I did as he said; dropped the machete, then reached behind me as if for the glove. Then, as if isolated in a tunnel, I watched the man’s expression change when my hand reappeared holding a silver 9mm pistol, not his useless black Beretta.
Caldwell, startled by the suddenness of it all, stumbled back and pulled one of the shotgun’s twin triggers.
CLICK! The gun didn’t go off—a failure to fire, not a misfire.
I took aim, my knees bent slightly, right leg back: the Weaver stance had been comfortable at the gun range. Automatically, I squared myself for balance. With both hands on the grips, a push-and-pull adjustment steadied the pistol. Beyond the front sight, the man with the Hemingway beard pointed the shotgun at my face and tried again.
CLICK! Another failure to fire.
Caldwell’s eyes widened as I advanced toward him; a touch of wild panic there that reminded me of Lonnie Chatham’s rearing horse. Larry hollered, “Shit!” turned, ran . . . tripped and sprawled forward on his face. My left eye tracked him over the barrel when he got up; my index finger, light on the trigger, but not light enough because of adrenaline pumping through me.
BAAP! The pistol jumped in my hands, startlingly loud. I hadn’t meant to fire; could not bring myself to shoot a fleeing man, which is why I’d aimed above his head.
Larry looked back in shock, his skin paler beneath streaks of soot. After an instant of indecision, he bolted away, his progress through the brush similar to the noise an elephant might make.
The pistol’s front sight was an iridescent white dot. It pivoted toward Raymond Caldwell’s forehead, then located center mass on his chest. I watched him snap open the shotgun, stare up at me, then look again in disbelief at the gun’s two empty chambers.
“You . . . bitch,” he said.
“An unarmed dumbass shouldn’t call names,” I replied. “The shells are in my pocket, Raymond. I did it while you were tying your boots.” The pistol’s front sight led me forward—slow, measured steps to keep the barrel from bouncing. “Run, if you want. I’ll aim for your legs, and finish up after I’ve asked you a couple of things.”
“You don’t have the nerve.”
I stopped and took aim.
“Hey . . . whoa, now. Ask me anything. That’s what I’d prefer to do . . . yeah, talk this over.” He tossed the shotgun on the ground; his big hands came up in partial surrender. “I wouldn’t’ve shot you. You know that. What? Face a murder charge?”
“Another murder charge,” I corrected him. “You would’ve done something worse. That never crossed your mind, did it? How scared those girls were. How scared they’d always be, the ones you let live. How many were there, Raymond? You never did answer the question.”
He began to back away. “What’s that matter to you?”
“Let’s pretend it does. I’m waiting for a number.”
Something in my tone, or my eyes, spooked him. “Uh . . . none. Really. None that weren’t willing after the first few minutes anyway, and that’s the truth. I can’t help they got scared later. Seriously, what Lonnie told you was the truth. I didn’t attack her, I saved her. Come on, Hannah, calm down.” Using my name to remind me of the friendliness we had shared. Then raised a valid point, saying, “You know where Larry will head, don’t you? Your boat. Hear him? He’s looking for it right now.”
In a peripheral way, I’d been tracking the bass pro through the woods. A huge man whose freakish quickness didn’t mitigate the noise he made. It was true. Someone with Okeechobee experience might find the trail I’d blazed and follow it to my boat.
“What will we do if he goes off and leaves us? It’s getting late”—Caldwell turned his wrist for me to see—“it’s already eleven, almost. Tell you what. In my coat pocket, you’ll find the Beretta’s slide spring. The gun’s all yours. But if that asshole tries to jump us, I’m willing to take your side if—”
I let the man talk. Made a show of my cold anger by finding the shovel and flinging it so hard that, had he not ducked, it would’ve clanked off his head.
“Start digging,” I said.
“What?”
“A hole. It doesn’t have to be deep. I’m your last victim. I already told you that.”
