Seduced

by Randy Wayne White

  She would have done it, too, but the mesh snapped at that instant. We both sprawled sideways into the water, then stumbled and staggered, in a panic, helping each other toward safety. We didn’t look back until we’d reached the plane.

  The python was swimming away but on a confused course. My mind was slow to understand what had happened. The animal’s head was tangled in a ball of mesh—a jacket that had been impregnated with mosquito repellant. Chunks of its tail were attached only by skin because of the wounds I’d inflicted.

  I pulled anchor; Roberta had to hop back in the water to spin the plane around so we could take off. Not until the doors were closed did we think about injuries. Wheezing, “Oh my god . . . Oh my god,” she stripped off her shirt and shorts, but her focus was on her abdomen, which was streaked with mud and yellow leaves. “Do you see any marks . . . teeth marks? Find something I can use as a towel. Oh Jesus, I can’t believe this is happening.”

  I grabbed a bottle of water and an extra shirt from the back. While saying the reassuring things people do, I gently cleaned her belly until we could see there were no visible injuries.

  “Scooch around,” I said, and checked her back, too. No cuts, or even scrapes, but there was a red, serrated welt across her shoulders as if she’d been slapped with a belt.

  “Do you hurt anywhere else? What about your ribs?”

  Roberta asked, “How about my lower back, near the kidneys? All I remember is not being able to breathe, that I would drown. My shoulders—it was like being crushed in a vise. But the water, that’s what saved me. The snake couldn’t seem to find the rest of me because my legs were underwater. I kept kicking.”

  “No cuts,” I said, then asked again about her ribs.

  “I don’t know, I didn’t hear anything crack. That slimy sonuvabitch! It bit you, Hannah, I saw it. Let’s have a look at your arm.”

  A first-aid kit came out while I rolled up my left sleeve, for I was bleeding. We were both in shock. Neither could be sure what had happened. Roberta guessed the snake had struck her shoulder pack when she had lifted it as a shield—the same pack containing the camping shovel I’d ordered her to abandon.

  “You should see a doctor anyway,” I said. By then, she had her clothes on and had started the plane.

  “A psychiatrist, more like it,” she replied, “if we ever come back to this fucking place—without shotguns, at the very least. Oh my god, Hannah . . .”

  “Now what?”

  “Right there! Look at the size of that bastard.” She ruddered the plane around to give me a view out the starboard window.

  A second python had appeared, swimming in pursuit of the wounded snake. This reptile was longer and heavier, with a head the size of a Doberman. I fumbled with my phone and managed a single, blurry photo while Roberta applied throttle, saying, “Screw it. We’re getting the hell out of here.”

  • • •

  Adrenaline can be a stimulant or a depressant. When we were airborne, there was no wild chatter, no nervous laughter. We each settled into ourselves, isolated by residual fear. Through the window, I watched the shadow of our rental plane cross miles of saw grass. It wasn’t until we were ten minutes from landing that I said, “You’ve got to promise me you’ll see a doctor.”

  When wearing headphones, speaking into the stem of a voice-activated microphone, there is always a delay.

  “You, too,” she said. “There’s no telling what kind of germs were in that thing’s mouth. At least let me do a better job of dressing it. We’ll need sterile gauze and medical antiseptic.”

  I said, “Most doctors keep that stuff handy, so how about this? Call when you get a signal and I’ll drive you straight to the closest clinic. With a story like ours, doctors would wait in line. You can have your pick of obstetricians.”

  Roberta realized I knew about her condition. “You’re a smart one. Was it because I was worried about bug spray?”

  “That and your mood swings,” I said, hoping to lighten the mood. “Thank god, I was with a pregnant woman. No one else would be crazy enough to charge into that mess and ask for the loan of my machete.”

  That got a smile, at least. “I just found out—my first trimester. I must’ve snapped.”

  “Snapped?” I said. “You went batshit crazy.”

  Suddenly, we were both laughing as if we really were crazy.

