Shadow Men

by Jonathon King

  Shadow Men

  Jonathon King

  This is for my mother, Arlene Hall, in honor of her fortitude.

  And in Memory of Cindy Cusano, a beautiful woman, and more than just a victim.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Acknowledgments

  A Biography of Jonathon King

  PROLOGUE

  They picked a moonlit night to make their escape because it was the only way. And now it was killing them. The first shot sizzled through the humid air as if it were underwater, and he heard it a millisecond before it found the muscled flesh of his son’s shoulder blade and made the ugly sound of a wet, dull punch.

  The boy gasped and stumbled, and his father caught him under the arm before he went down.

  “Papa?” his other son said from a few steps ahead the fear in his young voice like an uncharacteristic cry. The father could see the pale glow of the younger boy’s face in the moonlight and the outline of his body against the sky above the horizon, and he realized he had made targets of his sons.

  “Down, Steven!” he called out. “Down in the ditch!”

  All three scrambled off the piled hump of Everglades muck and limestone marl and slid down the embankment to the edge of the water below. Two of them were breathing hard; the third was bubbling wet air and blood through the new hole in his lung. They did not need to speak. They had known instantly from the sound of the report who was hunting them, and they knew the odds of surviving.

  “Robert?” the father whispered, holding his seventeen-year-old son to him, now pressing his hand over the exit wound in the boy’s chest to stop the ragged sound of death coming through his sweat-soaked shirt. “Oh, God Robert, forgive me for what I have brought you to.”

  The other boy moved across the dirt to them, his face so close he could feel his father’s breath on his cheek.

  “Papa? Is Robert OK, Papa?” he said and the father could feel the tears in his son’s voice but could not answer. He had never lied to his children, and he did not want to break that vow this close to the end.

  The father looked up to the high edge of the earthen berm they had all helped build, the foundation of the road they had all worked to create. Beyond it was a canvas of stars that had stunned them their first few nights out here in the wild Glades and then comforted them far weeks with a seeming physical closeness to God himself. But the clear crescent moon had betrayed them. The elevated roadbed was the only way back through the swamp to civilization. On a cloud-locked night it would have melded into the darkness and been impossible to follow to freedom. So they picked this night, planning to use the glint of moonlight on the canal water to guide them and the ribbon of black dirt to walk upon.

  “We need to move, now, Steven,” the father said. “Across the water. You are the strongest swimmer. Take your brother’s good arm and I will get his belt and we will sidestroke together. If we can get to the mangroves on the other side, God will give us cover.”

  He could feel his son’s head nod. He was the determined one, the one who thought all things possible, the one with the optimism and strength of youth. He would believe. The father took his shirt off, knotted it in the middle and put the lump of fabric over his son’s exit wound then tied the ends over the entrance hole on the boy’s back. His own tears were running now.

  “Get ready, Steven, we have to move quietly,” the father said, and then hesitated once more, feeling in his pocket for the gold watch of his own father and then slipping the thick disk deep down into his leather boot, hoping it might be protected there from the water.

  They slipped into the warm water and pushed slowly out. The satchels they carried floated at first. Their underwater strokes were both smooth and strong despite the load of the older boy’s weight. They caught a rhythm and began to make progress.

  The second shot was from closer range and it tore through the father’s satchel, causing the bundle to bob in the water. The marksman had mistaken it. They were more than halfway across, and as the other boy stroked harder, the father kicked stronger. In seconds their boots touched mud. The father’s next stroke touched the slick root of a mangrove. The boy let go with a soft exultation, “We made it, Papa!” and the third shot entered the back of his neck and opened a gaping wet hole in his throat that yawned like the ragged mouth of the devil himself.

  The father looked back once and saw the outline of the rifleman and the tilt of his hat against the stars. He was standing in the bow of the shallow Glades skiff he’d always used for hunting. He had tracked them by water, letting his low angle paint their moving bodies against the sky just as his was now. When he heard the familiar clack of the big Winchester’s lever action, the father wrapped his arms around his boys in a final act of protection, whispering a prayer in their ears and refusing to believe he had seen the eyes of his killer glow red under the brim of his hat.

  CHAPTER

  1

  I was sitting in a chaise longue on the patio of Billy Manchester’s penthouse apartment. The multihued blue of the Atlantic lay out before me. Close to shore its color today was a green-tinted turquoise, then the darker blues at the reef lines and then an almost steel blue out to the horizon. From this height the layers were sharply bordered, and the smell of the salt still carried up on the southeastern breeze.

  “This is really eighty years old?”

  I should have known better. Never question Billy after he has presented you with something as fact, unless you crave silence from the man.

  “I mean, it’s interesting stuff, but isn’t it kind of incredible that no one’s seen it since, what, 1923?” I said, trying to redeem myself.

  “Mayes said no one had ever opened his great-grandmother’s hope chest. He said he wasn’t even sure anyone in the family even knew it existed,” Billy answered from inside the apartment, on the other side of the threshold to his sliding glass doors.

