Seduced

by Randy Wayne White

  ALSO BY RANDY WAYNE WHITE

  DOC FORD SERIES

  Sanibel Flats

  The Heat Islands

  The Man Who Invented Florida

  Captiva

  North of Havana

  The Mangrove Coast

  Ten Thousand Islands

  Shark River

  Twelve Mile Limit

  Everglades

  Tampa Burn

  Dead of Night

  Dark Light

  Hunter’s Moon

  Black Widow

  Dead Silence

  Deep Shadow

  Night Vision

  Chasing Midnight

  Night Moves

  Bone Deep

  Cuba Straits

  Deep Blue

  HANNAH SMITH SERIES

  Gone

  Deceived

  Haunted

  NONFICTION

  Randy Wayne White’s Ultimate Tarpon Book

  Batfishing in the Rainforest

  The Sharks of Lake Nicaragua

  Last Flight Out

  An American Traveler

  Gulf Coast Cookery (with recollections of Sanibel Island)

  Tarpon Fishing in Mexico and Florida (An Introduction)

  AVAILABLE EXCLUSIVELY AS AN E-BOOK

  Doc Ford Country (True Stories That Inspired Doc and Tomlinson)

  FICTION AS RANDY STRIKER

  Key West Connection

  The Deep Six

  Cuban Death-Lift

  The Deadlier Sex

  Assassin’s Shadow

  Grand Cayman Slam

  Everglades Assault

  FICTION AS CARL RAMM

  Florida Firefight

  L.A. Wars

  Chicago Assault

  Deadly in New York

  Houston Attack

  Vegas Vengeance

  Detroit Combat

  Terror in D.C.

  Atlanta Extreme

  Denver Strike

  Operation Norfolk

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  Publishers Since 1838

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2016 by Randy Wayne White

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Ebook ISBN 9780698156708

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  For J. D. M.

  CONTENTS

  Also by Randy Wayne White

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  [Disclaimer]

  Author’s Note

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  About the Author

  When the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make one wise, she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat, and gave also unto her husband with her; and he did eat.

  —GENESIS 3:6

  Seduction begins with a fantasy that, pending a willing partner and a safe place, choreographs its own dangerous reality.

  —H. M. TOMLINSON

  [DISCLAIMER]

  Sanibel and Captiva Islands are real places, faithfully described, but used fictitiously in this novel. The same is true of certain businesses, marinas, bars, and other places frequented by Doc Ford, Tomlinson, and pals.

  In all other respects, however, this novel is a work of fiction. Names (unless used by permission), characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is unintentional and coincidental.

  Contact Mr. White at WWW.DOCFORD.COM.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The summer before I started this novel, on a day of ninety-degree heat, two pals and I landed a Maule seaplane in a remote bay and waded ashore to explore the only chunk of high ground for many, many miles. Common sense dictated that a spot such as this would also attract snakes—pythons, in fact—but we were too busy sinking in muck and battling mosquitoes to worry about trifles.

  Our intent was to photograph artifacts left by Florida’s pre-Columbian settlers, which we did, but also came away with a bag full of “wild” oranges. These were gathered off the ground because the hammock—an island, of sorts—was such a tangle of thorns and vines, we could not find the tree.

  Difficult to imagine? We considered it odd, too, but not until later when we were safely home and had properly rehydrated after a dip in the pool. The oranges, freshly squeezed, helped. Never had we tasted juice like this—superbly sour yet sweet, with a lime-lemon tang. Very different from feral oranges found on islands that had once been farmed. And light-years better than pasteurized juice.

  As we rallied, more oddities were jogged from our heat-addled brains. The place we’d been was surrounded by mangrove swamp, fourteen miles from the next chunk of high ground and twenty-one miles to the nearest road. The island, which wasn’t much of an island (three hundred feet long, two hundred feet wide), hadn’t been inhabited since pre-Columbian times, and it had been decades, possibly centuries, since anyone had been boneheaded enough to hack their way into the interior.

  What was an orange tree doing there? How had it survived beneath a forest canopy that had obviously won the battle for sunlight? How had it reproduced in isolation? More to the point, why couldn’t we find the damn thing?

  There was one troubling detail we’d all noticed, but only subliminally: aside from a big alligator, we had seen no wildlife—no tracks, no scat—in what should have been an animal haven.

  Instead, we pondered only citrus-related oddities. We researched every facet of the subject. Well . . . a couple of us did. My friends, Capt. Mark Futch and Jeff Carter, are unusual men. Mark is a eighth-generation Floridian, a pilot/fishing guide, whose roots are tangled in piracy via the Bahamas and Boca Grande. He has connections in the citrus industry, too. Jeff is a fine writer and historian. His knowledge about all sor
ts of things, including botany, is beyond my depth, which is why I stick to instigating dangerous trips.

  A month of research and much texting ensued. What we learned provided the foundation for this book. What we experienced on our second trip provided a pivotal character in it.

  Yes, we returned to that miserable place.

