by Carl Hiaasen
Something was wrong.
Keyes knew, from watching Tarzan movies as a kid, that whenever the jungle became quiet, something terrible was about to happen. The cannibals were about to attack or the elephants were about to stampede or a leopard was about to get dinner—any of which seemed preferable to one of Skip Wiley’s surprise visits. Keyes wished like hell that he’d brought the cane bough with him on board the canoe.
A shadow materialized on the porch of Wiley’s cabin.
It was a man’s form, erect but motionless. In the emptiness of the night Keyes could hear the man breathing. He also heard the frantic hammering of his own heart.
“Wiley?”
The figure didn’t move. Featureless, it appeared to face him with folded arms.
“Skip, get me outta here, dammit.” Keyes forced a laugh, brittle with fear. With bloodless knuckles he clutched the gunwales of the canoe. “Skip?”
The shadow on the porch stepped back until it filled the frame of the cabin door. Muscles knotting, Keyes peered at the mute figure. He felt a cool drop of sweat trickle down his spine, and he shuddered. He was ready to dive from the canoe at the first glint of a gun.
“Look, I don’t know who you are, but I don’t mean any harm,” Keyes said.
Nothing from the specter.
“Please, wave your hand if you can hear me,” Keyes implored.
To his astonishment, the pensive shadow raised its right hand and waved. Keyes smiled inwardly, thinking: At last, progress!—not realizing that the man’s gesture was not a wave at all, but a signal.
Idiotically Keyes raised his own right hand in amiable reciprocation. He remained so transfixed by the figure at the cabin that he didn’t see what he should have seen: a dark brown hand, bare and smooth, rising from the water and alighting on the starboard side of the canoe, precisely where his own hand had been.
When Keyes finally was distracted from the silent watcher, it was not by other sights or sounds, but by a paralyzing centrifugal sensation.
The canoe was spinning out from under him.
He was in the air.
He was in the water.
He was blinded, and he was choking.
He was swallowed into the throat of the swamp.
11
“Wake up, Jungle Boy!”
Brian Keyes blinked the sting from his eyes and started coughing up swamp water.
“Not even a civil hello. How do you like that?”
“Hello, Skip,” Keyes said, between hacks.
They were in a clearing, deep in a cypress hammock. Smoke hung sweetly in the night air and a fire crackled, shooting sparks into the canopy. Hands bound, Keyes sat on bare ground against the trunk of a dwarf cypress. A cool breeze announced that he’d been stripped to his underwear. A tendril of wet hydrilla weed clung to his forehead.
“Cut me loose, Skip.”
Wiley grinned, his huge elastic face full of good humor.
“What do you think of the beard, Brian?”
“Very nice. Cut me loose, you asshole.”
Chuckling, Wiley ambled back to the campfire. Keyes saw that he wasn’t alone; other figures moved quietly on the fringe of the clearing, conversing in low tones. Soon Wiley returned carrying a coffee mug.
“Hot tea,” he declared. “All natural herbs. Here, it’ll put lead in your pencil.”
Keyes shook his head. “No thanks.”
“So how’re things in the private-eye business?”
“A little strange, at the moment.”
Wiley was barefoot. He wore pleated khaki trousers and a cream-colored smock with two red horizontal stripes (pseudo-African, Keyes guessed). His rebellious hair had been raked straight back, giving a blond helmet effect, and the new beard bristled thick and reddish. Keyes had to admit that Skip Wiley was still a man of considerable presence.
“I guess you want an explanation.”
“Naw,” said Keyes. “This happens all the time.”
“You’re deep in the Everglades,” Wiley said. “This is my camp. I’m hiding out.”
“And doing the worst Kurtz I ever saw.”
“Let’s wait for history to make that judgment. And stop that funny business with your hands. That’s not rope, it’s oiled sawgrass. You keep trying to get loose and it’ll cut through the veins of your wrist. Bleed to death in nine minutes flat.”
Keyes craned a glance over his shoulder and saw that Wiley was telling the truth. He stopped struggling.
“Where are my clothes?”
“We’ve got ’em hung by the fire, drying out.”
“We?”
“Las Noches de Diciembre. The Nights of December.”
