Myles was unpacking when Dominick arrived. Fortunately, when the lab was first built, Myles had the foresight to have living quarters installed, somewhat spartan, but bearable. He had built it, ostensibly as an additional domicile for turtle overflow from the rescue center. It was well hidden inside the State Park to discourage visitors and the turds who liked to steal turtle eggs. In fact, that was the reason he had been able to build it there and with so little fanfare. The lab itself was separate and concealed from the turtle area so that visiting dignitaries did not become too nosy.
Dominick was not pleased. Myles did not care. He was still overwrought and while he appeared to have been sitting calmly, his mind was working at warp speed. Dominick wandered around the room nosing at everything. “Okay Myles, what’s the big deal? You shouldn’t drag me out here at the slightest little problem. We agreed the less traffic out here the better, especially at night. This is a state park after all, even if you do have your own separate entrance.”
Myles narrowed his eyes, his dislike evident. In his opinion Dominick was brash, uncouth, greedy and grasping. He disliked everything about him. Yet Dominick was a successful, if not yet rich, lawyer and brilliant in his own way. Myles needed him to broker the sale of his formula. It was an uneasy partnership. Each needed the other and each despised the other. Necessity made strange bedfellows. “I told you. Sophie’s brother. You have got to get him off my back. He’s way too nosy by far and we are so close.”
Dominick finished poking around and went to the refrigerator looking for something to drink. “We didn’t anticipate that, I agree, but what can he do? The police have closed the file. They listed it accidental death. The funeral’s over. There are no loose ends. By the way, did you sign those papers I sent over earlier?”
Irritated, Myles started pacing. “What papers? I didn’t get any.”
Dominick sighed. “Well if you’d just stay in one place, maybe we might accomplish something. The divorce, you remember? I need those documents in court tomorrow. Do you know if Alicia got the news about the final hearing?”
Grimacing, Myles pivoted around. “Oh yes. She was delighted to throw that in my face. That’s one reason I’m here. She’s deeded the turtle center over to the State. Once they take over they’ll want this place too. She threw me out of the house you know?” Myles scowled at the memory of his wife’s evident satisfaction. He turned, indicating his half-unpacked bags. “I’ve moved in here. You are the only person who knows I’m here. I’ve already given the Center a cover story, told them I had been called on assignment and would be gone for a month or so and told them the place has been emptied for repairs until further notice. Dominick had found a Pepsi. He settled in the one comfortable chair, not offering Myles one of his own drinks and waved the bottle around at the room. “Oh. So that’s the reason you put up blackout paper.” He was silent for a while, watching Myles while he thought it over. Finally he nodded. “That should work. Alicia won’t want to know where you are. The divorce will be final. The Center won’t miss you and you can devote full time to finalizing the formula. How much time do you need?”
Myles shrugged petulantly. “It’s not like writing a legal brief you know, I can't have a paralegal do it, but I’m close. Very close. I’ll keep you posted. In the meantime you get rid of that macho asshole. He’s the one person that could screw us up.”
Dominick ignored the insult. “Yeah, you’re right. Okay. I’ll figure out something to keep him out of the loop. I did an okay job with the Indian didn’t I? He’s so busy cleaning up from vandals he doesn’t have time for much else. Now. Let’s look at what you’ve got so far.”
The two men pulled their chairs close and got down to business.
Fourteen
Chase was up early from long habit. There was a message on his answering machine from Pat. The Indian had stopped in and was willing to meet Chase. He’d be at the Loxahatchee Wildlife Center around three p.m. Damn. That could interfere with Chase’s dinner date but he supposed it couldn’t be helped.
Chase spent an arduous morning going through the file cabinet. It was a chore he had been putting off, notifying the paper trail left by Sophie that his sister was no more. Snuffed out in an instant. Gone like she had never been. Never strong on paperwork or sitting still, Chase struggled to get through it. Brought down by grief again he took frequent breaks, walking round the garden or playing with Jake. About a gallon of coffee later he finally threw down his pen and stretched. Thank god that was done. Time to meet the Indian.
