Mangrove Lightning

by Randy Wayne White

  “Boys, let’s be straight here. How much they take you for? Look”—he waved them toward the van—“I’m not greedy. There’s something in the back should cover your losses. Come on, have a look. If you like what you see, let’s say we share fifty-fifty, then you can do something for me.”

  The scrawny one with the rifle jumped down, saying, “What’d he say, Zeke?”

  “Deaf bastard, you don’t gotta holler,” Rooster replied without looking away. “Mister, I like a good trade, but it’d better be real good. Depends on what you got. What we want might be a bit tougher to negotiate.”

  What Vernon wanted was every goddamn thing they had, including the license plate on the buggy. “See for yourself,” he said, and slid the door open, then waited while the scrawny fools bickered about who would get Gracie first.

  Diversion was a Walter tactic. With a boatload of chinks, once their money was paid, he might point at the horizon before using a club. Or, in the Glades, during the Marco war, say to a deputy clinging to his wife and brats, “The sheriff sent me to fetch you, that’s all I know. I’ll look after your family.”

  Vernon took a step back while the men ogled the girl, lying naked, all taped up, just her and her tattoos, poor Yum-Yum’s eyes wider than her lips when she screamed.

  Even the deaf bastard reacted to that by dropping his rifle.

  A rifle butt—handy. It became a bludgeon after he’d forced the men facedown in the sawgrass and stomped them into submission. Light as their bodies were, it took only one trip to drag them close to a gator pool. The swamp buggy, driverless, mashed them into the mud before its tires bogged and stalled the engine.

  Not a shot fired.

  Bullets cost money. Wood is cheap. Walter Lambeth was a frugal man even when it came to killing.

  Vernon returned with what Walter thought of as swag: guns, ammo, a Florida license. A can of camo paint was used to slather the van as if it were a junker.

  “I need turpentine,” he told the girl.

  Not because of the paint. Blood.

  His wide, spattered face appeared in an iPhone glow that marked their destination.

  23

  Hannah Smith heard the chain-driven rattle of a VW van pass by, and thought, That’s odd. She lived aboard a boat, a refurbished 37-foot Marlow, on an island where people fished or farmed for a living, so drove pickups or normal cars.

  Could it be Tomlinson?

  Unlikely. It was 3 a.m., according to the clock in the V-berth, which was usually a fine place to sleep. Not tonight. A few minutes earlier, the power had gone off. With it, the AC. She’d been lying there, debating whether to rely on screened windows or try to sleep, despite the heat, on this restless June morning.

  When the van went by again, she got up. Who else would be wandering around the island at this hour?

  Tomlinson was a good friend, although closer to her mother, Loretta, who lived across the road in the family house. A brain aneurysm and two surgeries were a handy excuse when the woman wanted to smoke grass, and ramble on about whatever streamed through her mind. The spirit world was a popular topic.

  Tomlinson provided what Loretta wanted as well as what she needed: a compassionate ear.

  Hannah, in a bathrobe, exited the cabin to the Marlow’s aft deck. The sky was black with stars and slow-scudding clouds. A sliver of moon muted lightning in a western squall too far off to hear. The dock her uncle had built long ago wobbled through the mangroves to the road.

  No traffic. There seldom was at this hour in the fishing village of Sulfur Wells.

  Beyond, atop a shell Indian mound, was a yellow pine Cracker house, with a tin roof and a wraparound porch. Veiled by darkness and screens were ceiling fans and a hammock, where, as a girl, she’d slept on hot summer nights like this.

  For more than a hundred years, the progeny of her great-great-grandfather Daniel Summerlin Smith had done the same.

  Hannah docked her boat here out of family loyalty, not because of fond memories related to her childhood. Loretta had been an unhappy, critical parent. She’d had a wild streak, with a taste for married men, and would slip off without so much as a note, let alone bothering to pack a school lunch. And the arguments, my Lord . . .

  Lately, though, Hannah’s feelings had softened. She was four months along and would soon experience the difficulties of motherhood for herself. If there were difficulties that could exceed the love for a child.