  In my hand was a computer printout of what Billy called the last letter. Mark Mayes, a college student in Atlanta, had sent it to Billy with an inquiry asking him for representation in a legal action based on a handful of originals. Mayes had found them, yellowed and nearly dried to crumbling in his great-grandmother’s attic in the family home. With great care he had unfolded each letter and read it. When he was done he had a new and profound respect for his long-dead great-grandfather and the two uncles he had rarely heard mentioned. He was also convinced that they had perished in the Everglades in the summer of 1923 while working for a private company trying to build the first highway across the great swamp. It wasn’t a lark. The kid had offered up a small family inheritance to pay Billy’s retainer.

  This had all been explained to me during my first two beers from Billy’s refrigerator. I suspected my friend and attorney was loosening me up.

  “Another R-Rolling R-Rock?” Billy said, stepping out onto the patio with a sweating green bottle in hand.

  “So you went and took a look at the originals,” I started, but caught myself, “and they’re convincing. I mean, there’s no way to fake something like this?” I reached out and accepted the beer, smiling. Billy only raised his eyebrows.

  �
��I stopped at M-Mr. Mayes’s family home while v-visiting an acquaintance in Atlanta,” Billy said. “He’s a difficult young m-man to d-disbelieve, Max. And although I’m n-no expert, if these are f-fakes, he went to a lot of t-trouble preparing them.”

  Billy’s stutter flowed through my ears now with only the most subtle recognition. It was something I’d gotten used to. Billy is a stress stutterer. His speech is flawless when he talks to you over the phone or even from the other side of a wall. But face-to-face, even among friends, his words jam up behind his teeth, always left behind and trying to keep up with his brilliant mind.

  “The original sc-script is very faded. But the d-dates are compatible. The building of the Tamiami Trail had b-been off and on b-but wasn’t completed until 1926.”

  Billy sat down in the chaise next to mine. He was wearing a pair of shorts and a silk shirt of some expensive designer brand. He stretched out his trim legs and crossed his ankles. His chocolate- colored skin was smooth and tight, and his profile was equal to any GQ model or film actor as he looked out onto the horizon.

  “Now, whether his c-conjecture about the f-fate of his relatives is correct, will t-take us time to investigate,” he said.

  I stopped tipping my bottle just at that point where the first swallow is down your throat and you are breaking the bubble for the next.

  “Us?” I said, separating the bottle from my lips by only inches.

  The twitch of a grin started at one corner of his mouth, but Billy’s eyes did not leave the sea.

  I was driving into the sun, leaving the coast behind, all the noise and heat, traffic and clutter, convenience and luxury that it inevitably drew. After a relatively short commute on the seventy-mile- an-hour bumper-car ride called I-95, I headed west on a two-lane asphalt road and then turned into the entrance to the state park. I pulled my pickup truck into a designated visitor’s spot and clipped my officially purchased parking pass on the rearview mirror. It took me three trips to carry my supplies across the crushed-shell parking lot to my canoe, which was flipped under a group of sand pines near the boat ramp to the river.

  On each trip across the lot I cut my eyes to the front door of the park ranger’s station. I could detect no movement behind the windows, although the ranger’s Boston Whaler was tied up at the dock and I knew he was still on duty.

  More than three years ago I had walked away from a ten-year career as a cop on the streets of Philadelphia. In a shootout during a cheap Center City stickup, I had killed a child. The fact that I had taken a round in the neck and that the kid had been a tagalong with the stickup man made the shooting team rule the death as “justified.” But I could never find a place for that term in my own head. I took a disability payout and moved here, to a place completely different from the city where I’d been born and raised. It did not take me long to realize that sometimes it’s more what you bring with you than what you leave behind. I also found out that what I had brought was not welcome.

  I locked the truck, and with my supplies of canned food, some extra water and Billy’s new reading material secured in the bow, I pushed my boat off onto the dark water of the river. Without looking back I took three strong strokes to gain momentum and began gliding farther west. In minutes I was into a rhythm, reaching out with the paddle, digging into a purchase of water and pulling long strokes, then following through with a subtle feathering of the blade that sent a small funnel trailing behind.

  The river is wide here, bordered by rimrock forests of slash pine. Farther west the water narrows and the land flattens into a low collection of mangroves spiked with an occasional bald cypress. The late afternoon sun had already begun to spin the clouds with pale streaks of pink and orange, and the air was losing its scent of salt as the mix of ocean water was overwhelmed by fresh spilloff from the Everglades. Two miles in, the banks narrowed again and I slowed my pace and eased into the tunneled canopy of the upper river. I stopped stroking and let the canoe drift into the shadowed silence. Here the deep green of oak, red maple and pond apple trees dominated, and when the water is high the place seems more like a flooded forest than like a river. A traveler learns to read the currents and flow in order to follow the natural trench, but I have paddled the river’s length in both moonlight and spackled daylight so many times, I know every turn by rote.

