by Tom Lowe
“Yes! Let me up! Please!”
I pulled him straight and placed the serrated knife blade against his throat, staring at him. He averted his eyes. “Look at me!” He glanced up at me. “Take a good look at my face. If you ever see it again, it will be the last face on Earth you see. That’s a promise.” I dropped him, and he fell to his knees coughing, face strawberry red.
I turned and left, the wail of sirens coming across the channel at the Port of Miami. In less than thirty seconds, I was back in the dinghy with Joe Billie. “Let’s get out of here.”
We pulled away and rode across the water for half a minute in silence. I called Ron Hamilton and said, “Ron, there are two underage girls, victims in a sex trafficking ring. They’ve locked themselves in a stateroom on Spencer’s yacht. Please see they get to a safe place tonight. Maybe we can get them back to their families.”
“Will do. Are the girls okay?”
“No—at least no physical bruises. But the internal ones can last the longest.”
“Unfortunately. Nice work with Spencer. He’ll lawyer up, but the video is so self-incriminating, so far beyond a reasonable doubt, he’ll pay the consequences. Let’s talk in the morning.” He disconnected.
Joe Billie looked across the bay to Virginia Key, his right hand on the electric motor controls. He looked up at the moon and then at me. “How’d it go?”
“We have a confession. It’s on video and audio. Spencer admitted his involvement in the murders. He thinks he’ll lawyer up and beat it. But the video interview is a strong admission of guilt because of the level of details. Conducted by a homicide detective, it’ll be admissible in court. A jury will see it and decide. I doubt Timothy Spencer will have sweet dreams the rest of his sorry life.”
“Good.”
“By the way, nice shot with the crossbow. Dead center into a coconut. It proved the perfect distraction at the right time.”
“I got lucky. It was a ripe one and fell easily. Gravity gets the credit.”
As we came closer to the dark beach on Virginia Key, I looked back at Fisher Island, the blue, red, and white pulse of police lights descending on the mansion and yacht. Toward the northeast was South Beach, the neon glow of nightclubs and posh condos. And then I looked directly east into the dark of the Atlantic Ocean, the salty and floral scent of the trade winds in the night air.
The stars hung low, a flicker of heat lightning where the sea meets the sky. I thought about Wynona, looked up into the heavens, spotting the glow of a bright star that I knew was Venus. The constellations twinkled like holiday lights. I found the constellation Virgo and thought about something Chester Miller said, ‘You only see the constellation Virgo during certain seasons, rising in spring … just like Persephone, the goddess of spring. She comes and goes, brings the season of growth after the dead of winter. I believe, when the orchid, Persephone finally blooms, it’ll be after a dark period. And it’ll have been worth the wait.’
From the heart of the constellation, a fiery meteor ripped across the night sky in a long arc, vanishing over the horizon in a dimension somewhere between land, sea and night sky.
NINETY-SEVEN
A week passed, and Wynona was ready to leave the hospital. It was a little after 9:00 a.m. when I walked down the corridor toward her room, the medicinal smell of bleach and antiseptic recycled in the canned air. A middle-aged janitor was pushing a damp mop at the far end of the hall, orange headphones strapped to his ears. I went around him as I moved toward the nurses’ station. One nurse looking into a computer screen, two more updating digital patient charts. “She’s been waiting for you,” said the head nurse, looking up from the computer. “She wants to go home.”
“Thank you all for taking such good care of her.”
“You’re welcome. She’s a strong woman … but right now she’s hurting inside.”
I nodded and walked past a half-dozen partially opened doors until I came to room 910. The door was closed. I gently knocked and entered. Wynona was standing by the window, looking at the traffic nine floors below the room. Her blue suitcase was packed and set on the floor at the foot of the bed. She turned toward me when I closed the door. She managed a half smile, her eyes not reflecting pain, but rather sorrow.
