"What he doesn't know is that I've only got a few minutes more with this chopper."
Malcolm hurled himself toward a black opening in the wall of green vegetation. He dove into the dark coolness, his body disappearing under the green canopy at the precise moment Mulholland and Whipple flew fifty feet over him.
"A few more minutes. Then I don't know what we're gonna do."
The chopper headed into the darkness of the coming evening.
• • •
Early morning sunlight barely filtered through the tall canopy of broad-leafed trees. But where it did, it hit the ground in slowly moving dappled splashes. Magpie jays and warblers rasped and chirped in the branches.
The tree island was a spongy bed of dead leaves over a soft, thick mat of peat. Dead branches and twigs and rotting logs were strewn about. A gray rat snake was part of a tangle of fallen branches, its protective camouflage making it blend in. Its black forked tongue flickered, giving it away. It slithered forward, the back end following the track of the front the way each part of a sightseeing tram follows the part before it. It stopped, its tongue flickering again, smelling the air, bringing minute air-borne particles to an olfactory organ in its mouth. It tractored forward. Malcolm lay on the spongy organic mattress where he had crumpled in exhaustion the night before. He was as still as the dead. A large palmetto bug, a type of waxy brown roach about two inches long, walked close to the waistband of his pants. The rat snake glided between Malcolm's legs, its eyes fixed on the insect. The four-foot-long snake gathered itself on Malcolm's posterior. The roach stood still, trying to make itself invisible, then it bolted along Malcolm's belt line. The snake sprang out of its S-curve and seized the bug in its mouth. Malcolm didn't stir. The snake slithered away with its meal.
The sun sank two hours in the sky. And still, Malcolm did not move.
A 'possum, babies on its back, ambled from the brush. It clawed at the peeling, paper-like bark of a gumbo-limbo tree not far from Malcolm's head. Then it dug with its front paws in the leaves around Malcolm. It sniffed Malcolm's greasy hair. Deciding it didn't care for Malcolm, it shuffled away in a wobbling, top-heavy gait.
Malcolm moved his right arm in the soft leaves. Then his other arm. After a few moments, he rolled over on his back and opened his eyes to the overhanging tops of the trees. The tree island came alive with the chirping and rasping and calling of birds. Hundreds of them, driven there by the sawgrass fire and attracted by all the large insects that had managed to find refuge there.
Malcolm propped himself up on one elbow and his eyes roamed over the leafy cove. It was an Eden. A verdant cathedral of towering beautiful trees. An over-abundance of flowers, shrubs and bushes in kaleidoscopic variety. Epiphytes, air plants, were glued to the rough bark of oak trees. They sprang from the tops of rotting stumps and attached themselves everywhere, almost obscuring their hosts. The trunks of trees were splattered with lichens of all textures and colors, as if a painter had been careless. Rays of light shone down in shafts, as if the fingers of God had touched this garden. This was a hardwood hammock. And it seemed to be overrun with animal life. A permanent home for scores of species. And a way-station for the countless birds, reptiles, insects and other animals that had escaped the flames and poisonous air of the brush fire.
It was cool and moist here. But it was soft and dry underfoot. A fact that was not wasted on Malcolm, whose feet and legs had been immersed in water for a long time.
As Malcolm stood up wearily, he glimpsed a marsh rabbit scampering into the scrub. As he walked around stiffly, frogs by the dozen leaped in front of him. His stomach gurgled with hunger and he put his hand over it as if to soothe its yearning.
In spite of the sleep Malcolm's body commanded the night before, he was still merely holding onto threads emotionally, mentally and physically. He needed more rest, he needed fresh water, he needed to replace important elements and body salts he had lost. He needed a healthy immune system to fight the infection in his right arm from the gator attack, he needed to psychologically get control of himself if he was to survive, and he needed life-saving nutrition fast. Each of these needs had the highest priority. But his brain had been triggered into a primitive survival mode. And all he wanted to do now was eat.
