Seduced

by Randy Wayne White

  I told him, and explained I was driving. Could he give me time to pull off the road so I could concentrate?

  “I’ll keep it short. Are you the person who sent a text around midnight to a man named”—he had to check to refresh his memory—“Kermit Bigalow?”

  “We had a meeting scheduled for this morning,” I said. “I wanted to catch him before he left. Can you tell me what this is about?”

  “Have you spoken to Mr. Bigalow since?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “No.”

  The deputy said, “I’ll call you from another phone if he doesn’t turn up,” and we were done.

  Doesn’t turn up?

  It was fifteen miles to the boat ramp east of the Marco Island Bridge. I spent the time ruminating over what might have happened. Kermit had been home last night when we’d had our lengthy exchange via messages. That was around ten. He’d already read his daughter a story, which meant she was in bed. So why had Sarah cried herself to sleep after I’d texted around midnight?

  I got a sick feeling in my stomach. In my mind, a scenario played out. My text had awakened the wife. She’d gone through Kermit’s phone log and messages. They had argued. Sarah awoke as her father stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

  But his phone . . . Why hadn’t he taken his phone?

  Reggie came into my mind. Then Kermit saying, Suicide, my ass . . . Lonnie had him killed . . . We might be next.

  If not his exact words, the meaning was the same. Lonnie was dangerous. All because of a prenuptial agreement that contained a fidelity clause. And her greed.

  I slowed. My turn signal bounced light over a sign that read Collier Boulevard Boat Park. It was an elongated parking area adjacent to the road, water and mangroves on both sides. Six a.m. on a frigid morning is a poor time to fish. The lot was empty save for an RV at the south end and a van parked close to the ramp. A mile away, the Marco Island Bridge a blazing silver arc. Here, only a few sodium lights provided pools of visibility. I’d hoped to see the white Lexus owned by Sabin Martinez. My disappointment added to the gloom of a frigid winter morning.

  I turned in, parked in the closest slot, and got out to prepare to launch my skiff. The morning air had the sting of alcohol. My fingers numbed while battling ratchet straps. Inside my car, the phone rang again, and I rushed to answer. Heat spilled out when I opened the door. I stood there and warmed my hands as I spoke to the deputy, whose name I finally heard clearly. Arnold Nix.

  He said, “Mrs. Bigalow shouldn’t have called. Sorry about that. But, if you don’t mind, there are a couple of questions I’d like to ask.”

  “Tell me what’s going on,” I said. In the background, I heard the whoosh of a semi passing by and pictured the deputy on a country road, in a patrol car, with the window down.

  “How well do you know Kermit Bigalow?”

  I said, “I know what you’re getting at and you’re wrong: there’s nothing between us but business. Tell me what this is about, maybe I can help.”

  “Did you two have lunch together yesterday?”

  It was a trick question that caused me to remember the barbecue I’d given to Kermit to take home.

  After I’d explained, the deputy said, “You can understand why the guy’s wife is upset. She checks the phone and sees you texting that late at night? It was signed Captain Smith. Some might assume you were trying to hide the fact you’re a woman. You know, in case his wife happened to—”

  I said, “Some might assume they should get their facts straight before making accusations. I’m a fishing guide. Fairly well known, which is easy enough to confirm. I can understand why she jumped to that conclusion. I don’t mean to be rude, but—”

  “Whoa, back up. You’re not the one I read about in Florida Sportsman? The woman guide? You specialize in fly-fishing for tarpon.”

  “Tarpon and anything else. I only use Captain when it pertains to business,” I added, which was a lie.

  “I’ll be darned. I didn’t put it together. You know, because Smith is such a common name. The reason I noticed the article was because of your picture. We’ve met before. Well, sort of met; I shook your hand. About two years ago, you came into the courthouse with Harney Chatham. It was at the hearing after . . . after you—”

  The deputy caught himself before saying shot a man. My guess was, he did so out of respect for Mr. Chatham, who still carried a lot of weight in Sematee County.

