Suffer Not Evil: A Florida Action Adventure Novel

by Scott Cook

  “A bit woozy,” Will stated, rubbing his temples and going to pour a cup of coffee. “Last thing I remember is…”

  “Being grabbed by that animal,” Sarah Beth sniped. “That fucking Jarvis! What’s going on here, Jean?”

  “I’m not totally sure,” Jean said. “Still trying to figure all that out.”

  “By reading a book?” Sarah Beth asked. “And who’s this guy?”

  “This guy,” the older man said. “Is Doctor Felix Campbell, young lady. The man who delivered you into the world, as it turns out.”

  Sarah Beth blinked in surprise, “Really? Why are you here, then?”

  The doctor chuckled without humor, “I’m not entirely sure.”

  Jean looked at him and made a nondescript sound. Although it couldn’t be described, its meaning was certainly plain. She didn’t believe, nor trust, the doctor.

  “All right,” Andy stated, holding up a hand. “First thing’s first, everybody. Do we know where we are?”

  “Sort of,” Jean began. “We’re in southwest Florida in what I think is called the Ten Thousand Islands. This is some kind of fishing camp. We have power, running water and plenty of food.”

  “Were we all brought here at the same time?” Will asked and drank some coffee.

  “The three of you were,” Jean said. “I was on the plane. Jarvis… drugged me too, but I’ve been awake since before he landed in Wyoming.”

  “Why not keep you under, too?” Sarah Beth asked suspiciously.

  Jean shrugged, “I don’t think he believes I’m culpable.”

  “Culpable?” Andy asked.

  “In Veronica’s murder,” Jean explained.

  “Oh, and we are?” Sarah Beth cranked.

  Jean only shrugged and went back to her couch.

  “So if we’re all here, then where is our captor?” Will asked. “Where’s Jarvis?”

  Jean sighed, “I haven’t seen him since we landed in LaBelle. This big Indian guy took us somewhere, loaded us all onto a boat and drove us out here. And before you ask, no, I don’t know where the hell we are, exactly. I was blindfolded the whole trip. We came by water, though, and it took maybe an hour.”

  “So where’s this Indian now?” Andy asked.

  “Haven’t seen him all morning or last night,” Campbell stated.

  “So why the fuck didn’t you guys escape?” Sarah Beth nearly exploded. “If nobody is here, then why don’t we just get the hell outta here?”

  Jean looked at her and frowned. Although she loved the brother, the prospect of dealing with Sarah Beth for the rest of her life wasn’t particularly pleasing, “Go for it.”

  “Seriously?” Sarah Beth asked.

  Jean pointed to the door, and even the sour doctor smiled a bit.

  “Come on, Andy, let’s get outta this looney bin,” Sarah grumbled.

  “You go ahead and look around,” Andy stated, moving to pour himself a cup of coffee as well.“My head’s swimming.”

  Sarah huffed and stormed out of the front door. She found herself on a deck that wrapped around the cabin. The cabin itself sat in the middle of a clearing that was maybe a hundred feet across and surrounded by palmettos, mangroves, weird gnarled old trees and a few palms. Directly in front of the cabin, a path led down to a dock where a small, low-sided fishing boat was tied.

  Sarah stepped down the two steps to the leafy clearing and moved toward the back of the little house. Off to one side, a small shed-like structure sat near the edge of the clearing. Something rumbled inside. A generator, but not a noisy one. Directly behind the house was a big firepit, currently blazing away. Over it, something meaty had been skewered and was roasting over the hot embers. It smelled delicious.

  Sarah saw that a small path led through the mangroves beyond the firepit and, when she followed it, found that it led to a little beach that overlooked a vast wilderness of mangrove islets, small islands with all sorts of trees on them. She recognized a few banyans in the distance. She wasn’t that familiar with this part of the state but knew that the Ten Thousand Islands was part of the Everglades.

  She harrumphed and went across the small island to the dock. Sure enough, the keys were in the boat’s ignition. She smiled smugly and turned the key. Nothing happened. She tried several more times, and still there wasn’t even a click.

  She frowned and then chuckled sardonically. In the console were a couple of panels. She opened one of them and found the battery switch. She turned it to all and tried the key again.