Chase arrived at the wildlife center early and parked the bike in front of the visitor's center, making sure it was in full view of the huge window. Judging by the empty lot, he did not have much company, one minivan, a jeep and a couple of trucks. Inside, he slid the receptionist ten bucks to keep an eye on the bike, bought his entrance ticket and refused a guide.
No one was around when he started out the back door and along the deck walkway that stretched across a vast expanse of brackish water, which eventually curved out of sight. Chase hadn’t been here more than once or twice, but each time, that step from the back door brought instant surprise.
Immediately, the scenery changed. No golf club green here. Everything merged into a monotone muddy gray-green, from the airplants hanging from the trees like dead tribbles to the sparse hammocks of sawgrass protruding at intervals from the murky water. The sun and the effort of survival had leached all color from the vegetation, accentuating the gloom caused by overcrowded trees competing for space.
Ahead of him a young couple were pointing out things to their toddler. Chase wondered at the safety of the place. The deck was only a couple of inches above the water and there were no side rails. Once, at an upstate alligator farm, he'd seen a New Guinea croc eighteen feet long that weighed two thousand pounds. He didn't know if Florida alligators ever got as big as crocs, but he knew they got pretty big and they could move real fast and they’d as soon grab a child as a dog, especially if people had been feeding them. That was the trouble, people tended to think nothing was real any more. The world according to Disney. He quickened his step, leaving the young family behind.
Soon he was alone and slowed his stride. He spied an old log just off the boardwalk and settled down on it for a smoke, enjoying the solitude. Further off to his right, mangrove trees crowded thickly against one another, their roots scrabbling in the water like the arms of an old crone clawing for a hold, long spindly fingers spread wide and grasping. Here in the tourist area, the place was like a plant metropolis, each species vying for space so desperately that its shape was formed by the action of survival. There were some magnificent ferns spreading thickly through the trees and traveler’s palms pushing up, tall and symmetrical, like giant fans, amidst the scrub; even an occasional wild orchid clung high to a tree branch, though there were none blooming to disturb the monotone scenery.
He sat quietly but saw no wildlife and heard nothing but the water swirling sluggishly along, not even the young family farther back. The swamp had muffled him with a blanket of thick, moist air. Now he could discern the occasional plopping of fish and hear the frogs calling. He felt lulled by the stillness. No, that wasn’t it - timeless, he felt timeless. He was a time traveler in the Lost World.
Movement at the edge of his vision intruded into Chase’s reverie and reluctantly he turned. At first he saw nothing, then gradually his eyes picked out the difference in shades between the vegetation and the knobby brown bump floating on the surface below him.
“Yokche is hungry early today.”
The voice came from a few feet away. Chase squinted without moving a muscle. The Indian was lounging against an areca palm nearby, its feathery fronds partially obscuring him. He had spoken softly, yet his voice had carried clearly. He was tall and lean, his black hair straight, reaching below his shoulders. Not your typical Seminole. Except for the jeans and denim shirt, he looked like one of those young warriors portrayed in
statues by the better Native American artists in the west. Navajo, maybe.
Chase appraised him carefully from behind his sunglasses, “Yokche?”
“He's a snapper, a big one from the looks of him and they are very aggressive. One that size is capable of taking off a finger or toe with one bite. Our meeting is fortunate, brother of Sophie, the Yokche is the living symbol of my clan.”
Chase smiled and held up his hands. “Okay, I give up, call off your attack turtle, wild man.”
The Indian straightened up and held out his hand. “The name is Joe. Bit of a let down after all that isn't it? I'll give you my Indian name if you want to twist your tongue around it.”
Chase grinned. “No thanks. Joe will do just fine.”
