by Tom Lowe
“Maybe you can get the guy’s license plate number and give it to police.”
“He’s crafty that way. He doesn’t pass me, allowing me to see it.”
“How often have you noticed him following you?”
“Twice now. A police car escorted me a couple of times and then stopped. We looked into hiring a security company like you suggested. Each of the three we spoke with wanted an exorbitant amount of money. I believe these companies are used to dealing with billionaires and millionaires, people who have a lot of money. That’s not us. As a fishing guide, Joe’s done well, and then the green goo shows up and clients start cancelling the trips they’ve booked. We’ve managed to put money away, some of it for our daughter’s college fund. The closer we come to the townhall meeting with Hal Duncan, the more worried I get. Joe’s doing great in the polls, and that’s got his opponent and his deep-pocketed backers, swinging hard at him. Have you seen any of their attack ads on TV?”
“No. I don’t watch a lot of TV.”
“They’re vicious, and it’s all lies. They’re trying to make my husband look and sound like some deranged, uneducated tree-hugger who’s running his race on emotional scare tactics. Would you possibly reconsider? Maybe see if you can find out who’s behind this and expose it. That might be the only way to stop it.”
I watched the Canaveral National Seashore, the pristine beauty of untouched Florida off the starboard view of Dragonfly’s bow. “Jessica, I wish I could help. Yes, you’ve experienced vandalism. And you’ve had someone try to intimidate you by following your car as you took your daughter to school. What I do best is try to trace a capital crime back to the person who did it or initiated it. Right now, the crime is the damage to Joe’s truck. I’m not undermining that. I know it’s a hassle to deal with insurance companies and get repairs done. I can’t work as a personal bodyguard. And, at this point, I don’t think your family needs that.”
“Sean, do you believe people are born with gifts?”
“I believe people are born with undeveloped talent. I think that’s a gift. The tragedy is often those gifts are never really opened, they’re ignored or simply shoved so far on the back burner they’re never resurrected. Many people are too afraid to take the risks it requires to live up to or beyond their potential. I think your husband is an exception to that general rule.”
“He is, that’s one of the things I love and admire about him. I believe I have a sensitivity or a gift to see things … I’m in no way psychic, but I have an intuition that’s saved me from many bad things in life. I often see the best and sometimes the worst in people, and I don’t mean by being judgmental. In you, I see a decent, caring man—a person not motivated by money or fame, but rather by simply doing what’s right. And I think you’re not afraid of risks. It wouldn’t be much of a risk for you to help us. My perception is hinting at things that scare me. I fear something bad is going to happen to Joe either right before or after the televised townhall meeting. I’m very worried, and I don’t know where to turn.”
“Jessica, politics can be brutal. Just look at the recent presidential election. In the primaries and in the general election, there are always losses on both sides in terms of reputations tarnished and political scars left from hard-fought campaigns. That’s the norm. What you’re talking about is a very large exception to the rule. I’m not suggesting that your fears are unfounded, but I am saying I think Joe will get through the election scratched and battered, but most likely a winner.”
“I pray that you’re right. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“No bother.”
“If you reconsider, please let us know. Good bye, Sean.”
I stood, the trade winds delivering the hint of flowers from the islands. I watched the pristine white sand beaches of the national seashore. It hadn’t changed much since the Spanish conquistadors saw it when they came ashore in Florida. I recalled the interview Joe Thaxton did when he referred to the European sailors who came to Florida 400 years ago. When Spanish explorer Ponce De Leon first sailed here and walked our beaches, coves and woodlands, he called this new land La Florida … or a place with flowers. That bloom is in danger of falling off the plant forever.
I sailed south, hoping Jessica Thaxton was wrong, and that there was no real threat to her husband’s life. She was a loving and concerned wife. And she was a frightened wife. This brave new world of politics, especially with Joe’s assault on corporate water polluters, was daunting. Jessica said she had a gift to see things. I hoped she was blinded by fear, and after the November election that fear would no longer be a shadow following her.