I walked across the room. She said nothing, extending her arms, her eyes searching my face. I took her and held her close, her face buried in the center of my chest, her silent tears absorbing into my shirt. After a moment, she said, “I’m so tired. I feel more vulnerable now than at any other time in my life.”
I held her close, the morning sunlight coming through the sheer curtains. We stood there for a few minutes, holding each other in the solitude of shared, heavy grief and love. She looked up at me, her dark hair matted to one side of her cheek, eyes red and still brimming. “I’ve always wanted to be a mother. The career came, and I threw myself into it with passion to help right the world a little more.” She used one finger to wipe the tears from beneath her eyes.
She took a deep breath and released it. “I always thought I’d make time for a family. But time doesn’t play favorites, and the years clicked away. I was okay without having a family of my own … and then you came along, Sean. The pregnancy simply happened in the emotional and physical act of our lovemaking. When I found out, my whole world and priorities changed. I wanted to tell you sooner, but that vulnerability thing keeps creeping into my head. And now …” Her voice choked, tears rolling down her cheeks, her eyes filled with the pain of a mother’s mourning.
I held her and said, “I’m not sure we can sustain true love without allowing our souls to open—to become vulnerable because that is love’s dance partner. Being vulnerable doesn’t mean being weak. It means you’re willing to take the risks of love’s joy and bruises because, in the end, it’s what we’re here for. I’m taking you home … to my river cabin. You need the solitude and peace. It’ll help, and I’ll be there with you for as long as you’ll put up with me.”
She closed her eyes, nodding her head. “Take me there—that would be good. I need to be in nature and with you right now. Being by the river will help.”
• • •
It was almost three weeks later when the family and friends of Chester Miller gathered in the heart of the Everglades to spread Chester’s ashes. Wynona walked with me down a narrow dirt road as mourners convened in a picturesque spot of cypress trees and a vista of sawgrass. The blue sky was so hard and deep, it felt as if you could hit a tennis ball against it. A flock of white ibis appeared from the heart of the only cloud in the sky, a towering cumulus, rising in a vertical, massive column.
There were more than fifty people taking their places near an ancient Indian shell mound that was slightly elevated above the sawgrass. Callie Hogan, wearing a dark blue sundress, held the urn with her grandfather’s ashes. She was flanked by her parents. The people gathered in a half circle. Joe Billie stood next to Sam Otter, the oldest living Seminole. The old man’s deeply creased face was stoic with the enduring strength of worn saddle leather. His cotton white hair was braided. He wore a traditional Seminole multicolored, patchwork jacket, white scarf and dark pants. His black eyes filled with wisdom, depth, and sorrow.
Wynona whispered, “Sam Otter asked Joe to bring him here today. I know that Sam and Chester were friends, but I think they shared a common bond in the glades and respected each other more than any of us knew.”
“I agree.”
We watched Callie look at the immense expanse of sawgrass for a moment before turning around to speak. “My grandfather loved the Everglades so very much. He said, of all the places on earth he visited, and he was well traveled, this land held the most special place in his heart. He loved the environment—the birds and animals, the wetlands, the towering bald cypress trees, the almost imperceptible change of seasons. But, most of all, he loved the flora and fauna.” She paused, her eyes roaming across the faces of those in front of her.
“As many of you know, one of my grandfather’s li
fe’s missions was to help restore the native orchids into the glades, Big Cypress, and the Fakahatchee Strand. At last count, right before he was killed, he’d restored more than seven thousand native species of orchids. I think the ghost orchids were his favorite. He used to tell me they grew up on the trees to keep an eye on things. Rarely seen because you have to look up to see them and, when you do, it’s like they’re jumping out to you. He said the ghosts were the canaries in the coal mines. And, when they disappeared for good, the glades would go with them. He wasn’t a pessimist or doomsayer. He was the opposite—convinced that, when people truly had the facts and understood the consequences of our actions, they would come together to make a difference.” She paused, her eyes welling with tears.