  Hannah doubted it. Never had she felt so glistening and alive. Morning sickness had ended weeks ago. Aside from a few tender private areas, and a sudden distaste for coffee, nothing had changed but her optimism.

  Four months along was the best of both worlds. She could still work and fish; and wear normal clothes, unless she wanted her tummy to show.

  Sometimes she did.

  A decision about that had to be made before sunrise. She was meeting Marion Ford to fish a hidden spot he knew in the Everglades. A lake called Chino Hole. As an enticement, the biologist had promised to introduce her to a man she’d heard about all her life—Captain Tootsie Barlow, one of the greatest flats guides in history.

  “He offered,” Ford had told her on the phone. “He wants you to meet his niece, Gracie. You heard what happened to her, but, what you don’t know is, she’s . . . uhh—”

  “She’s pregnant, too?” Hannah had guessed to rescue him from awkwardness.

  Not that she needed an enticement to visit. The opportunity to fish a pristine lake loaded with tarpon was enough. She would take a couple of Sage pack rods and a box of newly tied flies. That wasn’t all, of course, as she’d mentioned on the phone.

  “What about dangerous critters? The way you describe the place, it sounds pretty wild.”

  “Alligators, of course, but I didn’t see any big enough—”

  “I’m talking about pythons. After what happened last winter, nobody knows better than me they’re dangerous. They’ve darn near taken over the Glades.”

  Irksome, the man’s naïve laughter, although some would have read it as confidence. “I’ll bring snake repellent,” he’d said, then changed his mind. “What am I saying? You’re the most self-reliant person I know. You’ll bring your own.”

  It was his way: risk a mild joke, then apologize with a compliment that fired confidence, and sometimes a blush.

  Marion was an unusual man. Thinking his name produced an inward smile, albeit bittersweet. She had been in love only once in her life—with him. Maybe still was. It didn’t matter. She had wanted this child even before she knew it, so Ford’s solitary lifestyle, and his secrecy, had eliminated him not as her one hope for a kindred mate, but as a father.

  With Hannah, her child would always come first.

  From a distance, the chain-drive clunk of the VW van shifting gears drew her attention. She started down the dock to investigate. Near the mangroves, a squadron of mosquitoes forced a retreat. Her body had adapted to the bites, as most do, except for tender areas such as ankles and behind the knees. She swatted her way into the cabin, and saw the time. First light was in less than three hours.

  Heck with bed, she thought. She would dress for a day in the Glades, stop at Perkins for breakfast, then doze at their meeting spot until Ford showed up to lead her the rest of the way.

  She was at the end of the dock, loading her SUV, when headlights rounded the curve and a Volkswagen van cruised past at idle, then sped up. Hard to make out details in the dark, but the peace symbol stickers under the brake lights looked familiar. She waved and hollered. The van followed the next curve, and it, and the sound of its engine, were gone.

  Strange, the feeling that came over her. Not fear, exactly. More a prickly awareness of something not quite right. She returned to her boat, and, after arguing with herself, decided there were a handful of people she could call anytime, day or night. She tried Tomlinson’s cell and got voice mail. Rather
than leave a message, she sent a text, asking if he was in the neighborhood. Ten minutes later, still no response.

  Her sense of unease climbed a notch. She called Ford.

  The biologist, although a methodical person, kept odd hours. When he answered on the first ring, the relief she felt was greater than anticipated, or cared to admit.

  “I feel like a fool calling you so late,” she said. “Did I wake you up?”

  “It’s early morning, not late,” replied the stickler for accuracy. “I hope you’re not calling to cancel our fishing trip. Is something wrong?”

  “I’ve got a question,” she said, and explained about the van. “I’m not sure it was his, but, seriously, what are the odds of seeing one like it in Sulfur Wells? I tried calling him, then sent a text. That was a while ago and I haven’t heard back.”

  Ford said, “That’s all?”

  “Okay, I’m being silly, but it seems strange. Doesn’t it to you?”