  It was August. The temperature was already pushing one hundred degrees by the time we landed. Twenty yards of water separated us from shore, but this time, by god, we were prepared. We’d bought special “mud shoes” (designed to mimic the splaying of a duck’s feet) to skate us over the thigh-deep muck.

  Two of us were heavier than ducks. We sank, tried to recover, and sank deeper. One of us might be there yet had he not drawn upon crawling skills learned as a child. Mark veered left, convinced he’d spotted an easier entrance into the mangroves. Jeff veered right, and I followed, which was duck-like behavior, but on my belly, not my feet.

  Half an hour later, after hacking our way through mangroves, Jeff and I stopped because one of us was exhausted, and Jeff didn’t look good, either. That’s when we heard Mark scream. A serious scream—some of you will know the difference. Garbled profanities followed.

  Jeff, who is from Georgia, looked at me and drawled, “That boy’s hurt bad.”

  I feared it was true. Mark was our pilot.

  We bulled our way inland through foliage so dense, there was no sunlight. By now Mark was bellowing, “Python . . . A big f-ing python. It’s chasing me!”

  It was true. Well, maybe not chasing him, but it was a great big f-ing python. Two of us were carrying sidearms. When we finally located Mark, one of us shot the thing, but the snake slid off and disappeared. (How my second shot missed is a mystery—the damn thing was thicker than my thigh.)

  We spent the next hour moving as quietly as prey, our eyes darting from branches above to the ground below, all because of what, by then, had become a group obsession: an orange tree that, one way or another, dated back to the 1500s and the Spanish Conquistadors.

  The tree exists. In this novel, Hannah Smith finds a larger version, but it grows in the same bizarre configuration.

  A dark, strange place, that island. It, too, is described accurately in this novel. A third trip confirmed that wildlife there has been decimated by the snake population, but there was one less snake when we left. The skin of a twelve-foot Burmese python now hangs on the wall of my son Rogan’s office—a story I will save for another book.

  Before thanking those who contributed their expertise or good humor during the writing of Seduced, I want to make clear that all errors, exaggerations, or misstatements of fact are entirely my fault, not theirs. This applies particularly to those I consulted about orange trees, and the terrible citrus greening disease (HLB).

  These generous people include Pamela D. Roberts, Professor, Department of Plant Pathology, University of Florida, who invested her time and trust by helping me throughout this project.

  Steve Smith of Babcock Ranch helped a great deal via his primers on citrus farming. Biochemist Gregg Fergus and patent attorney Vern Norviel provided guidance and assistance regarding biotech patents. John Stark, Ph.D., University of California, Davis, and Peggy Sieburth, Ph.D., Florida Department of Agriculture, were also helpful.

  Equally as generous were Michael and Margie Bennette, and Brian and Denise Cobb. Their devotion to Florida, and Florida archaeology, are much appreciated. Ms. Liesa Priddy, Collier County native, and a respected board member of the Florida Wildlife Commission, once again provided advice and information on the fascinating area that is her home. The fine ladies of the Arcadia, Florida, Book Club kindly suggested where Hannah and Roberta should converse over lunch and tea.

  Insights, ideas, and medical advice were provided by doctors Brian Hummel, my brother Dan White, Marybeth B. Saunders, and Peggy C. Kalkounos, and my amazing nephew, Justin White, Ph.D.

  Pals, advisers, and/or teammates are always a help because they know firsthand that writing and writers are a pain in the ass. They are Gary Terwilliger, Ron Iossi, Jerry Rehfuss, Stu Johnson, Victor Candalaria, Gene Lamont, Nick Swartz, Kerry Griner, Mike Shevlin, Jon Warden, Dr. Mike Tucker, Davey Johnson, Barry Rubel, Mike Westhoff, and behavioral guru Don Carman.

  My wife, singer/songwriter Wendy Webb, provides not just support and understanding but is a trusted adviser. Bill Lee, and his orbiting star, Diana, as always, have guided me, safely, into the strange but fun and enlightened world of our mutual friend, the Reverend Sighurdhr M. Tomlinson. Equal thanks go to Albert Randall, Donna Terwilliger, Rachael Ketterman, Stephen Grendon, my devoted SOB, the angelic Mrs. Iris Tanner, and my partners and pals, Mark Marinello, Marty and Brenda Harrity.

  Much of this novel was written at corner tables before and after hours at Doc Ford’s Rum Bar and Grille, where staff were tolerant beyond the call of duty. Thanks go to: Liz Harris Barker, Greg and Bryce Barker, Madonna Donna Butz, Jeffery Kelley, Chef Rene Ramirez, Amanda Rodriguez, Kim McGonnell, Ashley Rhoeheffer, the Amazing Cindy Porter, Desiree Olsen, Gabby Moschitta, Rachael Okerstrom, Rebecca Harris, Sarah Carnithian, Tyler Wussler, Tall Sean Lamont, Motown Rachel Songalewski, Boston Brian Cunningham, and Cardinals Fan Justin Harris.

