Mangrove Lightning

by Randy Wayne White

  Next, a bluegrass station, so loud the car vibrated.

  Hannah wormed closer so she was nose to nose with the girl. Facial expressions, a nod, a nudge with a knee, became forms of communication. It wasn’t easy. The left side of her face was grotesquely swollen, a reminder of the danger.

  Gracie knew what Hannah wanted. It took a while to muster the courage. With her fingernails and tongue, she levered the tape away from her own mouth just enough to speak in a whisper, her lips to the woman’s ear.

  “You okay?”

  Hannah surprised her by nodding: Yes.

  “He’s insane, we have to think of something.”

  Yes.

  “I’d loosen your tape, but I . . . He’ll kill us both when he sees it.”

  The woman’s stony silence meant, He’ll kill us anyway.

  Gracie’s courage began to fade. “You don’t know what he’s like. Maybe . . . maybe he’ll let us go. He looks and talks so different than I remember. Could be he’ll smoke enough to pass out, and—”

  An aggressive nudge silenced the girl. Hannah extended her chin, the message unmistakable: Loosen this damn tape.

  When Gracie did, the woman immediately vomited—a soft retching sound—then inhaled several filtering breaths. She had a concussion, or worse. Might die, possibly, the man had hit her so hard.

  “You need a doctor. Do you understand where you are?”

  Hannah knew something inside her head had been damaged. The nausea and strange strobing colors scared her, but she managed to nod in a way that meant I’m fine.

  After that, they took turns tilting their heads to converse. Short whispered fragments, lips to ear.

  When Hannah learned the girl was Tootsie Barlow’s niece, their predicament was less confusing but no less dire. She recalled fragments of the backstory. The survivor in her wondered, Why the hell did he come after me and my child?

  That had to wait.

  She struggled to make her mouth work while consciousness blurred. “Where’s he taking us?”

  Gracie didn’t know.

  “Does . . . does anyone know you’re missing?”

  Tomlinson did, but they’d left him at a cabin in the Everglades, no phone, no shoes, and his van stolen. “He’s had time to hike to a road by now . . . if his feet didn’t give out. I’m worried about him.”

  It wasn’t because of the shoes she was worried. Gracie said their captor had stopped the van after pulling away, then left her alone for fifteen minutes or so. “He could’ve gone back to the cabin and killed him. Honey, I’m so scared.”

  Hannah whispered, “Calm down,” but felt dizzier after what she’d just heard.

  Tomlinson . . . dead?

  The girl sniffed, and repositioned her head. “There’s something I’m almost afraid to tell you. He’s so damn strong, I don’t know if it’s even possible. I . . . I hid a knife. A knife I took from your boat. It’s here, somewhere near my knee, where the carpet pulls up.”

  “Get it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Get it. Now.”

  It took a couple of quiet minutes for Gracie to squirm her body around and find the thing. When she returned within whispering distance, Hannah, fighting to remain conscious, told her what she’d been reluctant to reveal.

  “Cut my hands free. I’ve got a gun.”

  —

  Over the years, Mr. Bird had used many hosts to savor many victims. Few were worthy of his ancient branding mark. The girl, a teenage biddy, hadn’t been chosen, but try to teach idiots like Vernon or Slaten the difference between delicious and deathless.

  Old Walter, as raw as he was, understood. Only men without a conscience were trustworthy. Morality was such a spidery web of lies that—

  Hold on. Movement in the mirror interrupted the buzz he was enjoying. He sniffed, and watched the females converse, unconcerned, until something metallic caught a flash of light.

  “Pit stop,” he announced, and swerved onto the shoulder, the headlights showing cattails and a canal dug by dredges that were also used to build the road back in Walter’s day. “You girls go ahead and piss anytime, anywhere you want. This ain’t my buggy.”

  He made a show of yawning, got out, then rushed around and threw the back hatch open. “What the hell’s going on in here? Move your asses, come on.”