  On Collier Boulevard, a pickup with giant tires flew past. Behind me, in the canal, the red-and-green running lights of a boat were noted by my peripheral awareness. Only a mullet fisherman or crabber would be out on a morning so dark and cold. The boat swung toward the seawall; lights blinked out, the engine still running.

  I said, “Deputy Nix, I’m not asking for favors, but I would like to know what’s going on. I’ve had maybe three or four conversations with the—”

  “Hang on,” he said. I heard muffled voices conversing, then he was back. “Sorry. Where were we?”

  “I was talking about Kermit Bigalow. I don’t know him well, but he seems nice enough; and he’s a good father, from what I’ve seen. We’d arranged to meet this morning to discuss—well, actually, look for—a certain kind of citrus tree. I’m sorry his wife’s upset, but I barely know the man.”

  It was another lie that went unchallenged. The deputy saying he didn’t doubt my story, then explained, “Domestic squabbles—that’s how we spend half our time. I think Bigalow and his wife argued about something and he took off because he was mad. Around ten, she called him in as missing, then kept calling. I spotted his truck about an hour ago, and it took her a while to get here with the keys. What probably happened is—”

  “Can I ask you something?” I said. “Where did you find his truck?”

  “Bigalow’s? On a fire trail off Bermont Road. Near the entrance to what Mr. Chatham called his gun club. Do you know the place?”

  “The frontage is all pasture,” I said. “Yeah, I’ve been there, but it doesn’t make sense. Kermit was home at ten last night. Why would his wife say he was missing?”

  The deputy’s friendly manner vanished. “How do you know he was home?”

  “Check his phone; the same text I signed Captain Smith. He mentioned his daughter, that he was home and read her a story every night. His first text came in before ten, I’m fairly certain.”

  “Nope,” the deputy said. “I’ll look again, but all I saw was the one you sent after midnight.”

  “That’s odd. Maybe he deleted the earlier messages.”

  “Maybe he had a reason to delete them. If it was before ten, why were you texting? Most people do business over the phone.”

  The deputy was right. Kermit didn’t want his wife to know, nor did I, but I said, “Find our texts, read them, you’ll understand. Most of it had to do with citrus trees and the chance it might freeze. Or you’re welcome to see my phone. What worries me is—”

  “Hang on,” the deputy said again. The creak of leather suggested he was walking with the phone at his side.

  My peripheral awareness wandered to the boat that had just arrived, engine still running. I couldn’t see the hull, just the elevated helm—no one at the wheel. I’d been so focused, I hadn’t noticed anyone step ashore. I wondered about that until, in my ear, I heard the deputy yell, “Hey! Where you’re shining the light, see it? Doesn’t that look like a boot sticking up? That could be him . . . yeah, by that big-ass bull.” A moment later, another man said something about needing the property owner’s permission or just shoot the damn thing.

  I pressed the phone hard to my cheek and was ready when Deputy Arnold Nix returned. “Don’t hang up!” I said. “What’s going on there? Did you find Kermit?”

  “A detective will call you,” he replied, and was gone.

  I felt dazed. Yesterda
y, on the phone, Kermit had said he might have to hike across the pasture to rescue the orange seeds he’d left behind. This was in the afternoon, shortly after I’d left the greenhouse. Why would he return to the property late last night?

  A couple of plausible answers flitted through my mind—the threat of frost, an argument with his wife. Both made sense. But why had she reported her husband missing at the exact time he and I were exchanging texts?

  It took her a while to get here with the keys, the deputy had told me.

  Two scenarios emerged: Kermit had texted me from his truck, then left without his phone. Or . . . a person posing as Kermit had sent those messages, then deleted them before locking the phone in the truck.

  Who?

  Someone knowledgeable, that’s who. And strong enough—or sufficiently charming—to keep a loving father away from his home.

  Kermit might be dead.

  The word shock accurately describes the electric jolt that radiated from my spine upward. It sharpened my senses and narrowed my focus.

