V05 - The Florida Project

by Tim Sullivan

  A flicker of light on the console distracted her from her reverie.

  She sat down to see what it was about, flicking a switch to receive the message. An officer appeared on the screen without his human makeup. It was good to see his natural scales and his longue flicking pleasantly as he spoke.

  "What is it?" Medea asked.

  "Sir; we've received another message from the scientists stranded on Earth."

  She nodded. "And they still want to know if we're going to attempt a rescue mission. Is that it?"

  "Yes."

  "All right. This time you can give them a definite answer"

  "Can I tell them you'll send a ship?"

  "No, I think we'll leave them right where they are for a while."

  The officer looked shocked, yellow eyes darkening in confusion. "I don't understand, sir."

  "You don't need to." Medea slammed her palm down on the switch and cut him off. She sat at the console, thinking for a few seconds, and then realized that everyone in the ship's command center was watching her.

  She spun around in her chair. "Attend to your duties!" she snapped.

  She got up and walked to the hatch. It hissed open, and she moved briskly through the ship's corridors until she came to her quarters. The command center was all very well for routine communications, but she wanted to talk to Morrow in private.

  A moment later she was removing her makeup and placing her artificial eyes in their tray. She carefully peeled off the human face and removed the skin on her hands as if it were a pair of gloves. Then she sat down at her own console and contacted Morrow.

  His face appeared on the screen. "Medea," he said.

  "Dr. Morrow."

  "It's very good of you to contact me personally. I hope you have good news for us."

  "The concept of good is relative," Medea said.

  Even though he wore his human makeup. Morrow's disappointment was obvious from his expression. "Then we must stay here?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  "Very well, then. If you think it's for the best."

  "From what I have heard, Dr Morrow, you have been

  "achieving positive results. I think it would be a shame to curtail your experiments now."

  I understand." Dr. Morrow nodded. "There are some developments you haven't heard of yet."

  "Oh?" Medea flicked her forked tongue to show her Interest.

  "Yes, we have the assistance of human scientists."

  Excellent. You managed that even after our fleet was forced to leave Earth. That is remarkable. How did you enlist their aid?"

  Shall we say that they are not in a position to turn us down?" He smiled. A most convincing human expression, Medea thought. The technicians who had devised these disguises were to be congratulated.

  "It seems that you're doing quite well, then. The Terrans have no idea that you're even on the planet. If you can maintain that kind of secrecy until you have shown the desired results, then you will have greatly helped the war effort and you will be rewarded."

  Dr. Morrow bowed gratefully.

  "I will be in communication with you on a regular basis from now on." With a flick of a talonlike finger, she shut off the transmission.

  With Morrow and his minions working for her back on earth, it wouldn't be long before she would be ready to attack the humans once again. They had been beaten the first time by .1 resistance force—and some very bad luck. Now Diana was imprisoned, but Medea had a resistance of her own working on Earth.

  Her enemies would be very surprised when they saw the results. Very surprised, indeed. If Morrow's research turned out as she expected, she would crush Donovan and the resistance once and for all.

  She rose and stretched her leathery limbs. Discipline on the ship was getting too lax, she thought. After she had rested, she would see to it that everyone wore their human disguises while on duty.

  They would wear them until Earth was under her power.

  The road out to the reservation was nothing more than a raised gravel hump snaking through the swamp. T. J. Devereaux had never liked driving out here, and- the Indians usually took care of their own business, but there was no way he could ignore a possible murder.

  He drove deeper into the shade of the big banyans, wet ferns occasionally slapping the windshield. In a few minutes he caught sight of a shack he remembered belonging to an old swamp rat named Walter Miles. The Seminole village wasn't much farther away.

  Soon he was pulling up to the cinder block recreation building and visitors' center. There were a few young men lounging on the steps. To the right and left were the shacks the Indians were forced to live in. Seminoles—Miccosuccee, really—-still didn't have it so good, even in this enlightened age. Enlightened? Hell, there were still a lot of people around who believed the Visitors were our friends, and the resistance were a bunch of evil terrorists.