  Gracie, hands and ankles bound, hit the ground like a sack of spuds when he pulled her out. His eyes skated over her body and saw nothing other than that she’d chewed through the tape again. Nothing unexpected about that. It was the same when he yanked the sheet off Hannah, but he wasn’t done once he saw that she was awake.

  “Look familiar, do I? I should. This ain’t the first time we met. I done kilt you once, almost a hundred years ago.”

  The woman glared at the crazy man through her one good eye.

  “My god, your face looks like someone pumped it full of goo. But still a feisty li’l vixen, huh? Hurry up, now, roll over . . . Better yet, sit up and let me pull that shirt off. I’m dying to see what’s under there.”

  Hannah, staring, said, “Lay a hand on me, you might.”

  The expression on the man’s face asked What the hell’s that mean?

  Her lips felt numb. She had to wet them to say, “You would’ve found it anyway,” and lifted her shoulder to reveal the knife because it was the only way to avoid a more thorough search. “Must’a fallen out of my tackle box. Don’t think I wouldn’t have used it, I would’ve. But at least give me credit for cooperating.”

  Goddamn. Ol’ Walter would’ve eaten this woman up with a spoon.

  The man palmed the knife, felt its weight, then touched the point to her belly. Beautiful, the expression of horror this produced. “You got some chili pepper in you, girl—and that ain’t all, from what I’ve heard. I like that. Two playthings rolled into one. Get it?”

  Hannah hyperventilated while the man laughed.

  “Why, look at you. Seems I finally got your attention. Now shift your ass a little . . . that’s right, on your side, and let me see your hands are still taped good and tight.”

  They were.

  Satisfied, he lifted Gracie like a sack of grain, tossed her into the back, and slammed the hatch closed. They were driving east again on the Tamiami Trail when the first low plateau of sawgrass appeared beneath a horizon of stars.

  Back in Walter country.

  Another ounce of crystal freshened his pipe. Smoke plumed from his nose. Mr. Bird returned with his recollections to instruct Vernon, not just to entertain. Over the decades, he’d found only one ingress and egress to this part of the world. Otherwise, he would’ve balked at coming back, but, goddamn it, the pond, Chino Hole, was his only conduit home—home to the past.

  He had come to hate the present as much as he despised them all: the Barlows and Walter Lambeth, and their crazy retarded kin.

  This would be his last trip.

  On the stereo, country twang replaced bluegrass, the bass speakers booming. Music so loud and sweet, it was impossible not to sing along.

  “Hey, hey, good-lookin’, what’cha got dah-dah. How ’bout cookin’ up dah-dah-dah-dah-dee . . .”

  Grinning, Vernon blew smoke rings at the dash . . . then yelled, “Sheee-it!” when, out of nowhere, a man stepped onto the highway, waving his arms. A tall, skinny man with a ponytail, not young, not old, more like a hippie holdover from another time who’d decided, Screw hitchhiking, I’ll flag down a car.

  Familiar, the man, as his face blurred past.

  The SUV swerved, braked hard, and bounced to a stop after a hundred yards of weeds and gravel. The hipster, a bag over his shoulder, reappeared in the rearview mirror. He was running barefoot on asphalt.

  Vernon realized, It’s Gracie’s boyfriend.

  Mr. Bird whispered, “I’ll tell you when to kill him.”
/>   25

  When Hannah texted from her boat Leaving in 5, Ford had been mildly irked.

  He’d asked . . . no, he’d told her to let him know when she was safely on the road. The difference between leaving and left, as he knew, could span a lifetime.

  That was an hour ago. Since then, not a word. If there wasn’t a pressing need to be where he was—sitting, with lights off, in a hotel parking lot—he would have gone straight to their meeting place. It was a shed-sized post office in Ochopee, another lost village in the Everglades.

  Hannah’s cell went to voice mail. A text sent twenty minutes ago remained unanswered. Ford rarely delighted in using what some in the business referred to as privileged access, but he didn’t hesitate to use it now. He typed a code into a satellite phone. A robotic menu led him through more security measures and finally to a human voice.

  “I need a GPS track, South Com quadrant,” Ford said, and provided Hannah’s cell number.