The threat was a ruse but produced the reaction I’d hoped for. “Jesus Christ, you wouldn’t . . . Okay, okay—how about this? Lonnie and I, we’ve already invested ten grand in your project. How does another half mil sound? In cash. No one has to—”
“Using Mr. Chatham’s money, of course. Now you’re trying to bribe me?”
“Hold on . . . just think about it. In my back pocket, there’s a pair of handcuffs. I’ll let you handcuff me. I promise, no funny business. We can talk this out on the way back to Marco.”
Handcuffs? He’d brought them to use on me, no doubt.
I walked toward him and stopped seven paces away—a safe distance, but close enough I couldn’t miss. “You were right about warning shots, Raymond. I’ll never waste another. Are you ready to cooperate?”
Pathetic, the way he nodded.
• • •
I left Caldwell there—him with his big hairy chest and ponytail, wearing only white boxers and a copper bracelet—but took the shotgun, the machete, his boots, and the handcuffs with me.
On a briar patch island such as this, it was worse to be barefoot than hobbled.
The boots were heavy. Caldwell was far behind but still pleading for me to reconsider when I tossed one into the bushes.
The other boot, after dealing with some guilt, I left in plain sight near the trail I’d blazed.
Maybe he would find it.
That was up to him, a man who had helped murder Sarah’s father.
The other killer was still out there, but I had no idea where. I could no longer hear Larry crashing through the brush. Unless something had happened to him, silence suggested he was moving with intent.
Had he found my boat?
I hurried on, and didn’t slow until I got to the mangroves. Cautiously, then, I worked my way over rubbery, knee-high roots and under limbs one quiet step at a time.
Patches of water appeared through the foliage, then a wedge of my skiff’s gleaming white deck.
I stopped; my breath caught. Something foreign was on the deck, an object that didn’t belong and hadn’t been there thirty minutes ago.
A few steps closer broadened the waterscape. Not an object—an appendage, it looked like—the bloated, hairless leg of a man with very dark skin . . . or skin that had been charred by fire.
If it was Larry, why had he removed his pants? And why was only one huge thigh visible? No, couldn’t be. It was much too large to be a human leg.
Another quiet step, then another, I moved with the pistol ready. I watched hairless flesh expand to the thickness of a telephone pole, then slowly, slowly contract.
I knew then what had happened: a snake had found the only large flat rock available and was warming itself beneath the noon-bound sun.
The monster python.
Had to be . . . unless more than one monster existed here.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Twice I started toward my skiff but lost my nerve, and walked numbly inland. Stood in the ficus gloom, trying to ignore the baritone boom of Caldwell’s pleas echoing across the island. If I heard him, so did Larry . . . and so did every stirring creature for miles.
If the men reunited, I would become less of a threat. They would arm themselves with whatever they could find, then attack, or create a diversion, to draw me away from their true objective: my boat. There was no other way out of an area where muck was too deep to support human weight and water too shallow to swim. Never mind the reptiles that had feasted themselves into famine. Alligators, snakes, and saltwater crocs were all that was left here. Now apex survivors had only themselves to prey upon, but the sun would soon awaken their sensory organs to the scent of a new f
ood source: mammals; three oddities that walked on slow hind legs.
The fact was, we were all trapped. Reptiles included.
I took out my phone in the pointless hope a transmitter on Marco had doubled its range. The GPS triangulated enough satellites to show my position, but this was not a satellite phone.
I put it away, and listened to Caldwell’s pleas become threats.
“Hey . . . Hey! I know you hear me. My feet; I’m bleeding. I can’t walk. Hear me? I CAN’T WALK. At least bring back my boots. Hannah! Goddamn it! Let’s discuss this like adults or, I swear to Christ, I’ll find you and cut off your . . .”
I ignored the rest but understood what I had to do. Seeking shelter on the island was no safer than confronting, maybe killing, the snake that had commandeered my boat.
I tightened my gloves, retraced my steps, and, like a child on tiptoes, stepped clear of the mangroves. Water seeped in and numbed my toes while I waited for the python’s reaction. There was none.