  T.J. pulled up in the building's shade and got out of the jeep.

  Chief around?" he asked one of the four young fellows sitting

  on the steps.

  I he kid, sporting some kind of punk haircut and colorful seminole clothing, didn't even look at him. T.J. had run into this sort of thing before on the reservation, so he didn't bother to ask again. They would just ignore him, the evil white-eyes. Slut.

  It was sticky and hot inside. The paint on the corridor walls was peeling. T.J. suspected the school was in no better shape. it seemed as if things just kept getting worse for the Indians.

  he knocked on the door at the end of the corridor.

  "Come on in," said a soft voice.

  TJ opened the door. An old man with white hair and deep wrinkles in his brown face sat at a desk, reams of paper virtually covering its chipped Formica top.

  "Well, what can I do for you, Sheriff?" Chief Martin Wooster asked. He leaned back and put his spidery hands on the taped-up armrests.

  "Chief, I hear you've got a missing boy." T.J. took off his hat and fingered the damp sweatband inside.

  "Got a lot of missing boys. How come this one interests you?"

  "I got a call. Seems like his girl friend suspects foul play."

  "Only been gone a day." The swivel chair groaned as the chef shifted his weight. "Might have just gone to Fort Lauderdale."

  "That's not what the girl thinks."

  "Oh? What do you think, Sheriff?"

  Why was the old buzzard so damned hostile? T.J. had never done anything to him. "I don't want to make any assumptions, just find out if anything's happened to this kid."

  "Well, maybe he just got himself drunk and went off someplace to sober up. Or maybe he's got himself a new squaw." The chief grinned at him mockingly.

  "I didn't say that."

  "But you're thinking it. You're thinking it's a pain in the ass you had to drive all the way out here just because some Indian girl is missing her boyfriend." "Look, as far as I'm concerned the Seminoles have the same rights as anybody else."

  "We're Miccosuccee."

  "I know that. Seminole is a Creek word meaning 'runaway,' kind of a generic term."

  Wooster looked surprised. His expression softened, and he said, "Look, Sheriff, we don't like it when outsiders come in. We're a pretty obscure group out here, and that's the way we want to keep it."

  "I don't want to cause you any trouble, Chief. And I don't intend to bring a bus load of tourists with me next time I come out. As if there were any tourists in Kelleher County to bring."

  Wooster almost smiled. "Okay, you've made your point. But how do we know you won't try to throw your weight around while you're out here."

  "You don't," T.J. said. "So you'll just have to take my word for it-—whatever that's worth to you."

  "Never let it be said that Martin Wooster stood in the way of the law. I suppose you'll want to be talking to Marie Whitley?"

  "Good place to start."

  The chief got up and pointed out the window. "See that house, fourth one down, by those palmettos? That's Marie's mother's house."

&nbs
p; T.J. nodded. "Thanks."

  The chief sat back down and resumed his paperwork as if there had been no interruption.

  Outside, T.J. found the four young men talking to a ruggedly built man in his late twenties, wearing a cane cowboy hat and a blue work shirt and jeans.

  "I hear you're looking for Billy Tiger," he said.

  "That's right."

  "Why?" There was a defiant air about this young man that was more unsettling than the chief's almost polite needling.

  "I don't really owe you an explanation, now, do I?"

  "You might."

  "Why is that?"

  "He's my brother."

  TJ nodded. "I'm T. J. Devereaux," he said, sticking out hand.

  Hilly Tiger's brother looked at his hand as though it were a diamondback, but then he shook it firmly after a moment. John Tiger."

  John, I got a call from a young woman who said your brother has been missing for well over twenty-four hours."

  "So?"

  She said he was supposed to meet her yesterday afternoon, but she hasn't heard a word from him since night before last, she's worried."

  "Sheriff, haven't you ever heard of men and women breaking up?"

