what happened to Dave Collins and those CIA officers. That trip, maybe it was the boat, Dragonfly, like dragonflies in the wild, had a special mystical quality sailing across the sea. Where’s the boat now?”
“She’s in a slip next to Jupiter. I need to decide what to do with her. I thought about selling the boat, maybe giving the money to a children’s charity. But since Dragonfly was a gift, selling her seems discourteous.”
“Dragonfly was a gift to you because you saved the lives of two people. You absolutely love sailing. There’s no mandate that says you must get rid of things you love, Sean. Why do you feel that way?” Wynona rubbed one finger across the top of her wine glass, leaning back in her chair.
“I don’t feel that way. Unfortunately, life has too often made the decision for me, cutting short the people I cherish. It happened in combat. Marriage. In my profession, and in my family. I don’t try too hard to over analyze it anymore, not like I used to do. I try to learn from it.”
“Are you talking about the meaning of life?”
“Life has real meaning when we bring it to the table. Too often we ask that question when we are the answer. And I use the metaphor, table, because it’s better not to dine alone.”
Wynona smiled. “I like that metaphor, and I like you Sean O’Brien. I like you a lot. I may even love you. I’m not completely sure because I’ve never felt like this before I met you. I have had my share of boyfriends. Even a long-term relationship. It was an engagement that dissolved when the FBI required sixty-hour weeks the first year. But I didn’t feel for Mark what I feel for you. Maybe it’s because you saved my life. I don’t know. I respect the privacy you cherish so much. You spend time at sea or sequestered in that quaint old cabin of yours on the river. You’re surrounded by your books, by the sound of the birds, the wind off the river, the sunsets on the water, by the isolation of your own form of Eden. But, by surrounding yourself with all that, you do the opposite with people. And the irony is I know how much you care for others—how much you do for others. Your friends, people like Dave, Nick, Joe Billie … would do anything for you. You know I’ve never pried, but somewhere in your life … maybe it was something that happened when you were in the military or working as a homicide detective, or maybe the death of your wife, Sherri … something, I believe, hurt you deeply. I just want you to know I’m here for you like you’ve been here for me. I don’t find being vulnerable easy either, but love can be worth the risk.”
“I agree.” I reached out and took her hand in mine.
Wynona lowered her eyes then raised them to mine. She said, “You talked about not being a prisoner in your ow
n castle. That has to apply to you as well. Even in a beautiful place like Eden, a guy called Adam got a little lonely. We all do, especially people with a heart like yours. Can you stay the night?”
“I can.”
TWENTY-ONE
Joe Thaxton stood in his kitchen, sipping a cup of black coffee, speaking on the phone with his campaign manager, Larry Garner. It had been three days, and now he had his truck back in the driveway, Jessica’s car parked in their garage. He bought new tires, a new windshield wiper motor. A new paint job. And he had a renewed determination to charge ahead with his campaign and his message. He glanced at his watch as Jessica and Kristy entered the kitchen, Kristy dressed for school. Jessica dressed for work. Rodeo, the loveable Lab, following behind them.
Garner asked, “Are you coming to headquarters before you head to the radio interview? Should you grab some doughnuts to take to the radio station?”
Thaxton set his coffee cup on the kitchen table. “Yes. I thought about buying doughnuts, but nothing like feeding our hosts sugar … sort of an oxymoron, you think?”
“At least you’re not feeding them BS like so many other guys in state’s races.”
“Depends on what BS stands for … could mean Big Sugar.” They both laughed.
Garner stood by his desk in the campaign headquarters, placards and signs all over with Joe Thaxton’s smiling face, a half-dozen volunteers working the phones or looking into computer screens, adding material to social media platforms. Garner said, “Remember, you have a podcast to record at one o’clock this afternoon. Carol wrote it for you, but we want to give you time to edit it before we record it.”
“Okay. I’ll stop in before heading to the radio station.”
“Hey, if you get doughnuts, don’t forget to bring some for your dedicated staff.”
“You got it.” He disconnected, turned to Jessica and Kristy. “How are my most favorite people in all the world this morning?”
Kristy smiled. “Good, Daddy. Are you going to take me to school?”
Jessica looked at her husband, lifting her eyebrows, smiling. He said, “Absolutely.”
“I’m going to help Mom make my lunch.”
Jessica said, “You almost don’t need my help anymore. You’re getting so good at it.”
“Except using a knife to cut the ends off my sandwich. I don’t do that.”
“I’m betting next year you’ll suddenly love all parts of the sandwich.”
• • •
A half-hour later, Thaxton and Kristy were almost at her school when the truck’s engine made its first sound. It was as if the engine sputtered for a second, quickly correcting itself and then running fine. As Thaxton pulled into the large circular driveway, drove past two parked school buses to the student drop-off area, the engine misfired again. He glanced over at Kristy, buckled in the seatbelt in the front seat next to him, her backpack on the floorboard, lunch pail on her lap, hair pulled back in a headband. He stopped his truck, put it in park, and stepped around to open the door for his daughter. “You have a great day today. Study hard, okay?”
“Okay, Daddy. Is Mama picking me up today?”
“She’ll be here. And I’ll see you both for dinner. You feel like pizza tonight?”
“Yes!”
“I’ll pick one up on the way home.” He kissed his daughter, watching her walk toward the front door of the Port Salerno Elementary School. His truck made another odd sound, as if the engine coughed. Thaxton got back behind the wheel and drove off. He didn’t get very far. In less than three miles, his truck engine strained, making thrashing sounds, finally quitting. It was all he could do to pull safely onto a convenience store parking lot before the truck died in a short hiss.
