Everglades Assault Read online

  “Right.”

  “Did you tell your aunt that?”

  “I did. She wants to believe it, but she’s so mixed up and scared now that she don’t know what to think. My granddaddy refuses to believe anything else, of course—or so she says. He won’t talk on the phone.”

  “And what does your aunt’s husband think?”

  “I only met him once, but he’s not the type to do much thinking at all—not without a bottle of whiskey in his hand, anyway.”

  “So what do you think we ought to do?”

  Hervey smiled. “Does that mean you’ll help?”

  “You know I’ll help. Besides, you’re too old and slow to be much good on your own.”

  He chuckled at my kidding and showed histrionic fierceness.

  “How’d you like this slow old man to waltz you around the room a few times?”

  “No thanks,” I said quickly.

  And I meant it. Even well into his forties, Hervey Yarbrough would be one bad man in a fight.

  “What I think we ought to do is go on up to the Everglades and sniff around some. If nothing else, it will give my aunt some comfort.”

  “They won’t mind me, an outsider, coming in?”

  “Not if you’re with me they won’t.”

  “You have any ideas who might be doing it—trying to chase them out?”

  Hervey shrugged. “Normally, you’d have to suspect the neighbors first.”

  “You say that like you don’t suspect your relatives’ neighbors at all.”

  He thought for a moment. “I don’t, really. The Johnny Egret clan is the other Tequesta family. I don’t remember much about them, but I know my mama’s folks and them have always been pretty close. Same tribe and all, it’s almost like one big family.”

  “How many people in the Egret clan?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “We can check into that when we get up there.”

  “So who do you think is doing it?”

  “For now, your guess is as good as mine.”

  I thought for a moment. “The fact that they live on property controlled, apparently, by neither regular state or federal authorities opens up all kinds of possibilities. Plus, you have one or more people who are clandestinely robbing the burial mound. Maybe they’re looking for something specific. And maybe they can’t complete a thorough search with your folks there.”

  “That’s a possibility. So we start with the grave robbers?”

  “That’s what I would do.”

  “The idea of some creep dressed up in a gorilla suit stealing that little girl really pisses me off.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “And if I for sure found the guy, I’d have a real desire to fix it so he spent the rest of his natural life walking on his knuckles.”

  “Revenge and justice aren’t always synonymous—but they sometimes should be.”

  He smiled. “I have a feelin’ I’ve got the right guy for the job, MacMorgan.”

  “Anything for a friend,” I said.

  When Hervey had left, his little flats skiff disappearing into the pale horizon of sea, I slid out of shorts and khaki pants and resumed my position on the porch.

  I had missed the morning. By my Rolex watch it was just after noon.

  But that’s the good thing about living alone upon the sea. It instills you with a sense of the infinite; a perception that makes a mockery of all watches and all clocks and all time everywhere.

  If I had missed this lone morning, there would be a million more to replace it.

  The morning never dies. Not on the sea, it doesn’t.

  Only people do.

  The two beers I had drunk with Hervey had been just enough to make me feel useless and sleepy and lazy. A droning deerfly circled about my feet, and I gave him every opportunity to escape before catching him with a sweep of my hand.

  High against the sky, a frigate bird added dark dimension to the gathering cumulus clouds, all portents of storm.

  Far out on the flats, something caught my attention: a milky stream amid the clear water. To a fisherman in the Florida Keys, that is always suggestive. And unfailingly attractive.

  I went back inside and grabbed the new Quick ultralight reel loaded with six-pound Sigma line on the fine boron rod. I gathered a handful of jigs, a spool of mono leader, and my Polaroid glasses.

  My little Boston Whaler flew me over the clear waters as if on air. Pods of brain coral and turtle grass disappeared in my wake. Before me, a big ray materialized from the bottom and exploded toward sanctuary. A cormorant banked abeam the skiff, flapping, it seemed, in a hopeless parody of flight. I read the movement of water over the flats and brought the skiff well uptide, then shut it off.

  The bonefish were feeding in a school over the bottom, sending up the gray wake.

  It was a small school—maybe a dozen or so fish.

  But very big bonefish indeed. From a distance, they were ghostly in the aquamarine shallows, their tails broaching as they nosed down to forage for small crabs and shrimp. Beyond, the sea blended into pale sky, blue and swollen and filled with promise.

  On my third cast I felt the sudden weight which suggested a snag, but the set brought the snag alive and the reel shrieked like an alarm as the bonefish stripped off a hundred yards of orange line on its first run—a staggering lesson in purpose and velocity, all hell-bent on deliverance.

  I turned him as best I could, gained a full twenty yards of line, then clung to the light boron rod helpless as the bonefish made another sizzling run in the opposite direction.

  When the fish began to tire, well hooked, and I knew that it was just a matter of time and leader strength, I found my mind scanning the events of the morning, free to wander in that margin of delight where no moment could possibly be wasted.

  I thought about April Yarbrough and that perfect teenage body, and about the way her eyes looked the first time I kissed her.

  Every first kiss is filled with promise. But it can also be filled with dread. What right did I have to interrupt her youth with my wanting; my scarred-up past and future?