  “Damn right I did,” Roberta said. “Never, ever squeeze a constipated woman with sore boobs—although, who knows, maybe it helped. I haven’t felt a cramp or the need to pee since the damn thing nearly crushed me to death. I’m afraid to check my panties.”

  I roared at that, while she added, “I have a sonogram on Monday, but, yeah, you’re right—we both need to get checked out.”

  Her smile faded. My friend waited through some air traffic garble, staring straight ahead, serious again. “I froze back there. That’s what really happened and I’m embarrassed. The thing wanted to kill me. Crush the life out of me and swallow me—my baby, too. That . . . that filthy sonuvabitch, and it would have if it hadn’t been for you. Hannah”—she glanced over—“there’s something I want to talk about when we get on the ground.”

  We were conversing on an intercom system, so privacy wasn’t the problem.

  “Swear all you want to, I don’t care. After what we just went through?”

  “It’s about my husband.” she said. “And the Spanish oranges. I want to be involved, but I can’t go back there. Ever, ever, ever. He’d go nuts. Python Island, the place should be called.”

  “Constrictor Bay,” I suggested. “No . . . Choking Creek. That’s what it is, a narrow river, because of the way mangroves crowd in, and the mood of the place, that sulfur smell. Didn’t you find it hard to breathe?”

  The look she gave me replied No shit. “You can’t go back, either. Not alone, you can’t. So let’s figure out an alternative. You said you know other places where feral citrus grows?”

  “Islands that used to be farmed,” I said, “all within an easy ride from my dock. But I wouldn’t call them remote—not compared to where we just came from.”

  “Thank god. I’m thinking maybe sour rootstock from the last century would do. All I need are samples, lots of samples, and plenty of good photos, plus some other information. I can teach you how—if you’re willing.”

  “Split up the workload,” I said. “Good idea. You shouldn’t be bouncing around in a boat anyway.”

  My pal from high school gave me an appreciative look. Some of her confidence returned. “What we have to do is, we have to find a couple more feral trees that are resistant to the disease. If they’re resistant. Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t. That’s only the first step, because—well, there are a lot of factors. DNA testing might show there’s a significant difference between . . . Hang on a sec.” She reached, changed radio frequencies, and contacted Immokalee Regional to advise them we were inbound.

  “Call your obstetrician,” I said when she was done. “We’ll talk about it on the way.”

  Choking Creek. The name settled into my head as we landed.

  • • •

  The waiting room at Immokalee Pediatric Clinic was full, but the receptionist hurried us in when she heard our story. Unfortunately, people sitting near the window heard, too. Roberta’s doctor wasn’t on call, so a staff M.D. took her to a separate examining room while a male nurse tended to me.

  “I’ve never seen a python bite,” he said. “You sure it was a python?”

  “Unless you know of another snake that’s fifteen feet long and tries to crush you . . .” I reached for my phone. “I might have a picture.”

  I did. It was a blurry shot framed by the seaplane’s window. The nurse, looking over my shoulder, said, “Holy shit. That looks more like the Loch Ness Monster. They swim with their heads up?”

  “Those trees in the background,” I said,
“are black mangroves or buttonwoods. See how thick the trunks are? That gives you some idea of the size. The snake’s girth, at least. This isn’t the one that bit me. This one’s bigger by about half.”

  “My god. Mind if I see that?” The nurse took the phone and zoomed in, saying, “I weigh a little over two hundred pounds, and this thing could swallow me whole. Did you contact the sheriff’s department or the FWC? You should. A snake that targets people needs to be destroyed. Where, exactly, did it happen?”

  Until then, I had considered the possibility that, by seeking medical help, I might have to reveal the location of my uncle’s secret spot. “East of Marco Island,” I said. “All those islands look the same. It would be hard to say for sure.”

  That seemed to satisfy the nurse. “In the Everglades, yeah,” he said. “I’ve read pythons have killed off just about everything, so I guess we shouldn’t be surprised, huh? You know—surprised they’re going after hikers. Or were you fishing?”

  “Exploring,” I said, switching off my phone. “Our mistake was trying to wade ashore.”