  I did a slow turn. Beside the boat ramp was a van, windows dark. Nearby was what I had assumed was a mullet boat, engine running. No . . . the boat had twin engines, which my ears confirmed. Only the elevated helm was visible. It wasn’t a tower, but this was no guarantee it wasn’t Larry’s over-powered cat boat. Hinged towers can be removed.

  I stepped backwards into my SUV, locked the doors, and removed the pistol from my shoulder pack. It was in an old Galco holster; soft saddle leather designed to be concealed by a jacket or shirt. I slid it onto my belt and positioned it comfortably against the small of my back. As I fitted the pistol into the holster, headlights panned the windows, and a car pulled in beside me.

  A white Lexus SUV.

  Thank god, Sabin Martinez.

  • • •

  As relieved as I was, I waited until Martinez was walking toward me, smiling through his Hemingway beard, before I got out. I held up a warning finger. “We have a problem,” I said.

  “Not if you’re worried about Larry.” He motioned to his car. “Come on. I’m freezing my tail off out here.”

  “It has to do with Kermit Bigalow. Do you know him?”

  “The citrus expert Harney hired about four months ago. Yes, he’s a good man. Harney trusted him. What’s this about?”

  A good and trustworthy man—the words caused me to wince.

  I said, “A deputy just called. Kermit didn’t go home last night. They found his truck near the gun club, off the main road. His wife reported him missing around ten.”

  “That’s not like him.” Martinez, wearing a hooded parka, blew into his hands for warmth. It gave him time to think. “There’s probably a simple explanation, but don’t count on it. First Reggie, now this. It was around ten?”

  “That’s when his wife called the police,” I said, then explained about Kermit’s phone; that maybe I’d exchanged texts with someone else.

  “Damn it . . . I didn’t anticipate him going after anyone but you.”

  “Larry?”

  “That’s one of the names he uses. I left him at the bar last night around seven. Everything was all set, I thought. In fact, I was sure of it until just now.”

  I nodded toward the seawall. “That might be his boat. I didn’t see him, but he could be behind that van, for all we know.”

  Martinez shook his head in a dismissive way, which freed his gray ponytail from the hood. “Impossible.”

  “How can you be so sure? You believe he has something to do with Kermit disappearing. Maybe Reggie, too. You just said as much. There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  A sharp look reminded me that questions were not welcomed. “You don’t want to know, Hannah. Just take my word for it.” He blew into his hands again, and found the eastern sky. “The sun won’t be up for half an hour. How about we sit in my car, with some heat, while we talk?”

  “The place I’m headed,” I said, “I need to trust the person with me. I’ll leave you here, Mr. Martinez. I’d hate to do it, but I will if you don’t tell me the rest.”

  “My, my . . . Captain Hannah,” he said in a musing way as if thinking back to his days with Harney Chatham. “Okay. Yes, I think Larry got his hands on Reggie. Maybe Kermit, too. Larry’s real name—you wouldn’t recognize it—but, years ago, Lonnie had a thing for him. Lonnie had a thing for a lot of football stars. This guy—Larry—he’s the only one she cared enough about to help after he’d killed somebody. It’s a long story. Point is, you don’t have to worry about him anymore.”

  I remembered Birdy say she had found zero information about the man prior to his twenty-fifth birthday. “Good Lord . . . Larry . . . he’s actually Raymond Caldwell,” I said. “That never crossed my mind.”

  “Reggie must’ve told you about what happened,” Martinez said. “No one else could have. Well . . . Lonnie, of course, but she wouldn’t. She’s paying him to screw up the project because she hates you and your mother—wants the orange tree patent, and everything else.” As he spoke, a pair of rough-looking teens appeared from behind the van. They wore yellow rubber coveralls, as commercial fishermen often do, over layers and layers of clothing. They stopped to light cigarettes, then got into a boat whose name I didn’t recognize when they pushed off.

  Now Martinez’s expression asked, Convinced?

  “Orange trees can wait,” I said. “If you’ve got proof that Larry has something to do with Kermit, or what happened to Reggie, you have to call the police.”