  At Doc Ford’s on Fort Myers Beach: Lovely Kandice Salvador, Johnny G, Meliss Alleva, Rickards and Molly Brewer, Reyes Ramon Jr., Reyes Ramon Sr., Netta Kramb, Sandy Rodriquez, Mark Hines, Stephen Hansman, Nora Billheimer, Eric Hines, Dave Werner, Daniel Troxell, Kelsey King, Jenna Hocking, Adam Stocco, Brandon Cashatt, Dani Peterson, Tim Riggs, Elijah Blue Jansen, Jessica Del Gandio, Douglas Martens, Jacob Krigbaum, Jeff Bright, Derek Aubry, Chase Uhl, Carly Purdy, Nikki Sarros, Bre Cagnoli, Carly Cooper, Andrew Acord, Diane Bellini, Jessie Fox, Justin Voskuhl, Lalo Contreras, Nick Howes, Rich Capo, Zeke Pietrzyk, Reid Pietrzyk, Ryan Fowler, Dan Mumford, Kelly Bugaj, Taylor Darby, Jaqueline Engh, Carmen Reyes, Karli Goodison, Kaitlyn Wolfe, Alex and Eric Munchel, Zach Leon, Alex Hall.

  At Doc Ford’s on Captiva Island: Big Papa Mario Zanolli, Lovely Julie Grzeszak, Shawn Scott, Joy Schawalder, Alicia Rutter, Adam Traum, Alexandra Llanos, Antonio Barragan, Chris Orr, Daniel Leader, Dylan Wussler, Edward Bowen, Erica DeBacker, Irish Heather Walk, Jon Economy, Josh Kerschner, Katie Kovacs, Ryan Body, Ryan Cook, Sarah Collins, Shelbi Muske, Scott Hamilton, Tony Foreman, Yakhyo Yakubov, Yamily Fernandez, Cheryl Radar Erickson, Heather Hartford, Stephen Snook Man Day, Anastasia Moiseyev, Chelsea Bennett, and Shokruh “Shogun” Akhmedov.

  Finally, thanks to my amazing sons Lee and Rogan for helping finish another book.

  —Randy Wayne White

  Casa Blanca

  Cojimar, Cuba

  ONE

  I was enjoying the conversation with a man I used to date, a biologist named Marion Ford, until the subject swung from Florida oranges to a giant snake. He’d seen it crossing a bay south of the island where I grew up and still occasionally reside.

  “How far south?”

  “A ways. We were flying back from Key West.”

  “That’s where you disappeared to?”

  “I’ve been traveling,” he said, which was typical. “It was a Burmese python—twelve, maybe fifteen feet long. Too big for a boa. Hard to be sure of the size because it was swimming, but that’s not the point.”

  “It is to me,” I said. “If you’re trying to scare me into moving closer to your lab, I’m flattered, but I’d prefer the particulars first. There are better ways than inventing snakes.”

  “Invent?” He was mystified. Marion has warmth, if you get to know him, but he is slow to recognize playful humor.

  “I don’t doubt you saw it, but there’s a hundred miles of coast between here and the Keys. Was the snake closer to Naples or Sanibel Island?”

  “Let me finish. I was making a connection between the parasites killing your orange trees and higher-profile exotics like pythons, boas, a whole long list of reptiles that are taking over the state. Not just
reptiles, of course. Fire ants have all but destroyed the quail population. Brazilian pepper trees are another example, but they were intentionally introduced by state biologists, so—”

  “Marion,” I said patiently, “you know I’m not fond of snakes, and you know why. Please stick to the subject.”

  “I thought I was.”

  “You were for a while. Now you’re not.”

  I was aboard a tidy Marlow cabin cruiser that is my home, neatening up the galley, with the phone to my ear. As we talked, I could look out the cabin door and see the family dock built by my late Uncle Jake as it wobbled through the mangroves. Across the road, atop an Indian mound, was an old yellow-pine Cracker house with a tin roof and a wraparound porch. Veiled by screening were ceiling fans, a summer kitchen, and a hammock where, as a child, I had often slept on hot summer nights.

  What I chose not to notice was a black Lincoln Town Car parked in the shade. For more than an hour, I’d been trying to ignore the thing. It belonged to an old-time Florida millionaire who, twenty years ago, had been my mother’s secret lover. Two brain surgeries and a fondness for smoking pot have not improved her memory, nor pacified her mood swings and sometimes wild behavior.

  Better, I’d decided, to call a friend rather than fixate on what might be going on up there. Inside, it was just the two of them: my mother, Loretta, and eighty-year-old Harney Chatham, the former lieutenant governor of Florida, who was also a married man.

  Not that anyone remembers lieutenant governors. Even Mr. Chatham’s recent prostate surgery had not made the news.

  Ford asked, “Are you still there?”

  I realized my attention had drifted. “I’m not one to interrupt, but that doesn’t mean I’m not listening. How big was the snake?”

  Apparently, he had already covered that ground. Instead of sighing, as a normal person would, he calmly repeated the details—a quality that was admirable, I suppose, but also rankled me. It was as if he were a professor tutoring one of his slower students.

  “Hannah,” he added, “I haven’t heard from you in more than three weeks—”