  “Level, sir?”

  Standard triangulation was usually good enough, but not out here in the Glades. “Keyhole aspect,” he said.

  “Aye-aye, sir,” was the reply. “Active or a pin locator?”

  “Full on, and keep it running,” Ford said, because . . . well, why not? He would have done the same for any of his friends, or so he rationalized.

  Somewhere high overhead, orbiting sensors began to interlock and probe. The phone’s screen changed. It showed the peninsula of Florida, then rocketed earthward to a ribbon of Interstate that was I-75. A pulsing saffron dot showed that Hannah was in a vehicle southbound, not far from the Fort Myers exit.

  This was reassuring. She had been delayed or had made an early stop for breakfast. Fort Myers was more than an hour from Ochopee, which gave him time to finish some unfinished business.

  Weird, though, that she didn’t answer her phone. Or, maybe she’d switched it off accidentally—it made no difference to the orbiting sensors.

  Further proof was available. He touched a series of buttons, and said, “Real time.”

  The screen changed again. Now he had a live view of I-75 from five miles above: flowing headlights, traffic sparse, at 4 a.m. He tapped the saffron dot. The camera zoomed. He watched until he was satisfied that Hannah was in her own vehicle or one very similar—a dark-colored SUV.

  After that, he felt better.

  It was 4:05 a.m.

  —

  At 4:35, curtains in a ground-floor hotel suite brightened. Ford had been ready for a while. Torqued onto his 9mm Sig was a Thompson sound suppressor. Clipped to his belt was a military stun device, and he wore surgical gloves. Before getting out, he used a tiny six-watt laser to fry the building’s security camera, then walked to the door. Within, a shower hissed, a toilet flushed. The odor of coffee mingled with morning summer air. He placed his hand on the doorknob. And waited.

  It didn’t take long. When the knob turned, he slammed the door open, saying, “Don’t make me shoot,” while his eyes moved in sync with the pistol, seeing a bedroom, bed unmade, a kitchenette, and a table where two carry-on bags were packed, ready to go.

  The man they belonged to stumbled back in shock. “Hey—easy, now. Shit. What you want?” Next came a look of recognition. “Goddamn . . . it’s you.”

  Ford knew he was being tailed but had been unsure who it was until now. He swung the door closed without taking his eyes off Donell, the Bahamian constable he’d bribed on Andros. “Are they blackmailing you or are you just stupid?”

  “I can explain, man, give me a chance. You don’t think I’d—”

  “Answer the question. Are they paying you?”

  “Well, depends on—”

  “Goddamn it, Donell, I need to know who I’m dealing with. If they’ve got leverage on you or your family, then—”

  “No, man. This strictly business.” The Bahamian, regaining some composure, lowered his hands long enough to straighten his collar. “If a better financial opportunity come along, yeah, could be I’m interested—if that’s what you’re asking. We both professionals, gotta look out for ourselves. Ain’t that right?”

  “How much?”

  “Money? Man, that’s personal. Paying me, yeah, but not to kill you, if that’s what you’re thinking. I don’t do that kind’a work. They sent me to recover what you stole from a gentleman in our fine city of Nassau. I believe you know what I’m referring to.”

  The Bahamian had mixed a lie with the truth. Ford played along. “The thumb drives.”

  “The very same. Must be valuable to a certain party.”

  “If that’s all they want, we might be able to work a deal. The technology’s too good these days. Turns out, the stealth drives, they self-destruct if the wrong sequence is entered. My buyers backed out; now I’m stuck.”

  “Oh? Strikes me, that there’s a good selling point when discussing the matter with friends of mine. Got all three?”

  “In pristine condition. I’ll want something in return, of course.”

  Donell grinned. “See? This how the world works. Okay, now let’s hear what that is. Mind if I put my hands down while we . . . ?” He waited for Ford to nod before doing it, lowering his arms, and moving to establish his personal space. “What you’re wondering is, am I some pimp flunky or actually part of the operation we’re discussing? That’s the question you could’ve asked right off, and saved us waving guns around.”