“Oh, Skip, no,” Keyes said dispiritedly. It had not occurred to him that Wiley was mixed up with the kidnappings, yet it made perfect sense. Wiley had never been predictable, except in his passion for extremes. The symbolism of Bellamy and Harper was so obvious that Keyes felt dim and stupid.
“Don’t look so bummed out,” Wiley said. “Now’s a good time to meet the rest of the guys.” He clapped his enormous hands. Three figures emerged from the shadows and assembled behind him. Keyes looked up to their faces, backlighted by the fire.
“Brian, I’d like you to meet the group. The big fellow here is Viceroy Wilson—you may have heard of him.”
Keyes said, “I think we met at Pauly’s Bar.”
“Yeah,” Wilson said, “my fist met your head.”
“And this,” Wiley said cheerfully, “is Jesus Bernal.”
Bernal was a jittery little Latin in a stringy undershirt. Keyes immediately noticed a strong resemblance in stature and complexion to Ernesto Cabal; no wonder Al García’s witnesses had been eighty percent sure.
Jesus Bemal shot Keyes a contemptuous glance before slipping into the shadows. Wilson followed in a sullen gait.
“Viceroy hates you ’cause you look like a cop, and Jesus is just a little shy,” Wiley explained. He threw his arm around the third man. “But here’s the guy who made all this possible. Tom Tigertail. Tommy, say hi to Mr. Keyes.”
Tommy Tigertail leaned forward to study the half-naked prisoner. Tommy was a handsome young Seminole: late twenties, medium height, lean but showing plenty of muscle. He had longish black hair and a classic Creek face, with high cheekbones and Oriental eyes. He wore jeans but no shirt, just a towel slung around his neck.
“You’re not hurt,” he said to Keyes.
“Naw, a little queasy is all.”
“You put up a strong fight,” Tommy said. “Swallowed half the pond.”
“You were the one under the canoe?”
Wiley piped, “Tommy’s one helluva swimmer!”
Expressionless, Tommy walked back to the fire to join the others.
“That young man,” Wiley whispered proudly, “is worth five million dollars. Can you believe it? He made it all on Indian bingo. Got four bingo halls in South Florida—see, gambling’s legal on the reservations. Perfectly legal. You can’t put a casino on Miami Beach but you could open one smack in the middle of the Big Cypress. It’s goddamn brilliant irony, isn’t it, Brian? Little old blue-hair paleskins from all over creation come to bet Seminole bingo and the Indians make a killing. Ha! Bury my heart at Chase Manhattan! Tommy’s the business manager so the tribe cuts him in for the biggest chunk. Already he’s put away five fucking million dollars!”
“So what’s he doing out here instead of the Galt Ocean Mile?”
Wiley looked disappointed at the remark. “Tommy’s out here,” he said, “because he believes in me. He believes in what we’re doing.”
“And what is that, Skip?”
“Well, in Tommy’s case, we’re launching the Fourth Great Seminole War. In the case of my little Cuban friend, we are advancing the cause of international right-wing terrorism. And as far as Mr. Viceroy Wilson is concerned, we are kicking the living shit out of whitey.” Wiley bent over and dropped to a whisper again. “See, Brian, each of these guys has his own particular constituency
. My job, as I see it, is to make them feel equally important. It’s a delicate balance, believe me. These are not the most stable human beings in the world, but they’ve got loads of energy. It’s damned inspiring.”
Keyes said, “What about you, Skip? What’s your constituency?”
“Come on!” Wiley’s brow furrowed. “You don’t know?”
Somewhere in the brush an animal scampered, emitting a high-pitched trill. Keyes glanced toward the darkness apprehensively.
“Relax,” Wiley said. “Just a raccoon. My constituency, Brian. Along with the eagles, the opossums, the otters, the snakes, even the buzzards. All of this belongs to them, and more. Every goddamn acre, from here west to Miami Beach and north to the big lake, belongs to them. It got stolen away, and what we’re going to do...” Wiley made a fist and shook it. “... is get it back.”
Keyes thought: A cross between Dr. Dolittle and Che Guevara. Wait’ll I tell Cab Mulcahy.
“Don’t give me that you-poor-sick-boy look,” Wiley said. “I’m just fine, couldn’t be better. You’re the one who’s got a problem, Brian. A big goddamn problem, I might add. Before this is over you’re gonna wish you were back at the Sun, covering the bozos in the mayor’s race.”