  “Mother fucker!” she exclaimed, slapping her palm on the stainless-steel wheel.

  Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. Surely Jean would’ve tried this already. Sarah briefly considered hiking and swimming off… but to where? She had no idea where she was or what might be out there waiting for her. As if to underscore her problem, something with a very deep throat rumbled in the not-so-distant distance.

  Sarah kicked the console and stalked back up the dock. She went around the house again and was startled to find that she was no longer alone outside.

  Sitting on a stool and turning the spit was a huge Indian man. He wore what seemed like traditional clothing. A fringed, hand-made shirt, hand-sewn pants and moccasins. His long black hair was tied behind his head and a new-looking Stetson shaded his amber eyes. Even sitting on the low stool, Sarah could tell the man was big.

  “Ungh,” he said absently, as if he hadn’t suddenly appeared from nowhere. “Lookum lost… lookum… hungry. Eatum heap good food soon.”

  What the fuck…? Sarah thought. He sounded like an Indian from one of those old hokey Westerns her dad used to watch. She stared at him for a long moment, but the big Indian didn’t seem to notice or care.

  “Who are you?” she blurted, fists balled on hips. “Where are we? What is this shit?”

  “Ungh,” the Indian said. He paused and then: “You stay. Safe here. Great White father say keep you safe… no wander off, paleface make quick snack for great lizard God.”

  “What!?” she asked in confusion. “What’s all that mean? Who’s the great white father? Is that Jarvis? Where is he?”

  “Ungh… When sun low in sky… and great eagle flies to nest… great white father say he come.”

  “Okay, Tonto,” Sarah Beth ranted. “I want out of here, you hear me? You understand that? I want you to turn on that boat and drive us back to civilization. Right fucking now!”

  “Ungh.”

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Paleface girl havum face like new fawn but mouth like rattler,” the Indian intoned. “Mustum stay here. Soon, we eatum good venison. I put sauce on… heap special sauce… from Winn-Dixie. Then we smokum peace pipe.”

  She stared at him for a long time. She couldn’t decide if the man was teasing her or serious. His square and faintly lined face was utterly impassive though.

  “Are you fucking with me?”

  “Ungh.”

  “Ugh!” she cried, throwing her hands in the air.

  “Ungh,” the Indian emphasized, raising a finger.

  She harrumphed and turned on her heel. So frustrated was she that she neither saw the Indian’s smile nor saw him quaking with barely contained mirth.

  “This is bullshit!” she raved as she entered the cabin and slammed the door. “Do you know there’s some crazy old Indian out there sitting by a fire cooking a deer, for Christ’s sake?”

  “That’s Rick Eagle Feather,” Campbell explained. “This is apparently his cabin.”

  “Guy’s an old nutjob,” Sarah Beth cranked as she threw herself onto the empty sofa. “Says we smokum peace pipe… Jesus! Is he like some kinda retard or what?”

  Campbell rolled his eyes and Jean chuckled softly. The other men only stared.

  “He says great white father come when sun low in sky and eagle fly to nest… whatever the fuck that means,” Sarah Beth grumbled.

  “It means, young lady,” came a deep voice from the doorway, “that Scott will be here after sunset.”

&nb
sp; She hadn’t even heard the door open. Yet it was, and the Indian’s broad frame now filled it completely. So tall was he that he had to duck his now bare head not to brush the lintel. He stepped in carrying a basket that smelled delicious. He stepped over to the table and set it down.

  “You were screwing with me!” Sarah accused.

  “Of course,” the Indian said. “You think that’s how we all sound, do you? There’s a nice joint of fresh venison here, folks. Some baked potatoes too. Maybe later we’ll do a fish fry when Scott comes back.”

  “Damn, that smells good…” Will said with a grin.

  “What, are you people kidding me?” Sarah Beth raged, leaping to her feet. “We’re not just gonna sit around and have lunch with this crazy Indian! For Christ’s sake, there are six of us and one of him! I say we force him to take us ashore right now.”

  The Indian, who was an older man and looked maybe fifty and appeared very robust, only chuckled softly, “I wouldn’t advise that course of action, Miss Sarah Beth. You folks are here for the duration until Scott says he’s done with you. Don’t be foolish. You’re in no danger… for now.”