  That’s right, MacMorgan—take this nineteen-year-old girl and mold her into your own likeness. Pretend you are giving her your all when, in truth, you’re just taking, taking, taking because you know no woman can ever replace the one you lost. Not even this girl. So admit it. At least to yourself: You have absolutely nothing to give. And even if you play the game carefully, you will only end up robbing her of that precious thing—her own youth.

  But sometimes I’m a little too pious for my own good, and I felt myself grin in spite of myself.

  She wanted some time together.

  And so did I.

  So why not let the chips fall where they might?

  I could see the bonefish wavering in the clear distance, making a broad circle around my skiff. It kept nosing onto the coral bottom trying to free itself of the little jig.

  Now was the time I should have gotten its head up and gone to work getting it in.

  Instead, I let the fish take its course, giving it every chance to cut free. Even if it did, I had won as much from it as I could want—the pleasure of its strength, the lesson of its purity.

  Besides, if it did break free, the hook would corrode from its jaw within a day, and it would be fine.

  My wandering section of brain left the subject of April Yarbrough and drifted to the problem her father had presented me.

  Swamp monsters?

  Indians?

  Grave robbers?

  None could be counted among my few specialties. I was the anti-pirate; the sea sniper.

  I had done all my work on the water or in the water. What in the hell did I have to offer the land?

  Besides, how serious could it be? Somewhere in south Florida some artifact hunter had a gorilla suit hidden in his closet—and a plan to do something on the land inhabited by the relatives of one Hervey Yarbrough.

  I almost felt sorry for the poor bastard.


  He had no idea what awaited him.

  He had no idea he was dealing with people other than the common mass of men who run and hide when danger or the unknown confronts them.

  Hervey Yarbrough wasn’t the type to run. And he sure as hell wasn’t the type to hide.

  The artifact hunter didn’t know it, but he was playing kids’ games with a guy who wanted to see him spend the rest of his life walking on his knuckles.

  I chuckled to myself. If anybody could see to that, Hervey could.

  And if he needed help, I’d be right there beside him.

  When the bonefish had given its all, I brought him to the side of the boat without a net. It was a nice fish, well over twelve pounds.

  I held him carefully behind the head, taking care not to squeeze or touch his gill network. I removed the hook with my left hand, then cruised him back and forth through the water, reviving him.

  The old man had been right about the fish that fight well. When you are connected with them for a time on line or rope, you begin to feel both compassion and kinship.

  When I was sure that he was well, I released him.

  He was suspicious of his new freedom at first.

  But finally, he arrowed away from me through the clear water over the bottom, silver and lovely and pure once again....

  The next morning, I waited while the glow plugs warmed, then started my thirty-four-foot charter boat, Sniper, and cruised down Calda Channel toward Key West.

  It was one of those molten September mornings with sea and sky looking blazed and blue and metallic.

  I had spoken with Hervey the night before on the VHF. He had wanted to take his car north to the Everglades. Said it would be a hell of a lot faster and, besides, we’d have transportation once we got there.

  And he was right. But I still vetoed the idea.

  I have one big phobia. I’ve had more brushes with death than your average laboratory rat, but I still have this horror of car wrecks. They’re such a damnably tragic waste.

  Too many lunatic drivers on the highway who try to make up with their macho driving what they lack as men. The gearshift becomes an extension of their penis, and they think that close calls in the passing lane prove something.

  All it proves is that they’re as childish as they are stupid.

  On those rare occasions when I do drive, I travel at the speed limit. Neither faster, nor slower. On the average thirty-mile trip, you save yourself less than five minutes if you drive seventy miles per hour instead of the preferred fifty-five—usually a lot less, because that’s on a straightaway.

  I don’t like to deal with the stupid men-children on those narrow asphalt stretches—especially the deadly A1A Highway that courses the Keys.

  Their carelessness or their immaturity could cost me a day, or a week—or a lifetime.

  I don’t travel anyplace by car that I can go by water.

  We all have our quirks, and those monoxide-scented carnage machines are one of mine.

  I was surprised that April Yarbrough was waiting for me when I arrived at the docks at Garrison Bight.

  She wore brief blue running shorts, sandals, and a white T-shirt that traced the curve and sudden heavy thrust of her. She had combed her raven hair out so that it hung like a shawl down to her hips.

  She was smiling.

  “Recover from yesterday morning?”

  While I worked at the lines, I answered, “Not totally. But I’m afraid neither of us has much time for therapy today.”

  “Yeah,” she said, almost pouting. “Daddy told me you two men are taking off for the ’glades this afternoon.”

  “Duty calls.”

  “Damn your duty.”

  “That’s not a very democratic attitude.”

  “And what does democracy have to do with pure animal lust?”

  I laughed with her, kissed her briefly as I stepped onto the dock, and took her hand. The early tourists, dressed in their Bermudas and gaudy shirts, roamed along charter-boat row, and they watched us from the corners of their eyes. I could almost read their thoughts: See that beautiful young girl with that big scarred-up man? Why, he’s almost old enough to be her father! You can bet that sort of thing doesn’t go on back in Davenport or Steubenville. What a weird place this Key West is....