“Come, this place is too public to talk.” Joe shrugged into his jacket, the traditional brightly-colored patchwork of the Seminoles, and stepped off the pathway, striding away with lithe grace. Chase followed. He assumed the jacket was for his benefit and was mildly insulted. It seemed the Indian had a low opinion of white folks and thought Chase would not be able to keep up. Chase was glad he had brought the bike and was wearing boots, not that he relished getting them wet, but rather that than snakebite. He had shot a couple of moccasins in his time and knew they were pretty common around here. He stepped carefully in Joe's footsteps, noting that the Indian unerringly stepped in the dry spots. Joe set a fast pace, loping along in a gait that seemed deceptively easy.
They hadn't gone too far when Joe stopped. An airboat had been concealed under some vegetation, completely invisible from even a short distance. As soon as Chase climbed aboard, Joe started the engine and swung away, the noise setting off a cacophony of bird screeches. Within a short distance they were totally isolated and the swamp closed in around them.
Chase hoped Joe was friendly. People got easily lost in the Everglades; you didn’t come in here alone and get back out again. Chase also hoped they got back while the preserve was still open so no one stole his bike, but that was out of his control, so he relaxed and kept an eye out for gators. He was not greenhorn enough to bother swatting at the dinosaur-sized skeeters, which were busy sucking on every inch of exposed skin. Swamp angels, the old timers called them.
The Indian didn’t bother with small talk and Chase didn’t break the silence, refusing to give the other man any satisfaction by asking where they were going. Before long, Joe swung the boat into what looked like a solid mass of mangroves but turned out to be a narrow channel. Further up a shell mound protruded, providing a small island, probably built by Joe’s ancestors when they threw away oyster shells or other shells from their fishing catch. It had a small beach area, and a chickee, the traditional Seminole home thatched with palmetto fronds, stood in the center.
They jumped ashore and while Joe saw to the boat, Chase prowled around checking for anything bigger than snakes and the like. He wondered if there were any panther left in this area. He knew some bear and coyote were still around in parts of Florida, although scarce. This would be an ideal place to rid yourself of unwanted company. The hut reassured Chase. That meant it was a friendly meeting. When Chase returned from his prowl, Joe had lit a barbecue and came out of the hut carrying two steaks and a bottle of Jack Daniels. Chase was surprised, given the Indian’s barely concealed hostility.
“Make yourself useful and get the beans and corn, will you? I’ve had enough frog legs for a while.”
Again with the sarcasm, Chase thought. Nevertheless, he wandered into the hut. Inside, Chase saw that the Indian lacked none of the modern conveniences. It was evidently a study station of some kind, complete with portable electronics. He remembered that Joe was a scientist of some kind – hydro geologist, that was it. He even had camp chairs, by God.
“Hey.” Chase called from inside the hut. “Since you’ve kidnapped me, have you got a phone in this excuse for a teepee? You’re messing up my date tonight.”
Joe was affronted. “A phone man? Don’t’ tell me you are one of those white men. I feed people with cell phones to the swamp monsters.”
Shit. Chase hated to screw up his date. “How about smoke signals?”
“Wrong tribe.”
Chase sighed and settled for the Jack Daniels. He raised an eyebrow at Joe when he realized it was Gentlemen Jack.
Joe shrugged. “Sophie told me.” They chatted warily while the food cooked and Joe told him there were still bear further north but he hadn't seen any lately. He did spot panther now and again though. Eventually, the two men settled into an easy camaraderie. They were both men with one foot in civilization and one foot out and Chase seemed to have finally passed some kind of test. He approved Sophie's taste. He approved even more after the meal when Joe poured another glass of Jack and produced two good cigars. Chase lounged comfortably in his camp chair with his feet on an old crate, smoking contentedly.
“Great meal Joe, what was it?”
“Deer.”
“Incredible. Whenever I've had venison it's been as tough as leather.”
“Look at the cook, Kimosabe. You just need the right animal, the right cut and the right marinade.”
“And I thought you guys lived on fry bread. If everyone knew how well you really lived they'd be trampling through the swamp like a horde of elephants.”
“Precisely, and that brings us to business, my friend.” Joe grew somber and very obviously sincere as he expressed his sorrow at Sophie's death. It was evident that the two of them had been very close. He was also very evidently angry.
