Salt River

by Randy Wayne White

  “Beautiful,” Delia said. We were motoring along a prairie of wire grass, as gold as Kansas wheat. Cabbage palms bloomed in the distance. There were shady hillocks that hinted of orchids and Spanish moss. No other boats around, just us in this secluded space where water hyacinth, pink blossoms, and white lilies bobbed in our wake.

  I opened my door for air and signaled for her to do the same.

  “Fisherman call areas like these the hayfields. They catch bass—huge ones. Shad, pickerel, bluegills. I’ve seen gar and bowfins the size of alligators. The whole basin’s a spawning ground. And lots of gators, too, so be careful when you hang off the side. Wait until I give you the word.”

  When the engine was off, she scrambled out, did her business, and climbed back in. “Can we cruise along the shore for a while? This isn’t what I expected. I’ve only seen the lake from the road—all those dikes and pumps, mile after mile. More like it’s a giant holding tank for factories, it always seemed to me.”

  I said it was the same for most people. Even boaters who transited “the ditch” via the Intracoastal saw only the worst parts of Lake O.

  “Let’s get into the backcountry,” I suggested.

  We spent an hour hopscotching around what was once a lobe of inland sea. Harney Pond, the Monkey Box—remote areas known only to locals. Next was Buckhead Ridge, where remnants of the Kissimmee River—another engineered ditch—funneled the collective outfall from dozens of cities to the north. It was a massive area that included Orlando, ninety miles away. With it flowed water, treated and untreated, from septic tanks, citrus, horse and cattle farms, and an explosion of suburbs. These were gated communities and golf courses, mostly. Along the line was also a smattering of trailer parks, where toilets flushed directly into the nearest creek.

  “I guess the lake really is a sort of sewer,” Delia decided. “Parts of it are incredibly pretty, so I don’t know what to . . .” She reconsidered. “Wait, Belle Glades and the cane fields are on the other side. South of us, right?”

  I misunderstood this as a reference to the old maxim that water doesn’t flow uphill. “The sugar companies do some backflushing. How much varies with the source. Some people—a few biologists included—don’t trust the management district’s data, but you’re right. About ninety percent of all water that flows into the lake comes from the Kissimmee Basin north, not the cane fields. Personally, I think Florida would be better off without sugarcane, but, like I told you, it’s complicated.”

  “No, south,” she said. “I mean, that’s where the Army Corps should send the water. South, the way it was before they screwed up the whole damn Everglades. Everyone I know, not just Phil, agrees.”

  “It’s a respiratory process, not a sewer,” I replied. “Like a filtering species. Yeah, the lake’s struggling to keep up, but it’s anything but dead. Polluted? There’s no doubt. And the Army Corps flushes that crap to both coasts, but there’re no easy answers . . . How about we fly south, then you tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Below were cane fields, a thousand square miles. The land was set aside in the 1940s as an “environmental district” that forbade development but allowed farming. Development is still forbidden in what is now called the Everglades Agricultural Area. I climbed to 2,100 feet, safe from the tallest radio towers, and followed Route 27 southeast. It is a rural highway that links Miccosukee and Seminole villages with the urban sprawl of Lauderdale.

  Cane fields—industrial tiles of green—transitioned into sawgrass. The ancient flow of water had carved islands of cypress into amoebic shapes, a cellular progression that ended abruptly where Interstate 595 cleaved into concrete. Designer communities appeared, repetitious spiral enclaves. They linked and joined in genomic patterns that formed an airless crust without horizon.

  Delia repeated the question she had asked twenty miles earlier: Why not send the water south?

  I replied, “Okay. If you’re the Army Corps of Engineers, tell me where you’re going to get a half billion dollars to turn the east–west roads into bridges.”

  Through the Plexiglas door, she could see Alligator Alley beelining westward through sawgrass. It was ninety miles of asphalt, among the world’s longest man-made dikes.

  I said, “If you can’t do that, tell me which communities you’re going to flood. Those Indian villages back there? Or the people below us? Don’t forget that the Tamiami Trail—headquarters of the Miccosukee Nation—is directly south. Before you flood anything, I suggest you talk to Billy Cypress. He’s tribal chairman.”