I returned to shore; left the machete hanging with my shoulder pack and holstered the pistol in favor of the shotgun, which I loaded. To stumble and lose my only dependable weapon was unthinkable. Also, two barrels of buckshot had a better chance of taking off a snake’s head—if the antique shells fired. If they didn’t, the pistol was there at my side.
When I was ready, I moved along the bank to avoid sinking in muck. Slid closer and closer until I had a full view of what I was dealing with.
What awaited made me want to cry.
The bulk of the python lay out of sight on the floor of the boat, but a six-foot tail section spilled onto the stern. This suggested the reptile had entered via the transom. Looped like fire hose over the forward casting deck was a much longer segment. I’d mistaken a piece of it for a human thigh, despite its massive girth and its buckskin-on-black scales.
Where was the snake’s head? That was the question; potentially, a life-or-death question. I couldn’t see it from where I stood. Not sufficient elevation. I would have to wade close enough to look down into my skiff. Only then might I find a vulnerable target to shoot.
Fear streamed a scenario to consider: peering up, when I poked my chin over the gunnel, was the snake, already alerted by its radar tongue. The fangs-on-bone crunch when Roberta was struck echoed within me until I winced.
Another possibility: the snake’s head would be near the motor, or the console wiring, or over the fuel tank. Some component impossible to repair. Pull the trigger, I might be left with a boat that wouldn’t start and a two-hundred-pound snake that was still alive, and agitated.
Caldwell’s baritone rage offered guidance from far away. “Buddy . . . Buddy Luck! Hey, man, can you hear me? Goddamn it, find that crazy woman. Hear me, Buddy? KILL HER . . . TAKE THE BOAT.”
Buddy Luck . . .
There was no alternative. I was dealing with two killers who clung to the pretense of their own fake names. I had to be bold or forfeit a chance to take control. Yet my feet would not move without conjuring positive hopes.
Overhead, the sun glittered in a high, blue sky, but the breeze retained an icy edge. Pythons didn’t function well if the thermometer dropped below fifty. Twenty degrees colder—even ten—they had to regulate body heat by coiling or seeking shelter. Thermoregulation, it was called.
Or was it a process known as brumation?
I was so nervous, I couldn’t remember what I’d read. Some of the data conflicted, or was undependable, because exotic reptiles had found ways to adapt. Surviving the cold required behavioral changes. The same with ambush techniques—they had to adjust to the habits of their prey. Nature was shrewd. Nature was relentless.
One example: a tree growing parallel to the ground, by shooting branches skyward, had produced an exotic fruit for an unknown span of generations.
All I knew for certain was, the day wasn’t getting any colder. Factoring windchill, I guessed the temp to be low fifties. The sluggish snake I’d killed earlier gave me confidence enough to think: Stop wasting time, take back what is yours.
Courage forged from necessity is a tenuous, untested ally. But it was all I had.
I continued along the bank, my skiff tethered fore and aft like a hammock that cupped a sleeping giant. Separating us was an awning of mangroves. Too noisy to push my way through, so I ventured into deeper water. Not far, only up to my knees. I knew better than to trust the spongy bottom, yet it seemed the safest way. I slid along as if on tiptoe, closer and closer, focusing on the snake’s tail.
The reptile had yet to stir.
The footing was iffy. My thighs pushed a mild wake. When I was too far from shore to turn back, the boat began to rock imperceptibly, yet I could not stop. The bottom might collapse beneath my feet. In slow motion, I shouldered the shotgun.
Five yards separated us, close enough that my nose scented a reptilian, uric musk. Yet, the sun pushed me onward, step by careful step, and soon banged the boat’s hull with my shadow.
The python moved. On the forward deck was a massive-bellied loop of scales. I watched it contract abruptly, as if holding its breath; an ambush technique, possibly, to lure me closer. Playing possum was one of nature’s most effective tricks.
I freed my left hand from the shotgun, and was reaching for the boat’s transom, when a distant crash of foliage caused me to freeze. Larry—it has to be Larry, I thought. An intentional diversion.
I turned to look.