  “They send executives to do this sort of shit? Come on, Donell.”

  “If I didn’t trust you, man, I wouldn’t bother sharing the realities of the situation. We very careful, when it comes to security. Of who does what in our particular line of business.”

  “Oh, you’ve proven that. Tell me about it. What sort of business?”

  The man’s smile faded. “This a test? I don’t care much for being called a liar. The movie business, we’ll call it that.” In response to Ford’s cold stare, he added, “I ain’t one of the prissies buys that shit, but, as I said, money is money.”

  “If you didn’t do it, someone else would, right?” Ford waved the Bahamian back a step, and bolted the door. “Pretty risky, coming to the state that wants to extradite you. Must be important. You’re a vested member; have a professional interest, I suppose.”

  Donell’s ego liked that. “Why hire if you got the desire? Dealing with you, it’s a job I wanted done right. That’s why I’m here personally.”

  “Your boss approved, huh?”

  “Those in executive positions, we do what we have to do.”

  “Call them,” Ford said. “Call your partners and put them on speaker.”

  “Huh?”

  “You heard me. Where’s the special phone you use?”

  Donell’s eyes involuntarily started toward the table before he caught himself. “In my pocket, where else?”

  “Which bag?” Ford asked. He shifted the pistol to his left hand, and dumped the contents of the smallest bag on the floor. A blue Gresso satellite phone landed next to a shaving kit. “Russian-made,” he said, and kicked the phone within Donell’s reach. “I know better than to guess at the password. Call your people, tell them I have what they want and we’ll make a deal.”

  The man exaggerated a show of patience. “Come on . . . it ain’t that easy. You know that. Let’s stop this foolishness, my brother, and—”

  “Quiet. Someone’s coming.” Ford motioned to the window while reaching for the stun device on his belt. When Donell turned, fifty thousand volts dropped him to the floor.

  First, Ford confirmed the man wasn’t choking on his own tongue, then went through the bags. By the time he was done, Donell was conscious and his muscle spasms had ceased.

  “We’re going for a ride,” Ford said. He helped the Bahamian to his feet.

  —

  East of Route 29, almost to the village of Ochopee, Ford turned right through
No Trespassing signs onto a shell road. A mile and a couple of turns later, the headlights panned across a turbo Cessna, nose angled toward stars. He beeped the horn, three shorts and a long—the letter V in Morse code.

  A light in the cockpit came on. It blinked three times in reply—a short, a long, a short—the letter R.

  R for “ready.”

  Handcuffed to the door, Donell was ready, too.

  “Call them,” Ford said.

  “Already told you I would, but you gotta promise me, man. We got us a deal, right?”

  “Depends on how convincing you are,” Ford said while he typed a code into the Russian satellite phone. “Go ahead. You know what to say.”

  They’d spent the drive going over it, back and forth. Negotiations had improved when Donell, on his knees in a ditch, felt a gun on his neck. The man wasn’t the major player he pretended to be, but he’d been in the business a while through contacts in the Bahamian government. He was a facilitator and probably an occasional procurer of victims, although he’d stopped short of confessing that.

  Ford had recorded it all, as he did the conversation that came next, Donell on speaker with a man who had an Arabic accent.

  The deal offered was this: in return for the thumb drives, the organization would admit through an anonymous source that “evidence” used to blackmail an unnamed Member of Parliament was bogus. The information had to be emailed within the hour, along with details regarding how the material had been contrived.

  “Sounds very fair, sir,” Donell concluded.

  “You’re a fool if you believe that,” the man said through the speaker. “Is someone pointing a gun at your head? Tell him to shoot, you’ll be better off.”

  Ford took over. “Let’s pretend someone did harvest information from the thumb drives I have. You won’t know for certain until you get them back. Either way, you lose if you say no. Are you aware that Donell is a wanted man in Florida?”

  “Arrest him, hang him, why would I care?”

  “Because you’ll be next in line, along with your people in the Bahamas. Chances are, the prosecutor will cut a deal with Donell in return for everything he knows. How’s my offer sounding now?”