  In the deep shade the temperature dropped several degrees and I stripped off my sweat-soaked T-shirt and pulled a long-sleeved version from my bag. With my arms up and elbows wrapped in the material I stopped at the sight of a great blue heron standing on a moss bank only twenty feet away. The bird was nearly four feet tall, with a third of its length in the S-curve of its neck. He stared at me with one angry yellow eye, and I stared back. The instant I pulled the shirt down over my face the animal squawked once, and by the time my head popped through the collar he had already taken flight, his long, crooked wings flapping elegantly through the tunnel of foliage and out toward open sunlight.

  I was now working south against a light current, and about a mile in, I came to the two tall, gnarled oaks that marked the entrance to my shack. The shallow water trail behind them was obscured by an overgrowth of filigreed maidenhair ferns. Thirty yards back from the river I stroked up to my small dock, looped a line over a four-by-four piling and climbed out. I bent and checked the first three steps leading up the staircase to the stilted cabin. Out here there was always a film of moisture on any flat surface. Had anyone used the stairway, they would have left a print. I don’t get many visitors, and those I do get, I don’t like unannounced. The steps were untouched, and I shouldered the first load of supplies and went up to the single room I called home.

  The shack dated back to the 1930s, when a rich northerner built it as a hunting lodge. It was later abandoned for several years and then reopened as a research station for biologists studying the water flow and animal life on the edge of the Glades. Billy had somehow picked up the lease from one of his innumerable contacts and offered it to me when I first came to South Florida.

  Most of the place was constructed of Dade County pine, possibly the densest, toughest wood in nature. Legend has it that frontiersmen in Miami had to cut and nail the wood while it was still green because it was impenetrable after it dried. A row of cabinets hanging on one wall may have dated back to the original owner. Windows are centered in all four walls, and the high ceiling is shaped like a pyramid with a cupola at the apex, which lets the warm air rise and escape while drawing cool air up from the shade below.

  I started a pot of coffee on the shack’s single-burner propane stove. There was also an ancient potbellied stove in one corner, but stoking it took time and I do not do well waiting on coffee. While it was brewing I put away supplies, then put my clean clothes in the old oak armoires that lined one wall, and added two new books to the stacks on the top mattress of the bunk bed. It was an odd collection that included new and old Florida history, travel books that I’d read and reread while waiting out the rain as a bored cop on night patrol, and some Southern literature, including a masterpiece by an old Philadelphia Daily News columnist that I always carried with me. The only other pieces of furniture were the two straight- backed wooden chairs and an enormous slab of butcher-blocked mahogany that served as a table.

  By the time the coffee was ready only a weak light was leaking through the western window. I poured a cup, lit the clear glass oil lamp and set both on the table. I picked up the sheaf of transcribed letters that Billy had given me, and in the silence of my own corner of the Glades began to reread the sketchy account of Cyrus Mayes, an out-of-work schoolteacher whose eighty-year-old story had set a rough stone of unknown truth rolling in my head. My familiar but often unhealthy grinding had begun.

  My Darling Eleanor,

  Forgive me for my past letters if they have caused you distress or undue worry for us. This time I send you good news.

  After our long and fitful train journey we arrived at the port of Tampa. It was my hope that here the boys and I would find work, at
least on the docks as we are strong and physically able and eager. Alas, we find that here too is a crush of laborers in our same predicament. By gathering with a common group of men at daybreak, Steven and Robert or I have been picked for a single day’s work, but it is not enough to sustain us or gain on our economic station. We were on our final dollars of savings when God’s face shone on us this day.

  At the gathering, a foreman who seemed to be careful in his selections singled all three of us out to join another twenty men. “We were loaded into trucks and our future labors explained. The foremen offered us all two months of steady work for the Noren company on a road building project to the South. We will be given room and board and $75 a week each. The project is some distance away, but we are promised to return in eight weeks or to sign on for additional time if we wish.

  We shall be leaving at dawn tomorrow my darling, and in my heart I believe this is our chance to gain the capital we need to start a new life for us all.

  I have used some precious few cents to secure stationery and postage, but I do not know when I might have the chance to write again.

  Steven and Robert send their love and know that we think of you and young Peter always. Join us in prayer that this new opportunity will bring us our dreams.

  Your loving husband, Cyrus

  I got up and refilled my cup. Billy, in his role as my personal Florida historian, had told me of the back-busting efforts of men and machines to build a road across the southern Everglades. In the first two decades of the 1900s, Miami had become a thriving frontier city. Real estate, tourism, trade with Havana and the constant import of money from the Northeast on the new rail lines to New York had given the miracle city a growing reputation. Entrepreneurs on the west coast of Florida were jealous. They wanted a piece of the action, and a few were convinced that a road connecting Tampa and Miami would be the golden pipeline.