Keyes said, “I’ll take some of that tea now.”
He was trying to slow Wiley down, keep him from getting too wound up. Keyes remembered what Wiley could be like on one of his fast burns, all reckless fury.
Wiley held the hot mug to Keyes’s lips and let him sip.
“Brian,” he said giddily. “We’re gonna empty out this entire state. Give it back to Tom and his folks. Give it back to the bloody raccoons. Imagine: all the condos, the cheesy hotels, the trailer parks, the motor courts, the town houses, fucking Disney World—a ghost town, old pal. All the morons who thundered into Florida the past thirty years and made such a mess are gonna thunder right out again ... the ones who don’t die in the stampede.”
Skip Wiley’s brown eyes were steady and intense; he was perfectly serious. Brian Keyes wondered if he was face to face with raw insanity.
“How are you going to accomplish this miracle?” he asked.
“Publicity, old pal. Bad publicity.” Wiley cackled. “It’s my specialty, remember? We’re going to take all the postcard puffery and jam it in reverse. The swaying palms, the murmuring surf, the tropical sun—from now on, Transylvania South.”
A postcard to end all postcards, Keyes thought.
“When I say bad publicity,” Wiley went on, “search the extreme limits of your imagination. Think back to some of the planet’s great disasters—the bubonic plague, Pompeii, Hiroshima. Imagine being tourism director for the city of Hiroshima in 1946! What would you do, Brian? Or think modern times: try to sell time-shares in West Beirut! Christ, that’s a tall order, but it’s nothing compared to what it’s going to be like down here when we’re finished, me and the guys. By the time we’re through, old pal, Marge and Fred and the kids will vacation in the fucking Arctic tundra before they’ll set foot on Miami Beach.”
Wiley was pacing before the fire, his voice booming through the copse. Viceroy Wilson sat impassively on a tree stump, Kleenexing the lenses of his sunglasses. Jesus Bernal swatted at gnats and moved herky-jerky in the firelight, tossing his knife at a tree. Tommy Tigertail was out there somewhere, but Brian Keyes couldn’t see him.
“Did you kill Sparky Harper?” Keyes asked Skip Wiley.
“Ho-ho-ho.”
The suntan oil, the rubber alligator, the tacky Hawaiian shirt. Keyes thought: Who else but Wiley?
“And Ted Bellamy, the Shriner?”
“I’m afraid he’s dead,” Wiley said, tossing a stick in the fire.
“What about the girl at the Seaquarium?” Keyes asked.
“Brian, settle down. We’re simply trying to establish credibility. Nobody took us seriously after the Harper episode. Jesús, amigo, get my briefcase.”
“My God, Skip, you’re talking about murder! Three innocent people—four, if you count Ernesto Cabal. You set him up, didn’t you?”
“It was Viceroy’s idea, to get rid of the car,” Wiley acknowledged. “He was your client, I know, and I’m sorry he killed himself. By the way, did you really stab his lawyer in the tongue with a shrimp fork? That was wonderful, Brian, I was so goddamn proud when I heard about it. Made me think you must’ve learned something, all that time sitting next to me. For what it’s worth, we had planned to spring little Ernesto when the time was right.”
“Es verdad,” Jesús said, delivering the briefcase.
“Speak English, you shmuck,” Wiley snapped. He turned to Keyes, complaining: “The man was born in Trenton and still he’s doing Desi Arnaz. Drives me nuts.”
Jesús Bernal slouched away, pouting. Wiley opened the briefcase and said, “Might as well get the preliminaries out of the way. Pay attention, Brian.” Wiley held up a pair of plaid swim trunks. “Theodore Bellamy,” he said.
“I believe you,” said Keyes.
Next Wiley produced a crimson halter top. “Renee What’s-her-face, the Canadian girl.”
Keyes nodded blankly.
With both hands Wiley dangled a man’s silver necklace with a gaudy octagonal charm. “Sparky Harper was wearing this,” Wiley said, studying it in the firelight. “It says ‘Sunshine State Booster of the Year, 1977.’ Got his name engraved on the back. Be sure to point that out.”
Wiley dropped the articles into the briefcase and snapped it shut. “You’ll take this back to Miami, please.”
Keyes felt relieved. He’d been contemplating the possibility of dying out here in the swamp and not liking the idea at all, dead in his underwear and covered with bug bites.