He snatched up a frog from the ground. He held it in his hands, hesitating. Then he threw it down, disgusted. Malcolm was thinking again. Analyzing, but only in a very narrow stream of reasoning and reflection. He was simply tired of frogs. He jerked into gear and stumbled forward toward the water's edge. There, sunning themselves on the gentle banks, were more turtles than he'd ever seen in one place. It didn't take much stealth, but it was all Malcolm could muster to creep through the willows and dash out to pounce on an unsuspecting meal. Thirty turtles, perhaps forty, did an about-face in unison and plopped toward the water. One turtle wasn’t so lucky. It was about to make the ultimate contribution to the balance of nature.
Malcolm inserted the fingertips of both his hands where the turtle had pulled in its head between the top and bottom shell. Holding the turtle against his chest, he pulled his arms in opposite directions. The turtle's shell was strong. Malcolm pulled harder. The turtle held together. Malcolm's face turned bright red and his teeth showed through his parted lips. With a burst, the turtle flew apart in two bloody pieces. Malcolm was spattered. He quickly picked up the pieces and stripped the morsels of flesh from each shell. He threw almost nothing away. He even slurped up the blood, very tentatively at first. Blood ran through his beard. Entrails hung from his mouth. He looked more like a lion at a fresh kill than a man.
__________________________________
Do not eat raw turtle. You could get very ill or even die.
__________________________________
Malcolm discarded the yellow, flat lower shell of the turtle. It served no further use. At least none he could think of at the time. But the upper shell was like a bowl. And it became Malcolm's prized possession.
Malcolm seemed to be coming back from his mental purgatory. Cognitive thought processes seemed to be at work again. The safe harbor he had stumbled into, literally, and the life-sustaining food sources he was discovering had a positive effect on Malcolm's depression and mental health. Here, there was potential. And where there is potential, there is hope. And where there is hope, there is often determination. At least, that's what Malcolm would come to realize.
Malcolm had changed in so many ways already. He had fallen into the Glades as a victim. He was the prey. He was the hunted. To survive, he became a browser. A grazer of mangrove leaves, brackish water and snails. Through a freak accident, the plane crash, he had acquired incredible visual acuity. A one-in-a-billion accidental radial keratotomy had resulted in unique telescopic vision. An equally incredible wound to his back presented him with another supernatural gift - the ability to take oxygen into his blood while submerged underwater for long periods of time.
Two blessings from physical curses. The blessings had already helped to save his life.
Now Malcolm was turning into a hunter. Not waiting for his food source to come to him, he pursued it.
He peered into the water, perhaps to find another turtle. They must have been very wary, for he saw none. But he did see fish. Malcolm looked at his hand where the fish spine had punctured through the first time he had tried to catch a fish. It was just about healed. Then he looked back at the fish and thought for a moment.
He looked down at his pants. And then back at the fish. Then he took his pants off. Malcolm's pants were much too large for him now. After all, he had already lost about sixty pounds. They billowed off his legs like a tent. Malcolm also took his remaining shoe off and dropped it at the water's edge. He tied the bottom of each pant leg into a knot, to close each leg off. He zipped up the fly. Then, he picked up two sticks that were lying on the bank and inserted one on each side, through two belt loops. Malcolm had made a net! He simply held the sticks in his hands and waded into the water.
Malcolm subm
erged his worn gray pants below the surface in the shallows as if he were doing laundry. Then, he grabbed the sticks and walked slowly dragging his "net" through the water, letting the legs balloon behind. The water was teeming with fish that had escaped the sawgrass fire. The water practically boiled with them. And now, Malcolm had his pants full of them.
At the water's edge, Malcolm ate the very small fish whole and still wiggling. He bit off the heads of the large ones and ate everything except the bones, tail and fins. He must have eaten four pounds of fish before he put his pants back on, picked up his new bowl and walked back to his sleeping spot.
Malcolm had enjoyed his meal. And he had no intention of becoming a meal, in turn, for another animal bigger and hungrier than he. Like another gator. Malcolm examined the gumbo-limbo tree that had served as his headboard the night before. This night he would sleep in the tree.
Searching the area nearby, he found appropriately sized strong tree limbs that had fallen to the ground. Malcolm wedged them into place among the muscular arms of the gumbo-limbo tree in a way that allowed him to sit, or partially recline, while leaning against the tree. This bumpy, crude platform of a few sticks was only about five feet off the ground, but it would keep him out of harm’s way through the night. He might have to shoo away a curious raccoon or 'possum, but that was child's play at this point.