  I began a slow bank, adding, “One more thing. The ecosystem here has had a hundred years to adapt to our screwups. And the land has adapted. Animal life, too. Sending freshwater south isn’t a new idea. In the nineteen fifties there was an environmental push, so they dug what’s called the Buttonwood Canal. A four-mile ditch that opened the flow of freshwater directly into Florida Bay. The shock to the ecosystem was an environmental disaster. It took people in charge seventeen years to admit they’d screwed up again and they finally plugged the damn thing. No one seems to remember.”

  The girl was taken aback. Then beguiled. She looked over. “Why, Dr. Ford, are you lecturing me? Or taking a shot at Phil?”

  I smiled. “I try to stay neutral. But, yeah, your boyfriend really pissed me off.”

  * * *

  —

  Tomlinson opened the screen door without knocking and came into the lab. “Where’s Delia?”

  It was Sunday afternoon. I wanted to leave Sanibel in a day or two but had some last-minute contract work to finish. “How would I know? Probably at one of Mack’s cottages. Or did she stay at the West Wind last night?”

  “You weren’t with her? I happen to know you spent all day yesterday together flying around Florida, doing god knows what. From my boat, I saw you land, then you both disappeared. Not so much as a wave or stopping by for a beer.” He pulled out a chair and straddled it. “Doc, I think we need to have a serious talk.”

  “Don’t start with me . . .” I said.

  “A perfectly innocent question. What about you landing somewhere in the boonies so Delia could take a whiz? Lake Okeechobee, I heard. Some private, shady spot, no doubt, just the two of you. Mi amigo, that is totally inappropriate.”

  This from a man who in Key West had taken a piss off the bow of No Más in full view of the sunset crowd at Mallory Square. In the past, he had also seduced at least two women I’d been dating and had failed with several more.

  He ogled me for a moment, noting my slacks, collared shirt, and polished shoes. “Whoa, dude! . . . What are you all dressed up for? Taking her for a champagne brunch, I suppose.”

  In a Styrofoam cooler, I’d assembled jars and Ziplocs to take samples from what I’d been told was a suspicious algae bloom bayside on Captiva. I closed the lid, saying, “Just got back from church.”

  My pal chuckled, then sobered. “No, really. Dude, come on, you’re wearing socks.”

  “It’s what people wear to church. You ought to try it sometime . . . I’ve got work to do, okay? Help yourself to a beer—if there’re any left.”

  To emphasize patience, Tomlinson transferred his ponytail from the left shoulder to the right. “I don’t want to get heavy, but you ever think you’d see the day that we, the two of us, couldn’t be honest and—” He leaned in as if in ambush. “Which church? Come on, that’s a simple question straight from the shoulder.”

  “You’ve got a screw loose, you know that?”

  “Doc, a father has an obligation to protect his—”

  “Yeah, a father, parents, have obligations, not a seed vendor.”

  “Oh . . . that’s just gross. You know damn well Delia has a thing for you. Man, I’ve been onto your act for years. Play hard to get, aloof, with all the emotional warmth of a brick. Then lay down the trump card, dress like some MIT nerd
, and girls like Delia come running.”

  I’d had enough. Rather than laugh it off, I did my best to lapse into a moment of serious contemplation. “Okay. You asked for it.”

  “Damn right, I did. Uhh . . . asked for what?”

  “Look, ol’ buddy, this isn’t easy. Delia wanted to be the one to tell you but—” I stopped as if reconsidering. “She should be here. Let’s wait until—”

  The chair toppled over when Tomlinson got to his feet. “You swine, I knew it. You got into her knickers yesterday, didn’t you? Pulled the Let’s land on the lake and go skinny-dipping gambit—”

  “No,” I said, “but we will.”

  “You’ll what?”

  “Have sex—tonight, hopefully.”

  For a second, I thought he was going to punch me.

  “Whoa! Take it easy,” I said. “It’s not what you think. All perfectly respectable.”

  “Bull hockey!”