  “Tomlinson’s not a morning person, unless he starts at midnight. I doubt it was him. He’s looking after Tootsie’s niece at the cabin I told you about. At least, that’s where he’s supposed to be. You are coming to fish?”

  “I was just leaving when the van drove by. Doc . . . I could’ve sworn it was his. The same bumper stickers, everything. Are you on Sanibel or in the Glades?”

  Ford was in his truck, lights out, watching an airstrip where a turbo Cessna had just landed. “I’m staying at a hotel. I don’t understand why you’re leaving there so early. We’re meeting in Ochopee around seven, right?”

  “Maybe I should wait and see if he drives by again.” Hannah was now at the aft cabin window, looking out. “I’m sure he’ll call when he sees my text. I don’t know why I’m worried.” She waited through a long silence. “Marion, are you there?”

  Ford said, “I was just thinking . . . Yeah, call the police.”

  “Don’t make fun of me.”

  “I’m not. You’ve got good instincts, Hannah. You’re alone on your boat, and your mom’s alone in the house. I should have taken you more seriously when—”

  “Loretta’s with her bingo friends.”

  “You’re by yourself?”

  “She’s on a church trip to the Magic Kingdom. Now you’re scaring me. Is there some reason you—”

  “We’ll get an early start, that’s all,” Ford said. “Leave now, and text me when you’re on the road. I’ll meet you no later than six-fifteen. Oh, and Hannah?”

  She knew what he would say before the words were out of his mouth: there was nothing silly about trusting her instincts.

  “I learned that the hard way,” she replied.

  In the boat’s cabin, under the settee couch, was a lockbox she’d opened while packing. She took out a buckskin brown Galco holster. It was soft as glove leather, designed to be concealed inside the pants, or beneath a jacket or shirt. She hadn’t planned on wearing it because of the strain it might put on her tummy. Her lightweight khaki slacks were already snug, yet the holster felt okay once it was positioned inside the small of her back.

  In a shoulder bag loaded with fishing gear was a small 9mm pistol. It was a gift from her late uncle, Jake, who had been a Tampa detective until a couple of bullets had forced him into a safer line of work.

  Hannah popped the magazine, and locked the slide back above an empty chamber. The pistol was fifty-some years old, custom-made with a fluted barrel of burnished nickel-plated steel. On the handgrips, in red, an archaic Scottish word was stamped: DEVEL. It had taken some research to find out it meant to “smite” or “knock asunder.”

  Like Marion Ford, Uncle Jake had had a mysterious side.

  She holstered the pistol, the full weight of it, and experimented with how it felt sitting or walking. A further test was stepping up onto the dock, where she texted Ford: Leaving in 5.

  The magazine dug at her ribs when she descended into the cabin, so back into the gear bag it went. After a final look around, she was closing the bag, ready to leave, when a voice called her name from outside, and said something too faint to hear.

  Hannah went toward the door. Seconds later, she heard it again, a frightened voice, saying, “Are you home? I need help.”

  She looked out, then threw the door open and ran toward a girl, who stumbled from the mangrove shadows and collapsed before she reached the dock.

  24

  What Gracie wanted to do was warn the woman, scream her name and tell her to stop, phone the police, instead of rushing to kneel beside her in the shadows, then cooing, “What happened to you, sweetheart?”

  Too late. From behind, Mr. Bird grabbed Hannah’s hair, slapped a hand over her mouth, and slammed her to the ground. He was furious after circling the area three times before realizing Raven Girl lived on a boat.

  Gracie couldn’t watch after that, so turned away, until she heard the woman say, “Mister, touch me again, you’d better kill me. I won’t quit until you do.”

  The courage that required gave the girl a boost, but only made him madder. “Oh, I will, I will. When I’m ready.” Then drew a big fist back . . .

  Gracie averted her eyes. She wished she’d covered her ears.

  After that, the woman, Hannah Smith, went silent, except for breathing and an occasional gasp.

  “Fetch the tape, girl.”

  Gracie did.

  “Go aboard the boat and get her purse. Make sure you get her phone and keys, too.”

  She did.