Turning was a mistake. My right foot sheared through the crust and was immediately suctioned deeper into muck. I struggled to recover, then vaulted forward because my foot was anchored. The shotgun nearly flew out of my hands as I went down and under. After much splashing and kicking, I surfaced and immediately panicked. The snake could not possibly sleep through so much noise. I clawed and stumbled my way toward shore, afraid to look around because I knew—I knew—the python would be sailing toward me, head high above the water like a dragon from a nightmare.
I was wrong. Didn’t realize it, though, until I tripped again and landed on my butt in the shallows, facing the boat. My eyes zoomed in: the snake lay in glistening, docile segments. Its tail had become my warning flag, yet not so much as a twitch.
The reptile wasn’t dead and it wasn’t playing possum; I’d witnessed the billows-like contractions of its breathing. The python was hypothermic: not dead but only in a lethargic sleep until its body warmed.
As an experiment, I kicked the water a few times, then freed the bowline from the trees and let the skiff swing. I thumped the bow with the rope. No response. I did it again, as if cracking a whip. This created an animated seesaw motion that unseated the snake’s belly section from the casting deck. Like a loop of overstuffed sausage, it fell as deadweight, vanishing from view.
I paused to think while I snapped the shotgun open and checked the breech. The shells, made of brass and paper, were soaked. They couldn’t be trusted. The only option this left me was as dreadful as it was unavoidable.
Carrying just a pistol, I would have to get close enough to fire a round point-blank in the snake’s head. If that couldn’t be done without disabling my boat, I would have to climb aboard to find a safer angle. If there was no safer angle, I would have to . . .
Dreadful did not describe what would come next: with the snake sleeping at my feet, I’d have to drive at high speed and use a series of slalom turns to vault the reptile overboard. Or flood the hull, let the snake’s buoyancy float it out . . . Or rocket away after looping the anchor line around the snake’s midsection.
All scenarios were workable but terrifying.
It came to me then: a better solution. Why had I not thought of it immediately?
The machete.
Of course! I’d already used it to dispatch two pythons. All I had to do was sneak up on the creature and cut off its head while it slept. If it took several swings, that was okay. The blade wouldn’t do ser
ious damage to my boat. Even the snake would benefit. Swing the machete hard and true, it would all be over before its reptilian brain sensed danger.
There was no need to retie the boat. I dropped the bowline in the water and hurried into the mangroves. I’d left the machete hanging on a tree with my shoulder pack, but which tree? I couldn’t find it. Water had obliterated my tracks. I searched along the outer fringe, then returned to the area where I believed it should be. No luck. Trouble was, I’d been in such a frazzled state, I hadn’t marked the spot. Here, in the tangled shadows, all limbs blended.
I wandered deeper, zigzagging, until a sickening possibility knotted my stomach. I stopped, listened to a gust of wind crackle through the trees. Only then did I admit what my subconscious knew was true: I hadn’t lost my pack and machete. They’d been stolen.
Larry Luckheim had found me. He’d been watching from the shadows, or, possibly, had just now stumbled upon my things.
Either way, his next move would be to steal my boat.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I drew the pistol and backtracked as fast as I could go, vaulting roots, ducking limbs. When the water came into view, I slowed before exiting the mangrove fringe—and was knocked sideways by a blinding impact.
When I looked up, Larry towered over me, his charred face grotesque beneath the silhouette of a machete that was poised to strike. Only one long bar of his mustache remained. The effect was surreal.
“The boat key?” he yelled. “Where is it?”
I scrambled backwards, and said, “In the boat!” because I was too dazed to invent a lie.
“Show me your hands! I’ll cut your head off, damn you. Where’s that gun? Pull your gun, I’ll do it.”
There was a panicked edge to his insanity. He was as scared as me, I realized, scared I’d shoot him, but it was more than that. Kill me now, he was doomed if I was lying about the key. Police would link him to my murder—if a snake didn’t get him first.
I extended my hands, palms out, to prove they were empty. “Take it easy . . . I’m lying on it. There’s a holster on the back of my belt where—”
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