  “Would you just listen? Well . . . here it is. This morning at church, Delia and I got married.” I held out a warning hand. “Don’t overreact, look on the bright side. Depending on how the women in her family age, you could end up being my grandfather.”

  For a long, smoky moment, he believed me. Part of it anyway. Then his face reddened and he exhaled. “You asshole. Just when I think you’re human, you prove I’m an optimist.”

  I began a laughing jag. It went on for a while.

  “Church,” he grumbled. “Should have known right then you were lying.”

  But it was true. I had boated to Gumbo Limbo and attended Pine Island Episcopal with Hannah and Izaak. It had gone fairly well—until I told her that I had to leave Florida again.

  But this time, I’d suggested, Why don’t you come with me to the Bahamas?

  Hannah’s response: You’re the second person this week to invite me to the islands. Marion, have you been spying on me?

  * * *

  —

  Sanibel and Captiva islands are separated by Roosevelt Channel. It is a tidal swale where the famous Rough Rider had lived on a houseboat while harpooning giant manta rays—the largest sixteen feet wide wing to wing.

  Giant mantas, common on the coast not so long ago, are now rarities. In my mind, as I idled along the bayside shore of Captiva, I assembled a list of local animals based on how often I saw them now compared to two decades ago.

  A game.

  Bobwhite quail—gone. Bard owls, barn owls, and great horned owls—seldom heard. Small-toothed sawfish—uncommon. King snakes—rare. Florida panther—never had I seen one in the wild, let alone on the islands, although I’ve met many who make that claim. Mollusca—angel wings, junonias, whelks, horse conchs, alphabet cones—unchanged. Scallops—fewer. Bobcats, bald eagles, coyotes, swallow-tailed kites—often, depending on the time of year. Bottle-nosed dolphins, manatees, ospreys—daily, unless I was housebound.

  It was a balancing act that provided reassurance until I began to include noxious invasive species. Pythons, noxious toads, and fire ants—probably the most destructive invaders since the arrival of Juan Ponce de León.

  This took the fun out of the game and ended the list.

  Complaints of a new algae bloom kept my eye on the surface. Water clarity in Blind Pass wasn’t bad. It got worse as I motored along Buck Key. A humic turbidity shifted from rust to marl. Then, ahead, I saw why Harbor Branch Oceanographic had hired me to collect last-minute samples. Piled along the shore was an undulating mat of gunk. The stink of decomposition told me what it was even before I killed the engine and got out the sample bags.

  I used a net and gloves. Dipped samples of festering green from the surface. Reached deeper and dredged slime that was anchored to a mucilaginous sheath below.

  A friend of mine, Jeff Bromfield, appeared on a nearby dock. “It’s the same crap all over again,” he said. “Showed up about a week ago. It’s not as bad as it was, but, my gosh, the smell. I thought the red tide was gone.”

  “It’s never gone completely,” I said. “This is something different.”

  “Some kind of algae,” he said. “Think it’s going to get worse?”

  “Some call it that,” I said. “Common usage—blue-green algae—but it’s really a bacteria. Cyanobacteria. Cyan, you know, because of the yellowish green color. The genus is Lyngbya.”

  “Ling as in the fish?”

  “Spelled with a y. No, nothing to do with fish. Well”—I sealed another bag, recorded time, date, and location with a Sharpie—“it can have something to do with fish. Lyngbya produces toxins that are thought to cause a type of tumor in sea turtles. It’s nasty stuff, but the fish here will be fine once this crap blows out.”

  Jeff wanted to discuss what had returned this mess to his door. We talked until my satellite phone buzzed—Leo Alomar, the troubled ex-IRS agent, calling.

  I welcomed this interruption of an unpleasant topic. Along with the recent red tide, Captiva and nearby Cape Coral had also endured a disgusting month dealing with this blue-green algae. It was a separate phenomenon, although easily confused.

  Jeff was well informed. Most residents were unaware of studies that linked the blame directly to their own septic tanks. Their collective rage was reserved for agriculture and Lake Okeechobee.

  FOURTEEN

  On the phone, Leo said, “Ray has a new contact. A rich dude, sort of shady, lives on Sanibel. He’s worked out a deal to have the guy spy on you. You said you wanted a heads-up if I heard something.”