Chase came out of his slouch and got down to business. “Not that this hasn't been very entertaining, Joe, but why did you drag me all the way out here, aside from the fact that this is obviously not a place where white people are encouraged and we're total strangers?”
“That’s why. I don’t have much time for white folk as a rule and I wanted to know who I was dealing with. We Indians have autonomy here. If one of us is caught stealing he may well be shot. Our punishments do not involve the short comfy jail sentences that the whites are so fond of. I wanted to see your reaction and then decide whether to shoot you or feed you.” Joe smiled wolfishly and then went on more seriously. “Sophie was the only white person I’d met in a long time who I felt like passing more than the time of day with. She was a very special person and I need to know that her death was not the price she paid for our relationship. She told me a lot about you and I've been checking around since you got back. From what Sophie told me about you, I knew you wouldn't be satisfied with the official story, I just needed to know how far you would go.”
Chase sat up. “The official story? So there is something fishy going on?”
Joe nodded. “Sophie was with me that night, and I saw her home around midnight.”
“Then what the hell was she doing in Sand Hills?” Chase asked.
“I can only speculate, but I think she was dropped there after she died.”
“What the hell would be the point in that? According to the coroner, there's no doubt that the lightning killed her.” Chase was baffled.
Joe poured himself another drink and sat back, waving the bottle at the area around him. The sun was starting to go down and the sky was tinged with purple. “Sophie loved this place. We met at the marine rescue center and after a while she started working with me on a project for the tribe.”
“She was something, your sister. I made her pay dearly for my respect. I did everything I could to get away from some blonde lady who wanted to get to know an Indian.” Joe smiled fondly then looked sideways at Chase. “Your sister evidently inherited all the looks in the family but there is a strong family resemblance in certain other traits.”
Chase snorted.
Joe waved his arm around, indicating the camp area. “You can probably tell from all this that I'm a water expert and I’m deadly serious about it.” He leaned forward and threw away the toothpick he had been chewing on. “Let me a explain a little. The Everglades are a large part of the Se
minole lands and consequently our lifestyle. At the moment they are badly endangered and no one but us seems to care.” Warming to his subject, Joe got up and started drawing in the sand with a stick to illustrate his lecture. “Briefly, the glades is a basin. It has a limestone floor and as vegetation decomposed on it, it formed peat and became, in effect, a seal. Evaporation and drainage to the Gulf of Mexico have kept the water to a constant level until now, but years of dredging, draining and land clearing by the land-greedy whites has reduced the flow of water across the area and seawater has intruded.”
Angrily, Joe threw his stick away and started pacing up and down, his agitation evident. “The Everglades is the lifeblood of my people. We still live off the land. We farm and hunt and fish and are careful to replenish what we use. It is our home and it is becoming a cesspool of chemicals and mutant creatures.” Joe’s face hardened and his jaw tightened. “The affluent whites don’t venture out here. They are not concerned with what they don’t see and a few ragtag Indians. They should care. The death of the Everglades will be the death of life in Florida.”
Disgustedly, Joe skimmed a pebble across the water. “Despite all this, my people try to do what they can and they try to educate the whites and work with them to save our land.” Joe laughed sardonically. “Mostly, our pleas fall on deaf ears.” As if realizing he was becoming too intense, Joe returned to his chair. “Fertilizer runoff has resulted in algae and strange plant life. I could go on and on, but suffice it to say it's my job to stop any further endangerment of our property and to restore the natural watercourses wherever possible. I've been doing this for several years now.” He shrugged and ended sadly. “Sophie felt like I did. She was well loved by my people. I feel in my heart that her death had something to do with her work with me.”
Chase had been listening intently. Now he spoke quietly. “I am impressed by Sophie’s choice in friends and I know that she was at her happiest in the last few months. Don’t blame yourself Joe.” Chase’s voice turned gritty with determination. “I have been lucky in my life, to have had good friends all the way. Now, I have another one and with your help, I will get to the bottom of this matter and when I do, there will be hell to pay.”
Yokche:The Nature of Murder Page 5