  “Oh really?” Sarah asked.

  Rick Eagle Feather levelled a hard stare directly into her eyes. There was something in his yellow eyes that brought her up short. It wasn’t menace, exactly… but something that gave her the impression that he wasn’t a man to trifle with.

  “I think we have little choice,” Campbell said resignedly. “We’re in the middle of nowhere and between this guy and Jarvis… I think we’re screwed.”

  “There’s a boat out there,” Sarah Beth protested, although far less vehemently.

  “And it doesn’t work,” Jean said. “You’ve already figured that out for yourself.”

  “Yeah, but he can get it going,” Sarah Beth accused as Eagle Feather began laying out plates and silverware.

  “Nope,” the Indian said. “As it turns out, the boat is missing a battery or two. We couldn’t get her started for love or money, young lady.”

  “So what… Jarvis stole your batteries to keep you a prisoner, too?” Sarah asked.

  Eagle Feather laughed, “I gave him the batteries. We’re stuck here and Scott is the only one who can save us. So let’s all relax, enjoy a nice meal and wait patiently. Scott is a good friend of mine and he’s asked me to keep you all here, comfortable and safe, until he’s ready to confront you all. So that’s just what we’re gonna do.”

  And that’s just what they did. There was little conversation over the next few hours. At least none that meant anything or related to the reason they were all there. Strangely, Eagle Feather disappeared once for several hours. The boat hadn’t moved, and to everyone’s knowledge, there hadn’t been any other way to come and go from the small island. Yet when he returned near sunset, he carried a stringer with no less than eight fat trout on it.

  It was closing in on ten p.m. when the seven of them, having enjoyed lightly fried fish, steamed broccoli and carrots and yellow rice, heard a boat engine growing louder, and it was clear that another small boat was tying up to the dock. Sarah Beth was the first to get to her feet, intent on seeing what was going on when the front door opened and Marcus Bradford walked in, followed by the imposing black-clad form of Scott Jarvis.

  “You’d better have a damned good explanation for this, asshole!” Sarah Beth snapped, levelling her forefinger in Jarvis’ direction.

  “Fire rabbit makum big wind,” Rick intoned and then laughed heartily.

  Jarvis looked at him, “Seriously, man? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”

  Rick shrugged, “The Calusa are a proud people, son… we don’t feel shame.”

  Jarvis grinned and looked at Sarah Beth, “As for you, Sarah Beth… yeah, I do have a damned good explanation for this. I think we’ll wait a little while, though. I have a feeling that by mid-morning tomorrow, we’re going to have a few more guests who might like to hear it. In the meantime… is that fried fish I smell?”

  30

  “I thought you said you knew where this Indian guy’s cabin was?” Brad Raker asked, not entirely concealing his irritation.

  It was well into mid-morning now, and it seemed as if this simple and easy expedition was turning into a slog through hot mangrove islands and mosquitos with no end in sight. The sun was well up now, and even at ten-thirty in the morning, it was already approaching ninety degrees.

  “I know about where it is, son,” Trip griped from the wheel of his odd homemade fishing boat.“I never been there, but I got a pretty good idea where it is.”

  “You said that two hours ago,” Raker complained.

  “Shit takes time out here, kid,” Trip explained. “Some of these channels is no more’n six inches deep. Don’t do to get stuck out here.”

  Raker was beginning to think he’d backed the wrong horse. First, Trip had driven him over to the little village of Matlacha and a ramshackle little old fishing marina. There, they’d met Earl and Dale, two shady characters who wore ripped jeans, dirty T-shirts and smoked Camel non-filters like their boss.

  Next, Trip had shown Brad to the oddest looking boat he’d ever seen. It resembled a flats skiff on steroids. As if somebody had taken the familiar lines of a shallow water boat and stretched it out like taffy. The boat, evidently custom-built sometime in the 1980s, was thirty feet long and fifteen feet wide. It featured a huge casting deck forward and several captain’s chairs mounted around the gunwales. There was a poling platform and a well behind the wide steering console with live wells and fish boxes. Bolted to the stern were two two-hundred-horsepower Evinrudes, which looked to be at least twenty years old.