THIRTY-FIVE
The Joe Thaxton campaign headquarters was alive with ringing phones and excited chatter among staffers. A long table was filled with fruit, doughnuts, yogurt, granola bars, water bottles on ice and gallons of coffee. Joe worked right beside his volunteers, making phone calls and doing live radio and TV interviews from a small room filled with campaign placards. He finished recording a podcast when his manager, Larry Garner, entered the room. Joe removed his headphones, turned off a switch on the audio console and said, “You look happy.”
“I am. New poll numbers are in, and we’ve grown the lead by another five points. And this is coming in spite of Brasfield’s barrage of attack ads on TV.”
Joe stood. “I believe most people can see through that crap. They’re not buying it. He’s had plenty of time in office to do something to turn the tide on pollution. But he’s been bought and sold by lobbyists working for Big Ag and Sugar. We just have to remain true to our mission and accessible to the public for their thoughts.”
“You’re doing a townhall meeting with Hal Duncan. To my knowledge, something like that’s never happened in Florida politics. A candidate for governor normally shies away from getting directly involved in races for the state house and senate. Not this time. And it’s because you’re a dozen lengths in front of Brasfield in this horserace. Your message is connecting with people far beyond our district. The townhall event with you and Duncan will be televised on the public broadcast stations across the state. That’s going to help.”
“I want to bring more than just the two of us—Hal Duncan and myself to the stage to answer questions and talk about how we can work together to solve water pollution in the state. I want to show the audience more scientific data as well. I want video to help illustrate the various pollution hotspots and areas in the Everglades that are vastly altered. That ought to work well on TV. Some of it I’ll capture in the field … just like I’ve done in the past.”
“I’m not sure we have time for you to go slogging across South Florida looking for pollution. We have full schedules planned.”
“The good and bad thing, Larry, is I don’t have to go very far. Also, a huge part of my mission, as a marine biologist, is for me to be in the field taking water samples, flying my drone looking at the bio-health of rivers and lakes. The base of my supporters like the fact that I don’t just rely on others for data, I go get it myself.”
Garner shook his head, released a deep breath. “Okay, but on some of your treks into nature, we’ll send a photographer with you to get some pictures. It’ll make for great visual reminders of the mission. I need to get on the phone with Hal Duncan’s people to begin coordinating the townhall meeting. This will be huge.” He turned and walked out just as Jessica and Kristy were arriving. After greeting them, he said, “Good news ladies, we’re up again a few notches in the polls.
“That’s fantastic,” Jessica said. “I’ve been holding my breath because of all the nasty ads the other side has been running.”
“Daddy,” Kristy said, wide smile, her hair tied in pink bows. “Mom and I have come to take you to lunch.” She walked quickly to her dad’s side, looked at the microphone and audio gear and asked, “What’s that?”
Thaxton smiled. “That, sweetheart, is the equipment needed to record my voice for podcasts. They’re sort of like radio messages. I talk to people just li
ke I’m talking to you. And they can hear it on the Internet anytime they want to listen.”
“Can I talk on the podcast?”
“That might be a good idea. I want the voters to get to know my family. Let’s talk about it over lunch.”
“Sounds good.” Jessica said. “Where are you taking us?”
Joe smiled. “Wait a second, I thought you girls were taking me to lunch.”
“We’re driving. You’re buying.” She laughed.
As Joe reached for his keys, a female member of his staff, a college-aged brunette, hair in a ponytail, jeans ripped at one knee, wearing a Joe Thaxton T-Shirt, entered. “Excuse me. I’m sorry to interrupt.” She smiled, looking across the room.
He said, “No problem, Caroline. What is it?”
“There’s a woman on line four that really wants to speak with you, no one else.”
“Can you take a message? I’ll call her back.”
“Of course. But her name is Amber Nelson. It was her husband, Johnny, who died a few weeks ago from a waterborne bacterial infection he got when he was fishing with his cast net. I thought you might want to take her call.”
“Yes … yes I do.” He looked at his wife, Jessica nodding.