  “Now hop in her car and lay them rear seats down so you two ladies have a place to stretch out.”

  She did that, too, fumbled around in the woman’s SUV, moving fishing rods, inflatable life jackets, and other gear to make room. Some of the light stuff, she tossed up front, because movement wasn’t easy—her right arm was taped to her side and her ankles were hobbled with rope.

  Something Gracie also did was hide a fillet knife in the back of the vehicle, inspired by Hannah’s show of bravery. She’d found it in the boat’s galley and managed to slip past while Mr. Bird was busy rolling the woman in a sheet.

  “Calms them down, makes ’em easier to lift,” he said to someone, not her or the woman. Speaking as if an invisible person watched from over his shoulder.

  He’d been doing that a lot since abandoning the van at a dump site in the mangroves. There, he’d argued with himself about setting the van on fire, then ended by muttering, “Ching-Ching, you ain’t got the brains of a toad. Cops see flames, they’ll figure it out. Step aside, unless you want your throat cut.” The thickest redneck accent had won out.

  Mr. Bird’s redneck rages were the worst. They put Gracie in robot mode.

  “Climb your butt in there so’s I can tape you right.”

  She did, crawled into the back of the SUV and lay next to Hannah, choosing the passenger side, where the knife was hidden under carpeting.

  “Damn it, sit up so I can do your hands.”

  The girl had been through this enough to know how to angle her wrists so the tape appeared to be tight but allowed some movement.

  “Now your mouth.”

  Same thing, if she let her jaw drop open before the first wrap was pulled tight.

  “Hey . . . what hell’s going on in that head of yours? You ain’t cried or pissed me off by screaming. Something tells me you’re being tricky.”

  Her body tightened when she felt the weight of him over her, searching for something in the car’s dome light.

  “You must like my new jail outfit, huh? Or did you miss me? Answer, goddamn it. I bet you missed our special times.”

  Gracie, eyes closed, replied with an affirmative mewling sound.

  “Lying bitch.”

  The hatch door slammed closed; then they were moving. Shadows streamed past the windows. Soon, on a smoother highway, came streetlights, and panels of light from cars passing in
the opposite direction.

  The woman, Captain Hannah, was conscious. Gracie sensed it from the way the woman braced her body for curves rather than roll, slack-muscled, like a corpse. The sheet lay loosely around her, her face exposed except where tape covered her mouth and part of her nose.

  Using an elbow, Gracie nudged her, and watched one glittering eye blink open. The girl reached over and, using a fingernail, scratched the tape away from the woman’s nose to provide more air.

  Hannah’s head turned in the darkness. She nodded imperceptibly, aware of the man’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

  “How ya’ll doing back there, Yum-Yum?”

  The girl’s grunt, two syllables, resembled the word okay.

  The man used a Bic to relight his opium pipe, and exhaled. “How about you, Raven? That’s what I call you from now on, ’cause you ain’t no captain. There’s never been a captain that compares to me, man or woman. How you getting along?” The SUV slowed. Through the side window, a crimson light blinked green. They were moving again, accelerating up a grade, into the occasional wind wake of an Interstate. “Goddamn, you Smiths are stubborn. Ya’ll never change . . . ANSWER ME.”

  The woman, staring into Gracie’s face, sent a signal. The girl responded on her behalf with a quizzical grunt to hide the truth.

  “Still out, huh? By god, that’ll teach her for sassing me. Long as she ain’t dead, I don’t give a damn. Us three is going on a trip. You never been anyplace like it. Yum-Yum, you like to ride horseback and drink whiskey? I’ve about run out my string in this shithole you call a world.”

  The SUV slowed, swerved, while he re-loaded the pipe with crystal, then flooded the space with smoke that smelled of chlorine. The stereo came on, loud. News . . . static . . . hip-hop . . . NPR . . . a game show, the host saying something like, Wait, wait, we’ll be right back.

  “Fucker. Don’t expect me to wait.”

  Static, loud . . . louder as the driver’s-side window dropped open. “Hear that, Raven? Wind. That there’s what a real captain calls music.”