  After proudly telling Brad all about the boat and the quality motors, which they don’t make no more, the four men loaded some fishing gear into the boat. For appearance’s sake, no doubt. They then loaded in several heavy duffel bags and headed south down the intracoastal.

  That had been at the crack of dawn. Now, hours later, they were winding their way through a dizzying maze of mangrove islands roughly east southeast of Chokoloskee Bay. Being so deep inside the Ten Thousand Islands, the wind was blocked, the sun hot and Brad’s fuse was steadily burning down.

  “Okay, let’s hole up here for a bit, boys,” Trip suddenly announced, putting the boat into reverse and backing into a sort of cove off a winding river-like channel they’d been idling down. Earl, Brad had learned the two men were brothers, reluctantly got up and dropped an anchor. Trip then shut down the grumbling outboards… two strokes and smoky… and a leaden silence fell over the men. It was soon replaced by birds, frogs and the ubiquitous mosquito.

  “Cold beer?” Trip asked Brad.

  Raker drew in a breath and tried hard to calm his nerves, “Uhm… sure, wouldn’t mind a brew… but why are we anchoring?”

  Trip drew four gleaming cans of Natural Light from a built-in cooler under the bench seat and passed them out. Once again, Raker was struck by the nickel and dime aspect of this man, his crew and his operation. For a big-time famous Florida fishing guide and whatever else, Lester Trip seemed more and more like a shoestring shit-kicker to Brad Raker.

  “This here is a popular spot,” Trip explained, cracking into his discount donkey piss. “Seen Rick bone fishin’ and mulletin’ many a time out here.”

  Brad chugged a third of the watery, cheap beer just to hide his growing anger. He belched softly and said: “We’re not trying to gank his good fishing spots, Lester… we’re trying to track him down.”

  “I know son,” Lester said patiently, “but sometimes it’s better to sit and wait for the fish to come to you, know what I’m sayin’?”

  “It’s the old bull and the young bull,” Earl said in a sluggish sort of southern drawl.

  “That’s right!” his brother Dale chirped.

  “What?” Brad asked before catching on too late to prevent the explanation.

  Trip chortled, “Two bulls is standin’ on top of a hill looking down at a field full of cows. One old and o
ne young. The young bull says to the old bull, ‘Hey, let’s run down there and fuck one of them cows!’ But the old bull turns to him and says…”

  “No, son, let’s walk down and fuck ‘em all,” Brad finished wearily.

  “That’s right!” Trip cackled and slapped Brad on the shoulder. “So we just gonna sit here a while and watch and listen, Brad m’lad. Trust me.”

  Having little choice in the matter, Brad plastered a fake smile on his face, tried not to think about pulling his duty Sig from his back waistband and shooting the three necks and took another sip of beer.

  It wasn’t thirty minutes later when something actually happened.

  Two hundred yards away, nearly to the other side of the large channel Brad and his hired hands had come up, a large pontoon boat hove into view. It appeared to have a man and five women aboard.

  Trip laughed and slapped Brad on the shoulder again, “And there you go, son!”

  “What?” Brad asked, polishing off his third beer.

  “Take a look at that deck boat in my glasses and tell me what you see,” Trip said, handing over a large pair of binoculars.

  Brad peered through the glasses and got a far better view. Written on a placard hung on the side walls were the words Eagle Feather Eco Tours. Brad laughed and handed the glasses back.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said with a grin. “Guess you really are the best tracker in Florida, Lester.”

  “Damn straight,” Trip said.

  Earl and Dale belched softly by way of demonstrating esprit de corps.

  No one made any move, however. Brad looked confused.

  “Oh, we’ll go after ‘em,” Trip said. “But we don’t wanna be spotted, right? So we let ‘em get far ahead and we follow their prop wash. Don’t worry, son, they ain’t gettin’ away.”

  Brad smiled again. He was close to Sarah Beth; he could feel it.

  On the pontoon, Sharon was guiding the group deeper into the Ten Thousand Islands. She knew of several paths to get to Rick’s cabin, and she’d taken the middle path. Not the one that was half-hidden that Scott and Juan had discovered back in January. And not the one from the Shark River. This one was similar to the one that Scott had used the day he rescued her and lost his boat.