Joe sat down and picked up the phone. Jessica turned to Kristy. “Daddy needs to talk to this person. Let’s go in the main area and see if we can find an extra-large T-shirt for your Uncle Rob. He keeps asking, and I keep forgetting.”
They left the room, and he answered the phone. “This is Joe.”
“Mr. Thaxton, my name’s Amber Nelson. I guess the lady on the phone told you why I’m calling.”
“Please, call me Joe. She told me who was calling, not why. First, Mrs. Nelson, I’d like to tell you how very sorry I am for the loss of your husband. It is a tragedy, something that never should have happened.”
“Thank you. You can call me Amber. I buried Johnny almost a month ago, and the pain of his death is unshakable. He’s always on my mind, and always will be. He grew up on and around those waters. Fished, swam, boated from Boca Grande to Fort Myers Beach. And now, after he comes home from tours of duty in the Middle East, he’s killed by bacteria in the water … our water. I know I don’t live in your district, but you are the only candidate seriously taking on the issue of water pollution. I want you to know you have my support and thousands of people like me. If there’s any way I can help your campaign, I’m happy to do so.”
“I appreciate your thoughts, support and your offer. There’s really not a lot I need except for you to keep us in your prayers. If elected, I hope I can make a positive difference.” Joe glanced through the door, watching his wife and daughter interact with campaign staff. “On second thought, Amber, maybe there is something you can do. I’m not the only candidate taking on water pollution. Hal Duncan is, too. We’re hosting a townhall meeting together. Perhaps you could attend as our guest. You could tell your husband’s story. I think that will further help drive home the seriousness and deadly consequences of water pollution in Florida.”
“I’ll be there.”
THIRTY-SIX
I could see the iconic Cocoa Beach Pier in the distance. Dragonfly cut through the light chop in the Atlantic with a smooth gallop that made sailing what is—a harmony of wind, open water, good weather, a fine boat and someone behind the wheel to choreograph it all. Max and I watched a few surfers riding the breakers on either side of the pier. Dozens of boats, most of them powerboats, bobbed in the swells. To the east, near the horizon, a cruise ship moved like a mirage at sea.
At the end of the pier, under an open-air thatched roof, people leaned against the railing, some with fishing poles in their hands, others with dreams in their hearts that extended beyond the horizon. Ships in the distance do that. They offered dreamers the stowaway’s chance to sail into a new world and leave the old one in the past. The pier, and its railing on both sides, jutted more than 800 feet out and above the Atlantic. Far enough for fishermen to catch sharks trolling the waters. Brown pelicans stood on the railing like stoic props, coming to life when a minnow, shrimp, or baitfish were tossed their way.
I watched the waves break against the heavy pilings under the pier, froths of white-water churning in the constant ebb and flow. If I wanted to return Dragonfly to her slip tonight, this spot in the Atlantic is where I had a decision to make. Should I sail farther south, I could stop at any of the dozen or so marinas from here to Vero Beach, spend the night and continue the sail the next day … and the next.
But something pulled at me like an anchor caught in rocks on the floor of the sea. It was the words, the angst, that Jessica Thaxton was saying and feeling. I fear something bad is going to happen to Joe either before or after the televised townhall meeting. I’m very worried, and I don’t know where to turn.
I looked at Max as she stared at the carnival near the end of the pier—Bob Marley’s voice on the outdoor speakers singing One Love; two little girls in banana-yellow sun dresses dancing to the music; people eating hot dogs and ice cream; a young man in a body shirt, shorts and a top hat juggling four orange balls in the air; fishing poles bending with catfish and sheepshead; and tourists strolling by, snapping pictures.
The last time I’d sailed Dragonfly, Wynona was with me. I picked up my phone and called her. She answered, and I said, “At an eleventh-hour invitation for your birthday, I could bring you a sailboat.”
“Well, I take it that you’ve decided to keep Dragonfly.” She smiled, sitting at her desk in the police department.
“I took your suggestion. I’m sailing Dragonfly as we speak, just off Cocoa Beach Pier. Max and I are watching the show at the end of the pier. She seems fascinated that the pelicans sit like statues as the people snap pictures of them.”
