by Carl Hiassen
"What's that?"
"Just what it says."
Kara Lynn was puzzled. "I don't see any bulldozers."
"No, those would be used later, for contour clearing."
"Then what do they use for this 'terrain modification'?" she asked.
"Dynamite," Skip Wiley replied. "At dawn."
Kara Lynn thought she might have heard him wrong, thought it might have been a trick of the wind.
"Did you say dynamite?" she asked.
"Eight hundred pounds," Skip Wiley said, "split into three payloads. One at the northwest tip, another at the southeast cove. The third cache, the big one, is right over there, no more than twenty yards. Can you see it? That galvanized box beneath those trees."
From where she sat Kara Lynn saw nothing but shadows.
"I ... I don't ... " She was choking on fear, unable to speak. Hold on, she told herself.
"They do it by remote control," Wiley explained, "from a barge. We passed it on the way out, anchored three miles off the island. You were asleep."
"Oh ... " The plan was more terrible than she had imagined; all the stalling had been futile, a wasted strategy.
"They have to do it at dawn," Wiley went on, "some kind of Army Corps rule. Can't bring boats any closer to the island because the blast'll blow the windows out."
He ambled to the campfire and stood with his back to her for several moments. His naked cantaloupe head twitched back and forth, as if he were talking to himself. Abruptly he turned around and said, "The reason for the dynamite is the coral. See—" He kicked at the ground with his shoe. "Harder than cement. They need to go down twenty-four inches before pouring the foundation for the condo. Can't make a dent with shovels, not in this stuff ... so that's why the dynamite. Flip of a switch and—poof—turn this place into the Bonneville flats. Eight hundred pounds is a lot of firecracker."
Kara Lynn steadied herself just enough to utter the most inane question of her entire life: "What about me?"
Wiley spread his arms. "No life forms will survive," he said in a clinical tone. "Not even the gnats."
"Please don't do this," Kara Lynn said.
"It's not me, Barbie Doll, it's progress. Your beef is with Puerco Development."
"Don't leave me here," she said, just shy of a beg.
"Darling, how could I save you and not save that magnificent eagle? Or the helpless rabbits and the homely opossums, or even the lowly fiddler crabs? It's impossible to rescue them, so I can't very well rescue you. It wouldn't be fair. It would be like ... playing God. This way is best, Kara Lynn. This way—for the first time in nineteen pampered years—you are truly part of the natural order. You now inhabit this beautiful little island, and the value of your life is the same as all creatures here. If they should survive past dawn, so shall you. If not ... well, maybe the good people of Florida will finally appreciate the magnitude of their sins. If Osprey Island is leveled in the name of progress, I predict a cataclysmic backlash, once the truth is known. The truth being that they blew up the one species they really care about—a future customer."
Kara Lynn was running low on poise. "The symbolism is intriguing," she said, "but your logic is ridiculous."
"Just listen," Wiley said. From a breast pocket he took another clipping and read: " 'Officials in South Florida estimate that adverse publicity surrounding December's tourist murders has cost the resort area as much as ten million dollars in family and convention trade.'" Wiley waved the clip and gloated. "Nottoo shabby, eh?"
"I'm impressed," Kara Lynn said archly. "A month's worth of killing and all you've got to show for it is one dinky paragraph in Newsweek"
"It's the lead Periscope item!" Wiley said, defensively.
"Terrific," Kara Lynn said. "Look, why don't you let me go? You can do better than this."
"1think not."
"I can swim away," she declared.
"Not all tied up, you can't," Wiley said. "Besides, the water's lousy with blacktip sharks. Did you know they spawn at night in the shallows? Aggressive little bastards, too. A bite here, a bite there, a little blood and pretty soon the big boys pick up the scent. Bull sharks and hammerheads big enough to eat a goddamn Datsun."
"That'll do," said Kara Lynn.
Something rustled at the edge of the clearing. A branch cracking in the storm, she thought. Skip Wiley cocked his head and peered toward the sound, but the hard rain painted everything gray and hunched and formless. The only identifiable noises were raindrops slapping leaves, and the hiss of embers as the campfire died in the downpour.
Wiley was not satisfied. Like an ungainly baseball pitcher, he wound up and hurled the survey stake end-over-end into the trees.
The missile was answered by an odd strangled peep.