Malcolm used a couple of old logs as a stepladder to climb up to his rustic bunk bed. He curled his large legs under him as best as he could, held his trophy bowl close to him and rested his head against the trunk to test the comfort of the contraption.
He noticed that the sap from the tree smelled very aromatic. Like liniment. How wonderful, he thought, I'll even smell good in the morning. And I'll try a little salve on my arm too, thank you. He smeared the smelly stuff all over the wound on his right arm, hoping it would keep insects away from it.
He drifted off in a late afternoon dream and darkness fell quickly.
• • •
In the subdued, soft light of early morning, Malcolm slept on his uncomfortable looking perch. His head lay awkwardly against the trunk of the flaking tree, sure to leave him with an ache in his neck for the rest of the day. His breathing was deep and quivering.
Bang! A thunderclap exploded like dynamite and rolled over the river of grass. Malcolm sprang upward, eyes wide. Large drops of rain pierced the leafy roof like shotgun pellets and showered down everywhere. In an instant, the sky opened up and it was hard to see through the torrential downpour.
Malcolm outstretched his arms and rejoiced. He opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue as if he were receiving Holy Communion. In his mind, he was. He remembered his turtle bowl. It was already filling with rainwater. He gulped it down.
Malcolm, in a hurry, rolled off his little platform and fell clumsily to the ground. He set up his bowl to catch more rain and he danced around the gumbo-limbo tree like a hippo ballerina. He poured whatever water had collected in his turtle bowl into his mouth and pranced around holding the bowl toward the sky, catching the heavenly offering. Whenever the bowl became half full, he drained it. He drank again, and again, and again, slaking what he had thought was an unquenchable thirst.
The rainstorm was unrelenting. Each marble-sized drop shattered into hundreds of rebounding droplets as it hit the ground. The sound of the rain was deafening.
Malcolm felt the skin of his chest with his fingers. Greasy, disgusting, he thought, testing the slickness between the tip of his thumb and fingers. His eyes darted to the shallows, alive with rainfall. He went there at once.
Malcolm stripped off his pants and underwear and tossed them into the water at his feet. Stark naked, he got down on his knees on the gently sloped bank and started digging through the mud and peat to the white sand below. He scooped handfuls of the white sand onto his shoulders. He excavated more and smeared it all over his body. Then he rubbed the abrasive mixture in a circular motion over his skin wherever he could reach. With a polishing compound of natural sand, Malcolm ground away all the crud that had accumulated in his skin since he started his trek across the hellish landscape. Then he stood up. With arms outstretched above him, as if he were a king-sized monarch blessing his throng of worshippers, he let the stimulating shower rinse and renew him.
Seventeen
Three-quarters of the worn wooden desks in the large green room were unoccupied. Sitting at one of the desks was Detective Sergeant Armando Diaz, two of his fingers stabbing at a keyboard.
"Diaz?" a male voice asked.
"Which one you want? We got six of 'em," Diaz said, without looking up.
"Armando's the only one I'm looking for right now."
"Well, then it's your lucky day. You found the one outta six you're looking for," Diaz said good-naturedly, still typing.
"I'm Lieutenant DiSantis." Diaz stopped typing and looked up. "From Chicago," DiSantis added.
"Welcome to Miami, Lieutenant." Diaz offered his hand. "I hope the trip isn't a waste of time for you."
"I hope it's not a waste of time for any of us."
"Yeah, yeah, right. Hey Craig!" Diaz called out to Mulholland who was pouring himself a cup of coffee from a glass pot in a corner of the room.
"When did you get into town, Lieutenant?" Diaz asked.
"Last night. I haven't had a chance to do much except look at maps of the area so far."
Mulholland came to the desk.
"Hey, Craig, you'll never guess who this is."
"Mr. Ace Detective?" Mulholland said sarcastically after a moment's hesitation.
“Don't tell me you've got a problem with me already, Mulholland?"
"Oh, you must be that famous detective from Chicago? What's his name? DiSantis."