  I had backed my boat away from the Captive shoreline and anchored. Samples of Lyngbya were in the cooler, but I still needed photos and video. That meant getting in the water.

  I tried to sound concerned. “You have a name? Hold on, who told you this? Don’t tell me you contacted Rayvon, because that would just be—”

  “Got the name written down here someplace,” Leo said. “No, the man we saw yesterday. The one with no golf clubs, gave us the finger? He’s the one told me about the guy Ray wants spied on.”

  “Gave you the finger,” I corrected. “You’re the one who almost beaned him.”

  “Whatever . . . He came to the damn house, just now left. I was in the garage, packing. He figured I recognized him yesterday, might as well clear the air. That part I believe. Sort of. Because I did recognize him once I saw his face.”

  The man, Leo explained, had worked aboard the Diamond Cutter as a representative for one of Jimmy Jones’s major investors. An Iraqi via Saudi Arabia. Huge money, international connections.

  “The guy we saw yesterday is rich?”

  “No, works for one of the millionaire investors. I’m trying to give you some background, help you understand who we’re dealing with. These people are dangerous. The Saudi team, is what we called them back in the day. They’ve spent the last two years tracking down every possible lead—hell, torturing people, for all I know. They’re gonna find Jimmy’s stash soon if we don’t move fast.”

  “We?” I said. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Is this the same person Rayvon sent to Sanibel to plant the GPS on my truck? Or is this guy someone new?”

  I expected to hear the alias I’d used, Morris Berg. Instead, Leo explained. No, the guy who flipped us the bird was Ellis Redstreet. He was Australian, an attorney, who had worked for the military overseas. That’s how Ellis had met the Iraqi millionaire.

  “I think him showing up today,” Leo continued, “had more to do with the break-in here and them stealing my shit. He didn’t mention me being robbed. The way he asked about Ray, though, I know damn well they were both involved. Ellis and Ray are the ones who had me check your financials. That was about a month ago. Now, since I lost my job, Ellis is pretending I’m still in on the deal, but that’s bullshit.”

  “Back up,” I said. “He’s an Australian attorney? Which branch of the military was he with overseas?” I was thinking about Hanna
h and her new friend—a man who might be a vacationing Brit.

  “What’s it matter?” A refrigerator opened, ice clinked into a glass. “You and me need to discuss a deal of our own. I say we meet in the Bahamas, split all the coins, bars, whatever you can carry in your plane, before they beat us to it. And they will. Ellis says they have a new lead on Jimmy’s ex-girlfriend. She’s still alive, they think. Ford, come on, stop pretending. At least agree to talk. Maybe I can help you for a change.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that for a couple of reasons. Jimmy’s former girlfriend, Lydia Johnson, was a good person. More than a year ago, I’d helped her and the man she would eventually marry disappear into what they hoped would be happy, anonymous lives. They had adopted a local child. The last I’d heard, they were pregnant with a child of their own.

  Another concern was Hannah. She was still considering my invitation to the Bahamas, but the name of the person who’d already invited her to the islands remained an unknown. I couldn’t put her and the baby in harm’s way if there was trouble.

  I cleared my throat. “You didn’t tell the Australian about what we did to Rayvon yesterday?”

  “Ellis? Of course not. This is all about what I found out. Ellis said there’s a guy who lives on Sanibel—I figured he was talking about you. But no, it’s a new source Ray found to keep an eye on—are you ready for this?—the marine biologist they think knows where Jimmy’s stash is hidden.”

  “But I don’t,” I said.

  “Whatever . . .” Leo replied. “Now that Ellis has a solid lead on Jimmy’s ex, maybe they’ll lose interest. That’s what I’m hoping anyway. Clear the way for us.”

  “Leo,” I said, “there is no ‘us.’ But I do appreciate the heads-up.”

  “Look, Ford”—his breezy manner took on a hint of desperation—“I need to make this work. I’m off the booze, off the oxy, but I’m dead flat broke. For me to have any chance of sharing custody of my girls, I need money for an attorney. You know how it is.”