“I’m so glad you decided not to sell the boat.”
“Maybe I’ll sail her to Fort Lauderdale and pick you up for your birthday.”
“That would be a marvelous and romantic gift. However, I just can’t take a few days off right now to go sailing. Can you come here?”
“Last I checked, the water in the Everglades isn’t deep enough to accommodate a sailboat, and I don’t own an airboat.”
“But you do own a Jeep. I was hoping you’d take me to that place where you bought the orchids.”
“Why? You want to meet Chester?”
“Of course. But the real reason is I’d like to buy a few more orchids, one for my living room and some I can keep on the outdoor deck. You’ve got me addicted to the beauty of the individual orchids. Will you take me there?”
“Yes, but remember, Chester Miller doesn’t keep regular store hours, not that he operates a store. It’s more of a lemonade stand for some of the world’s most exotic flowers. He’s gone a lot replanting orchids all over the glades. I’m not sure if his granddaughter is there. We might get to the place and the gate will be closed.”
“Let’s take that chance, okay?”
I said nothing for a moment, watching the cruise ship vanish over the horizon. “I’ll be there tomorrow.”
“Sean, are you okay? For a man on a sailboat, your voice sounds out to sea. Excuse my poor attempt at a metaphor.”
“I’m fine. Out here on the water, I’ve been thinking about a job I turned down. The client’s running for office, and his wife is afraid there will be an attempt on his life.”
“Who is he?”
“You and I watched a story about him on the TV news when I was at your home. His name is Joe Thaxton. He’s a fishing guide who’s fed up with water pollution and massive algae blooms. He says it’s ruined his business, and it put his little girl in the hospital. He’s quite outspoken, has the support and endorsement of a lot of people, including one of the two candidates running for governor, Hal Duncan.”
“Maybe, when you get here, you can tell me why you turned down the job? It sounds like you’re not sure you made the right decision. I’d love to hear why.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Simon Santiago pulled h
is red Ferrari up in front of a trendy waterfront café in Coconut Grove. The restaurant offered indoor and outdoor seating with unobstructed views of Biscayne Bay. He stopped near a reserved spot, the deep-throated engine rumbling. The sidewalk café oozing with the funky Coconut Grove vibe. Bright, primary colors on the open-air building. Tall royal palm trees.
Tanned diners sat at tables under wide umbrellas, sipping drinks and munching decorative green salads topped with grilled salmon, shrimp, or stone crab. Pink and white bougainvillea wrapped around a wrought iron railing that ran the length of the outdoor dining area, sailboats on the blue water bay. Some of the diners watched the man park the Ferrari. Others ignored him.
A male, college-aged valet in white shorts and matching polo shirt moved two orange cones and directed Santiago to park in one of the coveted center spots in front of the café. A white convertible Bentley GT was in one of the spaces. Santiago got out of the Ferrari, wearing dark glasses, red golf shirt and black slacks. He handed a twenty-dollar bill to the valet and said, “Keep an eye on it for me, all right?”
“Yes sir. No problem.”
Simon Santiago strolled through the restaurant like he owned the place. The head server, a man in his forties, greeted him by name. “Mr. Santiago, your party is here. He’s seated at your regular table on the terrace. Is that fine, sir, or would you prefer to dine inside?”
“That’s okay. It’s a great day. Why eat inside when you have that view, huh?”
“Exactly. Leslie will be your server today.”
Santiago nodded, walking through the restaurant filled with nautical motif and fine art oil paintings of the Florida Keys and the Caribbean. At the most remote section of the outdoor dining area, in a corner with an excellent view of the bay, buffered on one side by a terrace of bougainvillea, was a white-cloth table with four chairs. A man sat in one of the chairs, his back to the diners, sunglasses on, wide shoulders and a swarthy face. His head was shaved. Scalp pink. A small white scar crossed the bridge of his nose. He wore a dark blue blazer, white T-shirt and faded jeans. Boat shoes with no socks. Michael Fazio started to stand when Santiago approached.