Wynona held my arm and took a deep breath. Sam Otter stared across the sawgrass. A woman in the congregation softly cried. As we all came to honor the life of Chester Miller, I thought about the events of this last month and tried to get a perspective I didn’t have even two weeks ago. An assassin, a man who made a living killing people, took his last and youngest victim from Wynona’s womb. I tried to delete the sickening image of Michael Fazio aiming his pistol at me. His flat eyes, every pore in his face filled with the mask of evil.
Wynona and I had days and weeks of talking, hours filled with emotion, trying to come to terms with the death of our unborn child. Although unborn, there had been a heartbeat, a pulse of movement near Wynona’s stomach, the chance of a future, the lease on this thing called life that is the greatest unwrapped gift. I knew there was no promise of tomorrow. Life, or even birth, had no warranty. No guarantee. Only an expiration date. But our child didn’t receive that. The powerful desire for retribution was still palpable in the back of my throat.
Simon Santiago was the state’s star witness in the upcoming trial of Timothy Spencer. Even with a small army of lawyers, Spencer’s bond was denied as a flight risk. The video confession and level of detail he knew about the murders were more than enough for prosecutors to build a strong case and take him to trial.
Joe Thaxton may never have served one day as an elected member of the state senate, but his efforts to get there—his grit and determination to speak the truth about those assaulting Florida’s fragile environment, would leave a positive and lasting difference.
Callie’s mother spoke for a few minutes about her father, Chester, telling those in attendance that he was a man with an insatiable curiosity for the world around us and that humanity’s options and collective decisions should not be out of sync with the rhythms of nature. He wanted us to be good stewards of the planet. She turned to her daughter. “Callie, I think it’s time to release your grandfather back to the place he felt most at home.”
Callie nodded, pulled a strand of hair behind one ear. She looked at the polished, white urn in her hands. “My grandfather told me when he died, he wanted his ashes released here. He said it was because of the splendor you see all around us. He wanted us to remember him and think of the beauty here … and to know he saw that beauty in all of you.”
She turned to face the horizon, removing the lid from the urn. An east wind came in from behind us as Callie released the ashes, the wind carrying them over the sawgrass. Some in the congregation wept as the urn emptied and the ashes disappeared into the surroundings. I saw Sam Otter slowly lift his head toward the sky, his eyes following something. I watched an eagle come from the north, dip down, make a circle high above us, turning and soaring in the direction the wind carried Chester Miller across the Everglades.
NINETY-EIGHT
After the crowd had dispersed, and after the extended hugs and condolences, Callie invited Wynona and I to follow her back to her grandfather’s cabin in the Big Cypress Preserve. “There’s some unfinished business at his cabin,” she said, getting into her car. Wynona and I rode in my Jeep east on the Tamiami Trail until we came to the near hidden entrance and into the world Chester Miller created and left behind. It had rained, and the dirt and gravel driveway had the fresh-washed scent of pine and blooming jasmine.
We parked near the picnic table beneath the old oak. Callie’s car was in front of us. She got out first, smiled and gestured for us to follow her. We walked in her direction, the grounds and place had a different feel. It was still beautiful with the gardens of blooming flowers tucked everywhere, but the larger-than-life presence of Chester Miller was gone, one of his canes propped up next to the hand railing by the wooden steps leading to his front porch. His spirit could be felt among the flora in terms of what he left for others, but the locked cabin, greenhouse, and small lab seemed deserted and somehow abandoned.
We approached Callie. “I’m gonna miss this place,” she said.
“I can see why,” said Wynona. “It’s special. Nothing quite like it anywhere on earth.”
“In my grandfather’s will, he left the entire thirteen acres to the Nature Conservancy to remain as is … in perpetuity, and to be used as a place of study for university graduate students majoring in environmental sciences and botany.”
“Your grandfather was a generous man,” I said. “Not only did he leave a legacy in the world of plant sciences, he was making sure others would be able to carry the baton to the next level.”