  "You think that's all there is to it?"

  "Maybe."

  "And maybe not. Look, John, I know you don't like outside interference in your affairs, but this could be serious."

  "Billy will be back."

  "I hope you're right. But I think I better talk to the girl."

  "Do what you want, but you're wasting your time."

  We'll see."

  I.J. turned and walked away from John Tiger and the others. God, it was hot. He could sure use a drink. Maybe the girl would offer him one. The way things were going, though, he doubted it.

  There was a little metal nameplate on the Whitley place. It was tiny, but neater than most of the pathetic hovels. There was a little flower garden in front, with chrysanthemums, hibiscus, and bougainvillea in bloom. T.J. knocked on the front door.

  A middle-aged woman came to the door. She looked at him angrily. "What do you want?" she demanded.

  "I got a call from Ms. Whitley, ma'am. Is she your daughter?"

  "Marie," the woman called, "somebody here for you." Without asking him inside, the woman backed away from the lagged screen door and vanished in the cool, dark recesses of the little house.

  A moment later a girl came out. She was young and pretty, with a very pleasant voice and a slender figure. T.J. tended to discount the theory about Billy Tiger running off just to get rid of her.

  "Thank you for coming, Sheriff," she said.

  "You're welcome, miss. Just "doing my job."

  "Please, come inside."

  There was a television, an old vinyl sofa, and two chairs in the little living room. Marie got him a Coke from an ancient Kelvinator and sat down in the chair opposite him.

  "Nobody wants to talk to me," T.J. said. "This isn't gonna be easy."

  "They're afraid—and angry. There's something going on out in the swamp."

  "What do you mean?" The ice-cold aluminum can felt good in his hand.

  "A lot of people have disappeared, Sheriff, Not just Billy."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Positive. My people think it's the government."

  "The government? Why would the government kidnap people?"

  "I don't know. But there's a rumor going around that there's a big compound out in the Everglades. It could only be a government project, from the size and look of it."

  "Interesting. Now, when exactly—as close to the minute as you can come—did you last see Billy Tiger?"

  When he had finished questioning the girl, T.J. braved the angry looks of the young men once again and drove back toward Larkin, the Kelleher County seat. On the way, he stopped to talk to old Walter Miles.

  By this time the sun was going down, and the swamp sounds were growing louder and louder. T.J. pounded on the shack's door for a minute. Place was too small for Walter not to hear him, even if he was dead drunk, so, when nobody answered, he tried the door. It was ajar.

  The place was a mess. Chairs and a single table were overturned; cans, tin plates, pots, and pans were scattered on

  the log floor, and a box-spring mattress lay on its side against

  the stove.

  outside the crickets chirped; otherwise, it was still. The breezeless evening seemed to bear the overpowering odor of fear

  TJ shook his head, thinking about how dubious he'd been while listening to Marie Whitley. Now it looked as if he might have been mistaken.

  Jack slammed the phone down on its cradle. This was the fourth time he'd dialed Sabrina's number in the past hour. She should have been back by now; two days had gone by since the Nutech opening ceremony. Where the hell could she be? He'd taken a hotel room in town at a fancy new place that had plastic cards instead of room keys.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, frustrated and angry and a bit afraid. The notion that something was wrong had gnawed away at him for over forty-eight hours. He had called Coach Shula and requested a day or two's leave. He had to get back to Miami soon or face a penalty when he finally did go back.

  What difference did it make? He had to contact Sabrina before he left Boca Blanca. If she didn't answer the phone in the next few hours, he was going to call the police. He had asked himself several times if he was that worried, and in the end he decided that he was. He'd never felt this way about a woman before. He was furious, but he had no choice but to stay in "Silicon Beach," as Boca Blanca was known, at least until this thing was cleared up.

  He threw himself onto the floor and started doing push-ups.

  By the time he got to fifty, he knew he was going to call again as, soon as he got off the floor. He did ten more and stood up, catching his breath for a minute before punching the numbers on the phone.