  He changed gloves, lowered a magnifying visor, and focused a lamp on my bicep. “Hmm . . . looks more like a bobcat tried to sink its claws but couldn’t get a good hold. You’re one lucky girl, know that? I’ll numb you up—a debridement brush is no fun, believe me. When’s the last time you had a tetanus shot?”

  Roberta was still with the doctor when I was done, so I decided to wait in my SUV. A woman who looked too old to need a pediatrician followed me out. Gray-haired, dressed for golf in shorts and a yellow blouse. She was animated and chatty, which seemed okay because she did volunteer work as an advocate for migrants who came annually to pick tomatoes, melons, and citrus. “I couldn’t help overhearing what happened,” she said. “A python, of all things. My goodness, that had to be terrifying. What I worry about is children who live on the outskirts. Some parents let them run around wild—or they’re both working and can’t afford child care. How far from here did it happen?”

  The woman was pleasant, articulate in a probing, gossipy way, but she cared about a segment of the population that, for most, remains comfortably invisible. In my eagerness to reassure her, I let my guard down and slipped into an easygoing seesaw of questions and answers. I didn’t realize my mistake until she said, “I sure hope Mrs. Daniels is okay. Was she bitten, too?”

  “You know Roberta?”

  “My husband’s family has been in the citrus business since I don’t know how long. She wouldn’t remember me. My husband—Elmer Lee Ogden is his name—we were both widowed and met only two years ago. Now we split our time between my condo on Marco and his ranch. I have to admit, when he told me Immokalee, I cringed, which only proves how little I knew about Florida. It’s some of the most beautiful country you’ve ever seen. Why don’t you come visit some afternoon?”

  She produced a card. Abigail was her name. We chatted a while longer, then she returned inside to check on a teenage mother she was helping.

  I didn’t mention the woman until Roberta was in my SUV and had assured me she was okay. According to the doctor, there was no need for an emergency sonogram, her Monday appointment would do.

  “Elmer Ogden has the biggest grove south of the Tamiami Trail,” she said. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Did you tell her why we were down there?”

  “No, just that we were exploring. But her husband might wonder why you were involved. I didn’t say exactly where, of course.”

  “That, I would keep secret—but you don’t think we can keep the rest secret, do you? I’m a plant pathologist, not an expert on rootstock. There are at least half a dozen people I’ll need to ask questions or for advice. They won’t know how to help unless I explain myself. And we need to visit some groves before you start collecting. In fact”—she reached for Abigail’s card, which I’d placed on the console—“Mr. Ogden might be a good place to start. He’s a gentleman, very countrified in a sweet way, but don’t let him fool you. You don’t get rich on a thousand acres of cattle and citrus without being smart. He’s stubborn, too—stubborn enough to not cut down his pioneer citrus just because some bureaucrats ordered him to do it.”

  I asked, “Is that true?” I was thinking of another stubborn man, Harney Chatham.

  “It’s what I’m hoping. Every grove in Florida has some sign of psyllid infestation. If there’re pioneer trees on Ogden’s property and they show the same resistance as your grandfather’s citrus, that means something. Healthy feral citrus on an island doesn’t. Not for certain anyway. Could be the insects haven’t found those trees yet.”

  “In central Florida,” I said, “there are a lot of stubborn men and women who come from old-time families. Particularly between Arcadia and Sebring. There are big stretches of wild country, so we might have to rent the plane again. I’ll make a list of names. Is that what you’re thinking?”

  “Interesting,” she said. “It didn’t cross my mind, but I like the idea. Mostly what I’m thinking is, this might be my one chance to make some real money. Enough for a college fund and to pay off the mortgage—maybe even pay off my college loans. I took today as a sick day and I’ve got the weekend off. I want to keep after this thing.”

  “You still owe money for school?”

  She winced in a way that pained me. “Almost a hundred grand to get my Ph.D.—that’s double what I make in a year. Now with the baby coming? It’s wishful thinking, I know, but how many people claim to have a great idea but don’t follow through? We might be on to something, Hannah. I really think there’s a chance. So, yeah . . . visit every old-time grove you can find.”