She nodded and smiled. “I just wish I could have had a few more years with him.” She motioned toward the cypress tree near the small lab, a wide smile forming. “It bloomed! Persephone has finally bloomed. I wanted the two of you to be among the first to see it. My mom and dad saw it yesterday. I’m going to take it down from the tree, photograph it, and tell the world on my grandfather’s website and social media sites the amazing story behind it.”
Wynona grinned and said, “This is one of the real OMG moments.”
Callie led us to the base of the tree where we could see two blossoms protruding from the clay pot perched on the wooden support that Chester had built and attached to the lowest tree limb. “Sean, can you hold the ladder?” Callie asked, as she started up the rungs.
I held the ladder and watched her stop near the top and simply stare at the orchid with a reverence taught by her grandfather. She carefully lifted the pot with both of her hands. “You need some help?” I asked, hoping she wouldn’t drop the pot.
“No thanks. It’s not too heavy.” She gripped the pot with both hands and used her forearms to balance as she carefully backed down the ladder, her red sneakers stepping in the center of each rung. In less than half a minute, she was on the ground holding the clay pot for us to see. “Isn’t it the most beautiful orchid in the whole world?” Her eyes beamed, filled with pride and joy.
Wynona said, “I’ve never seen any blossoms like those anywhere. The colors are by far the richest and most vivid I’ve ever seen.”
“They’re beautiful,” I said. “Maybe worth the long wait of fifteen years.” The blossoms were about the size of my palm. The petals were ivory white speckled with light lavender and pink dots in a graduated intensity. The edges of the petals were bordered in a soft crimson. The center portion of the flowers had a delicate look as if they were patterned from the lips of a woman, blood red with specks of yellow that carried the iridescence of solid gold.
Callie said, “I’m going to set the plant on the picnic table and take pictures of the lovely blossoms from every angle I can. Come on.”
We went with her to the table under a large oak. She set the clay pot down on a black cloth and stood straight. “My grandfather said, when it blooms, it’ll be the rarest of the rarest, a hybrid with the DNA of the Shenzhen and Kinabalu orchids along with an exotic pollen mix from the Cattleya. He would have been so proud. I wish he was here to see them.”
“I think he sees them,” Wynona said. “And I feel that the thing he would be most proud of is your joy after they bloomed and the way you’ll help take care of them.”
Callie smiled and looked from Wynona back to the blossoms. I said, “Here on a picnic table, under a century old oak tree, we have the rarest, most exotic orchids on earth. What
we’re looking at is visible proof of a hybrid. Not so much in the orchid, but in the partnership your grandfather had with nature as they worked together to create beauty for the world.” I looked over at Callie. “Now, after all these years, after it has finally bloomed, what will you do with it?”
She didn’t respond immediately. She thought for a moment, her eyebrows rising. “After I photograph and shoot video of it, after I write a new species document to be shared, and after I give the world the opportunity to see the blossoms on the Internet, maybe I’ll work in my grandfather’s lab to take stems and produce more. As part of the Nature Conservancy’s inheritance, grandfather’s Last Will and Testament gave me that option. Persephone was born here in the Everglades. I’ll replant any reproductions in the wild, in nature. Maybe some of my grandfather’s ashes will eventually land on their petals, and his creativity will continue.” She grinned.
I said, “His creativity has already landed. It did so when you were born. This is your time, Callie … your new adventure. Share it with the world, as your grandfather wanted, but keep the roots of all of this here close to you. You are the new orchid keeper.”
She beamed, her eyes tearing. After another half hour, we hugged Callie and said goodbye. Wynona and I slowly drove back up the driveway that Chester built, orchids and bougainvillea hanging from weathered fence posts and the trees themselves. It was a unique world. A slice of Eden tucked away on the threshold of the Everglades. I looked in my rearview mirror and saw Callie carrying the orchids to the greenhouse. They were in good hands. I glanced over at Wynona. “Callie will do well.”