“Saw Bloodworth’s column,” Wiley said. “What a hack.”
“He’s not in your league, that’s for sure.”
“He’s a dim-witted gerbil who can’t write his name. Strangled to death is redundant, doesn’t he know that?” Wiley fumed. “If it’d been you, you would have put it together two days ago. You’d have connected everything—Harper, Bellamy, Renee. Hell, you would have printed our letters.”
“And you would have loved it,” Keyes said.
Wiley wasn’t listening. “Brian, I know you’ve still got good police sources. What do you hear?”
Viceroy Wilson edged a little closer. He was always interested in cop news.
“Metro homicide closed the Harper case when Ernesto died,” Keyes said. “As for the other two, a big zero. Missing persons, that’s all.”
“Damn!” Wiley exploded. “Those silly shitheads have got murderous terrorists on the loose and they don’t even know it! See what I mean about credibility, Brian? What do we have to do? Tell me, Viceroy, you’re the historian. Did the SLA have this problem?”
“Naw, they had Patty Hearst,” Wilson replied laconically. “Got plenty of ink. Maybe we can brainwash us some famous white bitch.”
“Sí,” said Jesus Bernal, digging his knife from a gumbo-limbo tree. “Pia Zadora!”
Wiley sat cross-legged in front of Keyes. “See what I’m up against,” he muttered.
“Skip—or is it El Fuego now?”
“Skip is fine.”
“Okay, what do you want from me?”
“We need a witness,” Wiley said momentously. “Someone impeccable. Someone who can go back to Miami and attest that we are legitimate, that we’re deadly serious. Brian, we want recognition. We want the police and the press and the politicians and the tourist board to take us seriously.”
“In other words, you want your names in the paper?”
“The Nights of December? Yes. Mine? No. Not until the time comes.” Wiley leaned closer. “If you go back and tell the cops about me, it would complicate our plans. Jeopardize everything. Now, should you decide to play Boy Scout and spill the beans, fine. But if you do, Brian, you’ll deeply regret it. All hell will break loose, and what’s happened so far—the kidnappings, Sparky Harper, the rest—is gonna seem like Mister Rogers’ Neighbor
hood. You understand what I’m saying? If I should pick up the Sun tomorrow and see my face, then me and my comrades shift into overdrive. Moderation goes out the window. And then I’m afraid some folks you and I both know, and care about, are going to wind up suddenly deceased. We’re talking massacre with a capital M.”
Keyes had never seen Wiley so grim, or heard his voice so leaden. He wondered if Wiley meant Jenna, or Cab, or friends from the newspaper.
“Brian, if we do things my way, on my schedule, the violence will be minimized—I promise. If all goes well, in a few weeks the whole truth can be told. But not now—it’s too early. My name would be nothing but a distraction, a liability to the organization. So my role here—well, let it be our little secret for a while. The rest of the saga is yours to tell. In fact, that’s why we invited you here. Can I offer you some softshell-turtle stew?”
Keyes said: “Let me get this straight. I’m supposed to go back to Miami and scare the shit out of everybody.”
“Exactly,” Wiley said.
“With what, Skip? A halter top and a dime-store medallion?”
Wiley shook his head. “Those are just freebies for the cops, old pal. No, the most significant thing you’ll carry back to civilization tomorrow is testimony.”
Keyes was getting tired. His arms ached, his wrists hurt, and invisible insects were feasting in his crevices.
“Okay, Skip, I’ll go back and tell the cops that a gang of crazed radicals dragged me out of a canoe, tied me to a tree, and gave me tea that tasted like goat piss. Is that what you want?”
“Not quite,” Wiley said. The smile was thin, the eyes cheerless. “We want you to go back and tell everyone thal you witnessed a murder.”
Keyes went cold.
Wiley stood up and smoothed his pseudo-African smock. “Tommy! Jesus! Viceroy!” he called. “Go get Mrs. Kimmelman.”
The morning actually had started off well for Ida Kimmelman. The arrival of the Social Security checks was always a good omen, and then her sister called from Queens to say that Joel, Ida’s youngest nephew, had finally gotten into law school. It wasn’t a famous law school—someplace in Ohio, with two names—but Ida went out and bought Joel a card anyway. Basically he was a good young man, a little disrespectful perhaps, but deserving of encouragement.