  He let it ring six times and was just about to hang up when nmeone picked up on the other end.

  "Sabrina!" Jack cried. "Where have you been? I've really been worried about you."

  His heart was thumping wildly in his chest as he anticipated hearing her voice. But he went cold as a man's voice said: Sorry to disappoint you, pal, but this is Sabrina's grandmother."

  Jack held the phone away from his ear and looked at it as though it were a cobra about to strike. "Who the hell is this?" demanded.

  "I haven't got the time," the intruder said. He hung up.

  Jack shook with rage. His face felt hot, and he was afraid he might crush the phone with his bare hands. There was a goddamn intruder in Sabrina's apartment, maybe burgling her possessions. Or perhaps it was someone who was involved in her disappearance. Well, he knew how to deal with him, whoever he was. Jack grabbed his keys and the hotel pass card. He was out the door in ten seconds, running down the stairwell in fifteen, and was in the parking lot in a minute flat.

  He roared out of the parking lot as if it were the Indianapolis Speedway, heading for Interstate 95. This time of night there wasn't much traffic. He could get there in five or ten minutes.

  "Make that four," he said, swerving around a car whose driver was only going a few miles over the speed limit. His tires screeched as he ran a red light and zoomed up the winding ramp to the highway.

  He was at Sabrina's house in three and a half minutes, leaping out of the ZX without bothering to open the door. every light in the house was on. Sabrina's car was in the carport.

  Jack didn't bother to knock. If the door was locked, he would break it down. But there was no need for force; the knob turned easily in his big hand!

  Jack had only been in Sabrina's house once before. She had moved in just two weeks ago. It was a single-story dwelling with a tiled roof, typical of the subtropical suburbs of South Florida. He was pretty sure he knew the layout. This was the living room he was standing in. The kitchen adjoined it, and there was a dining room on the other side of the wall, opening into the living room. Ring-around-a-rosy. If the intruder had a gun, Jack could dive
into the kitchen. And then he would have his choice of which door to go for. It was better than no chance at all. If the guy had no gun—well, Jack might feel sorry for him later, might even send him a fruit basket in the hospital.

  Spreading his feet wide apart, Jack lowered his shoulders while keeping his head up. He almost took a three-point stance, but then he remembered that this was no game.

  Silent as a cat, he sprang into the kitchen.

  Nobody there.

  Jack pressed himself against the kitchen cabinets, trying to make as small a target as possible. The air conditioner was on, but he was sweating badly in spite of it.

  Moving so low to the floor that his chest almost brushed the rug, Jack went into the dining room. It too was empty.

  The china cabinet was open, as if someone had been looking inside it and forgotten to close it when he heard the front door open.

  Maybe the intruder was gone, scared off.

  And then again, maybe not. Jack would just have to find out the hard way.

  There were three rooms left: the master bedroom, the guest room, and the den. The den was closest. Swiftly and silently, Jack entered it.

  The den was a mess. Drawers hung out of the desk, papers were scatterd all over the floor, and the swivel chair was overturned. Somebody was looking for something—and he wanted it very badly.

  Jack edged along the wall, out into the hallway. He glanced into the guest room, the only room without a light on. It was untouched, as far as he could see in the long shard of light thrown by a dining room lamp.

  His heart pounding, Jack inched toward Sabrina's bedroom. II the intruder was still in the house, he had to be in here. There just wasn't anyplace else to look.

  Jack wanted to be invisible, to still his breathing and his heartbeat so that the intruder would never see him, hear him, or even smell him. He could still turn away, go back out into the warm Florida night, and get in his car. He could go back to the hotel and call the police.

  He could do a lot of things, but he wasn't built that way.

  Jack jumped into the room.

  A man stood there in Sabrina's ransacked bedroom. He stood about six feet and was thirty-five to forty years old. He wore a leather jacket. His hair was thin, and he was broad shouldered. His face had a nasty expression, as if the guy was pleased he'd been caught.