  “That would be unwise.”

  “We’ve got to! Kermit might still be alive.” I said this with more emotion than intended. It did not go unnoticed.

  The man repositioned his ponytail while studying me. “You and Kermit, yes . . . I can see that happening. A strong guy with a sense of humor. You’d be a good match, you two. But there’s nothing we can do now. Besides, I told you, I was in a bar with Larry last night. People saw us together. He’s a talker. He might have told someone I booked his boat for this morning.”

  “You didn’t. You chartered Larry’s boat?”

  “Buddy Luck,” Martinez said, nodding. “Tell you what, if you won’t get in my car, how about we sit in yours—at least until there’s enough light to check for frostbite.”

  He started toward my SUV but stopped when he realized I hadn’t followed. “Look . . . Caldwell disappeared years ago. He’s presumed dead. Forget ever hearing this, but he might disappear again”—Martinez considered the sky, then his watch—“if he shows up for our charter on time.”

  “Where are you supposed to meet?”

  Off Cape Romano, the man informed me. It was an uninhabited island to the south. “In about an hour,” he added. “Seven-thirty, give or take. The guy’s not very punctual.”

  There wasn’t much light. I moved just enough to observe his reaction, before saying, “You’re using me as bait, aren’t you?”

  If he lied, I would leave him there and drive home. No . . . I would go straight to Salt Creek Gun Club, seeking the fate of a good man I had wrongly treated with suspicion.

  Martinez, reading me, too, said, “Yes . . . exactly. As bait. Why else would I stand out here trying to reason with a woman I promised to protect?”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Sunrise was a gray intrusion, slower for the frigid weight of darkness and stars. I stopped south of the Coon Key light to let my face thaw and watched a gloom of silhouettes brighten into islands. Already, we’d stopped twice because of the cold.

  “I should’ve asked before we left,” Martinez said. “Did you bring a gun? In my glove box, there’s a Glock compact. I went off and forgot the darn thing.”

  “Someone like you,” I said, “I figured you always carried a gun.”

  He sensed this was another test. Maybe it was.

  “Never admit you’re carrying,” he said, but patted his hip to
confirm he was. “I brought that Glock along for you. We should both be armed. I don’t care how cold it is—and it’s pretty blessed damn cold—your story about those pythons scares me.”

  At the boat ramp, we’d sat talking in my SUV for half an hour, the heater on high. Some of what he’d shared I’d found truly shocking, but Sabin Martinez had yet to give me a reason to doubt his good intentions. Even so, I was reluctant to answer honestly about the pistol holstered at the small of my back. I’m not sure why—particularly after ruining my chance to trust Kermit, a man who actually believed me to be beautiful.

  “In there”—I pointed to the duffel bag stowed forward—“I’ve got an old sawed-off double-barrel, probably too short to be legal. I don’t know if the shells are any good or not.”

  “Twelve-gauge? That’s what I should’ve brought. We can test-fire the thing, if you want. There’s no one around.”

  That was certainly true. I asked, “What time is it?” Behind us, Marco Island was a bluff of lighted condos. To the southwest, a navigation marker flashed off Cape Romano, a lonely intersection of sand and space. “I don’t see any boats—none that’re on fire anyway. Did Larry say where he was putting in?”

  “I never said anything about his boat catching fire.”

  No, he hadn’t. But Martinez had described how he had shorted out a voltage regulator on one of Luckheim’s motors. He’d also caused a pinhole leak in a hose that fed the carburetors.

  “You knew what would happen or you wouldn’t have done it,” I said.

  “Don’t expect an answer to that one,” the man replied, taking off his gloves. “So what? Caldwell, why do you think he agreed to be here? Just you and him, that’s what he expects. It’s because he plans to kill you. That wasn’t clear? Not kill you right away, of course. He’ll want to have some fun first. You researched the man. You should know.” His head turned to face me; eyes so dark, they reflected light. “Lonnie might enjoy that sort of sick, kinky business. In fact, I’m quite sure she does. But not you.”