  In a determined way that was familiar, she added, “We’re already here. Why not call your new friend, Abigail Ogden?”

  I did, but not before saying, “I’ll call everyone I know, but we start tomorrow. First, I need a long shower to get the stink of muck and snakes off me.”

  FOURTEEN

  It had been fifteen days since I’d heard from Kermit Bigalow, and a week since Roberta had exited her sonogram appointment with a smile on her face. A lot had happened, most of it good, so my guard was down, and it seemed okay when, on a windy Sunday morning, Kermit’s name flashed on my phone.

  “Don’t hang up,” he said the instant I answered. “You have no idea how many times I’ve stopped myself from calling, but this is important. And strictly business, so give me a chance. Okay?”

  Rather than start the conversation with a question about him stealing my uncle’s orange tree, I asked, “Did Sarah get her sketchbook?” More than a week ago, I had mailed it, and some other things I thought she might like, to Reggie’s home, with a separate card asking the little chauffeur to pass the package along.

  “She’s about worn out that DVD on manatees. Very sweet of you, and she keeps asking when can we visit again. Or live on a boat instead of in a house. Funny, what sticks in a kid’s mind, huh?”

  Through the windshield of my cabin cruiser, the glass streaked with salt, the bay was a froth of wind and waves. “The weather we’ve had this week might change her mind,” I said. “What sort of business is it you want to discuss, Kermit?”

  “So formal—you’re still mad.” This he said in a gentle way as if hurt.

  “You’ve done what I asked, why would I be? What you’re hearing is, I’m a little late for”—it seemed a pious affectation to reveal my destination, which was church, so I said—“an appointment,” and blamed the wind, which was true. Chapel-By-The-Sea, on Captiva, was only a few miles by boat but more than an hour’s drive by car. It would be another day before the water was calm enough for fishing.

  “Then I’ll get right to it,” he said. “Have you seen Lonnie Chatham yet? I think she’s on her way there now. Or she’ll call you, I’m not sure. But whatever she does, whatever she says, don’t believe her. Can I stop by tonight?”

  “What in the world are you talking about?” I said, openin
g the cabin door. He’d spoken in such a rush, I wasn’t convinced I’d heard him correctly but checked anyway for an unfamiliar car outside Loretta’s house. In the drive was a white SUV—a Lexus, it looked like—which is something a wealthy woman would buy. I went up the steps to the dock with the phone to my ear.

  “Kermit, I can’t talk now. If my mother tangles with Lonnie, she might have another stroke.”

  “Hannah, listen! Her attorneys have locked me out of everything—our house, even my office. My wife’s a mess, and Sarah’s upset, too. It’ll be okay. I’ve already got another job lined up, but . . . Well, I need to tell you about something in person. I’ll see you around sunset, okay? Please. I need your help.” After a long silence, he added, “Hannah . . . Beautiful? Are you still there?”

  That word again.

  I couldn’t think clearly, so replied, “I can’t talk now,” and hung up.

  Getting out of the Lexus was a man wearing a gray suit, with a gray ponytail that hung between shoulders wide enough to suggest he was a weight lifter or a pro wrestler. Not tall, but thick as a bulldozer. A graying Hemingway beard, and a copper bracelet, added to the effect. He stooped, retrieved a briefcase, and started toward the house. Thank god, Loretta was getting dressed, not lounging on the porch.

  “Can I help you?” I called.

  “If you’re Hannah Smith, the fishing guide, yes you can.” He sounded Cuban, which is commonplace in Florida; his voice, a resonate baritone.

  “My number’s easy enough to find if you’re here to talk about a charter,” I said. “As it is, I was just leaving for, uh . . . a place I need to be.”

  His eyes did a slow pan, up and down, taking in my short herringbone jacket, gray blouse, and black skirt. I was barefoot—heels had to wait until I was in my car—but he was polite enough to pretend not to notice. “Myself, I attend early Mass, but twice in one day might do me good—doesn’t matter which church. May I drive you? We can talk on the way.”