  What a weird place indeed.

  I grinned and gave a half wave to a middle-aged couple with cameras around their necks.

  The woman actually lifted her nose and sniffed.

  April saw it, and we laughed together. “Are we scandalous, Dusky?” she asked.

  “In Key West, we’re as conservative as a brown suit. Back in Iowa we’d probably be tarred and feathered and run out of town.”

  “Pshaw! You’ve never even been in the Buckeye State.”

  “Yes I have. And it’s Hawkeye, not Buckeye. When I was a kid with the circus we’d spend a long week there every summer. In Davenport they’d stick us at the low end of town where the river had flooded. You could always tell the circus people—their legs would be coated with mud.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “Lovely.”

  “And you aren’t bitter a bit, are you?”

  “A nice guy like me? I’m just proud to have associated with those corn-fed folks. If I ever meet the Pope, I’ll know how I’m expected to act.”

  “Scrape and bow, huh?”

  “Yeah, but light on the scraping.”

  I had wanted to tell Steve Wise, the dockmaster at my marina, that I was going to be away for a while and unavailable for charter. But Steve didn’t look as if he wanted to be interrupted. Steve lives on a big gaudy houseboat at the docks—the inside of which looks like a floating strumpet parlor.

  Steve’s a little younger than I am—about thirty two—and he’s as well known around Key West for his enthusiastic bachelorhood as he is for his endless weekend parties.

  With his windblown brown hair and movie-star looks, he seems to the pretty tourist ladies who come to the island to be the perfect adventure to cap their holiday.

  And Steve is always happy to oblige. He has seen more women come and go (the pun is not accidental) than the average YWCA. They love him so because there is absolutely nothing predatory about him. He treats them like royalty, wines and dines them aboard his Fred Astaire, and shares a tearful good-bye with them when it is time to say farewell.

  He makes no promises.

  They want no promises made.

  And they all live contentedly ever after.

  You can always tell when Steve has had a particularly strenuous week with one of his tourist lady friends. He sits in the sun on the deck of his houseboat blinking like some weary loggerhead that has just made the Gulf Stream crossing alone. He sighs a lot and speaks of things profound.

  But Steve wasn’t working his way toward recovery now. He was working his way toward something very different indeed. Three of them sat on the upper deck of his houseboat, talking animatedly: Steve and a pair of mahogany-haired twins who appeared to have all the qualifications for carbon-copy Playmates of the Year.

  Steve felt me grinning at him; he turned, waved two regal fingers, and grinned back.

  “How are things with you, Steve?” I yelled across the water.

  “Very interesting—that’s how things are,” he yelled back.

  He grinned and waved again. I walked April around the harbor to the parking lot at the edge of Roosevelt Boulevard.

  She had brought Hervey’s old pickup truck. It was an ancient Chevy that had more wear than rust.

  YARBROUGH MARINA

  FULL BOAT SERVICE

  COW KEY, FLORIDA

  April took her place behind the wheel, found something Latin and tinny on the Havana radio station, and shifted gears expertly as she drove us through the light September traffic of Key West.

  “Did Daddy tell you that I’m going to the Everglades with you?” she said nonchalantly.

  “No,” I said. “And he never told you that, either.”

  S
he flared at me. “How can you be so sure, MacMorgan!”

  “Because I know Hervey, that’s how I can be so sure. You figure that if I say it’s okay, he might go along with it.”

  “Ooh, you make me so mad sometimes.”

  “Why, because I know what you’re thinking?”

  “Yes!”

  She took her eyes from the road momentarily, leaned over, and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and ran her fingernails across my bare knee.

  “Do you know what I’m thinking now?” she asked vampishly.

  “I do. Because I’m thinking the same thing. But who will drive?”

  “I know a nice shady spot by the water where they haven’t built any condominiums yet.”

  I put my arm around her and kissed her on top of the head, smelling the shampoo fragrance. “One of the make-out spots from your high school days?”

  “Darn right. I used to lure all the boys there.”

  “Really.”

  “A cast of thousands.”

  “I know.”

  “And just how do you know that, Mr. Dusky MacMorgan?”

  “Because I read the bathroom walls when I go to the bars in Key West. ‘For a mediocre time, call April Yarbrough’—everyone writes the same thing.”

  She slapped at me and gave me a scolding look. “Mediocre time! Why, I’m much better than that!”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  The smile left her face, a new look of uncertainty in her eyes. Suddenly done with our bedroom flirtation, she said seriously, “No one knows, Dusky. Isn’t that awful? I’m nineteen years old and about as experienced as a Swiss nun.” She hesitated as she drove, then added, “That’s why you kind of scare me.”

  “I scare you? Come on.”

  “No. You do.”

  “How?”

  “How do you think? You’ve probably had all sorts of women.”

  “Right.”

  “Maybe dozens.”

  “Dozens?”

  “Maybe thousands!”

  I took her hand. “I think that would more than cover it.”

  “But can’t you see why you scare me?” she said. “Let’s say—let’s just suppose—that you do lure me into your bed. I’ll be awkward and clumsy. I won’t have a clue about what to do.”