"Look, Mulholland, I'll only be here for a few days. Don't make it miserable for both of us. Maybe I can actually be of some help."
Lieutenant McGuire's voice chimed in. "Maybe you can, DiSantis. Maybe you can." McGuire walked out of his office and shook DiSantis' hand. "And we'll take all the help we can get."
"McGuire?"
"None other. Come on into my office and we'll get you started in the right direction. Mulholland get those pictures you took of the bug-spray can you found and the pictures of the crash site. Diaz, get out the file and let's go over the reports with Lieutenant DiSantis." DiSantis followed McGuire into his office.
Mulholland's face looked like he had just sucked on a lemon. Diaz went to a file cabinet.
"We don't have much more now than we had before," McGuire was saying. "But we'll show you everything we've got."
"Other than that can of insect repellant you found nothing? No sign of cash or drugs?"
"Not a thing."
Mulholland and Diaz had returned with the things McGuire had asked for.
"Look. Here's the picture Mulholland took of the can. That was found where, Craig?"
Mulholland pointed at a map. "Right about here. Three miles from the crash site, here."
"And what's in between?" DiSantis asked.
"Mangroves. So thick you can't piss through them in a straight line.”
“And poisonous snakes," Diaz added, "and spiders and scorpions and alligators with teeth this big." Diaz stretched out his fingers in front of DiSantis' face. "There are bears out there, too. And Florida panthers."
"Florida panthers?" DiSantis questioned.
"Yeah, like mountain lions, without the mountains," Diaz said.
"What do you think his chances are of getting out of there alive?" DiSantis asked Mulholland.
"About zero."
DiSantis paused. "And what were his chances of going those three miles, to where you found the can of insect repellant?"
"About zero."
"Well, doesn't that tell you something, Sergeant Mulholland?"
"It tells me that we're all wasting our time, Lieutenant DiSantis."
"It tells me that the man is still alive, Mulholland." There was a long pause. "After looking at maps and terrain charts," DiSantis co
ntinued, "I figure the first three miles are the worst three miles. And if he could make it those three miles, he could make it the next three miles. And the next. And the next."
There was another pause, as Mulholland pursed his lips.
"Get some copies of all those reports, Mulholland," McGuire commanded. "Give DiSantis whatever he needs."
"Thanks, McGuire. I appreciate the help."
"Professional courtesy. When I'm in Chicago, do the same for me."
"I sure will."
"And Mulholland, let's try to conduct ourselves with a spirit of cooperation, OK?"
"Yes sir, by all means, Lieutenant." Mulholland said with a military snap. "As long as Lieutenant DiSantis stays outta my way, I'll give him all the cooperation he can stand."
Eighteen
The drenching rain had stopped. But droplets hit the leaves and the ground in splits and splats as they drained off the trees. The sky was clearing and a warm, drying sun emerged. Watery diamonds sparkled everywhere in the spectacular setting of the magical hammock.
Malcolm, clothed once again in his ragged garments and carrying his bowl with him, investigated the island. He walked barefoot among jumping frogs and toads, which he ignored. He touched the limbs of a Florida holly, a magnolia tree with its pretty two-inch fragrant blossoms, and a red maple, as if expecting some extra sensory perception to tell him the names of each.
He passed a red bay and sensory perception did help him identify the tree. He smelled the aromatic leaves. And crushing one in his hand confirmed this to be the same bay leaf used in cooking. "A bay leaf," he said out loud, repeating something Mrs. DiSantis in Chicago had said to her family many times before.
He came upon another tree. "I'll be damned if that doesn't smell just like bayberry candles," he said, crushing a leaf under his nose. And it was bayberry.
He walked among spreading wild tamarind and the majestic mastic trees. He almost walked into a small tree, a shrub really, that bore purplish, cream-colored fruit about an inch and a half in diameter. Malcolm squeezed one open in his fingers. The white juicy flesh smelled pretty good. Malcolm cautiously tasted it. "Not bad. It'll probably kill me, but it's not bad. If I'm not dead by tomorrow, I'll come back and eat everyone I can find." He spit out the cocoplum seed and moved on.
Saving an Innocent Man Page 12