“What the hell?” Thaxton mumbled, getting out and opening the hood. There was no sign of smoke or overheating. He tried the ignition. The engine straining but failing to start. He called Larry Garner’s phone. “My truck’s dead. I’m stranded in the parking lot of a Seven-Eleven store off of Federal Highway.”
“What happened?”
“I have no idea. The motor started sputtering, and then it began thrashing and bucking, finally stopping. Battery’s fine, but it can’t start the truck—the engine is dead.”
“I’ll call a tow for you. You’re close to the Ford dealership. Let’s get your truck in there. I’ll get you to the radio station. Hey, Joe … you can forget the damn doughnuts.”
• • •
Three hours later, Joe Thaxton and Larry Garner waited in the lobby at the radio station. The walls were nearly covered in framed awards and photos of celebrities and politicians who’d been guests through the years. Thaxton was to go on the air as a guest for an entire hour. He’d called Jessica and let her know what happened, telling her that the service manager at the dealership promised to assess the truck’s problem immediately.
Ten minutes before Thaxton was to join the host in Studio-C, his phone buzzed. He looked at the caller ID. It was the Ford dealership. He answered, and the service manager said, “It wasn’t too hard to find the source of the problem.”
“Is there some good news?”
“Good and bad. Someone poured sugar in your gas tank. That’s not what did the damage. In addition to the sugar, they put water in the tank. That’s where the problem lies the most. Water and gas do not mix. For that matter, neither does sugar. Whoever the jerk is, he or she wanted to make sure you weren’t going very far in your truck.”
“How much damage?”
“The fuel injector is shot. We’ll remove all the water and sugar from your tank, flush the fuel-lines, clean out the carburetor, dry the cylinders and pistons. Then we’ll add fresh gas and clean-burning additives to give the engine the boost it needs.”
“How long will that take?”
“All of today. You should be able to pick it up tomorrow.” The service manager paused, watching a car lifted up on a hydraulic rake. “Mr. Thaxton, you said this happened when you drove away from your home this morning, right?”
“Yes. That’s the first I noticed it after getting the truck back from having had all four tires slashed, a wiper blade motor broken, and a keyed paint-job.”
“Sir, do you have security cameras on the outside or your home?”
“No.”
“Just a suggestion, but you might want to get them. With all that damage you’ve had to your truck lately, and now the stuff with the engine, somebody’s obviously got an ax to grind with you. And they might come back. It’d be good to catch the creeps on camera.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, thanks.” Thaxton disconnected, turned to Garner and told him what happened. “Sugar and water in my gas tank. Is that sending a message or what?”
Garner said, “Bring this up during the interview. I think listeners—voters, need to know what we’re up against and maybe who’s pushing back and why.”
The producer of the radio show, a tall blonde woman dressed in designer jeans, dark blue blazer and a knit, white shirt entered the lobby, smiled. “Mr. Thaxton, we’ll need you in Studio-C now. The program is starting in a couple of minutes. We anticipate that this will be one of our better political shows. You’re gaining quite a following, and from what we see on our social media sites, your supporters are passionate. It should make for a lively discussion and debate. You both can follow me, please.”
TWENTY-TWO
Chester Miller led his granddaughter Callie on a journey of discovery. They both wore black rubber waders, suspenders holding them waist-high, as they walked through water and the dense jungle-like terrain of Big Cypress National Preserve. Mottled sunlight penetrated the boughs of tall cypress trees, the odor of decaying leaves and swamp gasses bubbling from dark mud to the surface. Two blue herons stalked tiny fish darting in and out of the submerged tentacle roots of red mangrove bushes.
Chester used a hand-carved, white oak cane for balance, a wide-brim hat on his head, stepping through water up to his calf muscles, the sucking sound of mud coming fro
m each step. Callie followed close behind her grandfather, a camera in one hand, strap around her neck, backpack over her narrow shoulders, long sleeve shirt. “Look,” she said, pointing to a fallen log in water surround by lilies, white blossoms like cotton balls in the distance. A young alligator, less than two feet in length, crawled up on the log, settling down in a shaft of sunlight, its yellow eyes glinting like small gold coins.
They’d parked off a dirt road that twisted three miles into the preserve, figure S curves, as if an enormous snake had left a trail through the swamps. They left Chester’s twenty-year-old Chevy truck to one side of the narrow road, locked the doors and set out on foot. It was a trip Chester had done before, but never with his granddaughter. The seasonal rains were gone, water levels dropping enough to make the hike through the bogs and sloughs rather safe.
Chester stopped. “Let’s hunt for ghosts.”
“You think we’ll find some today?” Callie asked.
“I do believe we will. Used to be more out here, way before you were born. Not so much anymore. Like I told that fella, Sean O’Brien, the ghost orchids are one of the canaries in the coal mine in Big Cypress and the glades.”
“I know you mentioned that Grandpa, but I’m not sure exactly what you mean.”
He stopped walking, the sound of shadowy wings fluttering through the treetops, something splashing in the water farther into the swamp. “Years ago, coal miners in parts of West Virginia and Kentucky would carry a caged canary into the mines with them. It was because the canary would warn them of any poisonous gases leaking in the mine … carbon monoxide was a gas they couldn’t smell.”
“Could the canary smell it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“How’d the canary warn miners? Did it start chirping like a smoke alarm?”
“No. It died.”
Callie looked at her grandfather, her eyes widening in surprise. He said, “The canary, with its smaller and a more fragile respiratory system, would be the first to die, giving the miners a warning to get out of the mine. Today, that allusion is sometimes used to give an example of an early warning system in nature.”