Wiley chuckled. "Just as I thought," he said, "a wood stork."
Just then the thicket ruptured with an explosion so enormous that Kara Lynn was certain that Wiley had accidentally detonated the dynamite.
When she opened her eyes, he was sitting down, slack-jawed and pale. The red kerchief was askew, drooped over one eye. Both legs stuck straight out, doll-like, in front of him. He seemed transfixed by something close at hand—a radiant splotch of crimson and a yellow knob of bone, where his right knee used to be. Absently he fingered the frayed hole in his trousers.
Kara Lynn felt a surge of nausea. She gulped a breath.
Brian Keyes moved quickly out of the trees.
His brown hair was plastered to his forehead; rain streamed down his cheeks. His face was blank. He was walking deliberately, a little hurried, as if his flight were boarding.
He strode up to Skip Wiley, placed a foot on his chest, and kicked him flat on his back. A regular one-man cavalry! Kara Lynn was elated, washed with relief. She didn't notice the Browning in Brian's right hand until he shoved the barrel into Wiley's mouth.
'"Hello, Skip," Keyes said. "How about telling me where you anchored the boat?"
Wiley's wolfish eyes crinkled with amusement. He grunted an indecipherable greeting. Keyes slowly withdrew the gun, but kept it inches from Wiley's nose.
"Holy Christ!" Wiley boomed, sitting up. "And I thought you were dangerous with a typewriter."
"You're losing blood," Keyes said.
"No thanks to you."
"Where's the boat?"
"Not so fast."
Keyes fired again, the gun so close to Wiley's face that the charge knocked him back down. Wiley clutched at his ears and rolled away, over the sharp corrugated coral. The bullet had thwacked harmlessly into the stucco rubble of the old cabin.
Kara Lynn cried out involuntarily—she was afraid she'd have to watch a killing. Keyes came over, untied her, and gave a gentle hug. "You okay?"
She nodded. "I want to get out of here. They're going to dynamite this place—"
"I know." He had to find Wiley's boat.
Joey the shrimper had been generous enough to provide a tin of smoked amberjack and a jug of water before letting them off, but he had not been generous enough to wait around. Muttering about the obscene cost of fuel, he had aimed the Tina Marieaway from the island, leaving his passengers to find their own way back to the mainland.
Keyes stood over Wiley and ordered him to sit up.
"You're in an ugly mood," Wiley said nervously. His ears rang. He felt like he was talking down a tunnel.
Keyes took off his shirt and tied it around Wiley's mutilated leg. 'We haven't got much time," he said.
Wiley studied Brian intently; the gun made him a stranger. The violent eruption was unnerving enough, but what sobered Wiley even more was the look of chilling and absolute indifference. This was not the same polite young man who'd sat next to him in the newsroom; Wiley feared a loss of leverage. Against this Brian Keyes, in this place, Wiley's weapons were greatly limited. Right away he ruled out charm, wit, and oratory.
"How'd you find me?"
"Never mind," Keyes said.
"Jenna told you, right?"
"No." So she had kno
wn. Of course she knew. "Give me the keys to the Mako," Keyes said.
Grudgingly Wiley handed them over.
He pointed at Kara Lynn. "It's the girl, isn't it? You fell for her! That's why you're in Charlie Bronson mode—defending the fair maiden. Just your luck, Brian. Seems like I'm always screwing up your love life."
Keyes didn't know how much longer he could hold up. He wanted to go now, while he still had the strength, while he was still propelled by whatever it was that let him pull the trigger one more time.
"Kara Lynn, would you like to know a secret about Mr. Keyes?"
She said nothing, knowing that it wasn't finished yet. Not as long as Wiley could speak.
"Don't you want to hear a war story?" Wiley asked.
"Shut up," Keyes said.
"You want the boat? Then you've got to listen. Politely."
Keyes grabbed Wiley's wrist and looked at the watch. It was half-past five; they'd be cutting it close.
"A few years back, a little girl was kidnapped and murdered," Wiley said, turning to Kara Lynn, his audience. "After the body was found, Brian was supposed to go interview the parents."
"The Davenports," Keyes said.
"Hey, let me tell it!" Wiley said indignantly.
The rain had slackened to a sibilant drizzle. Keyes tore a piece of plastic from Kara Lynn's makeshift poncho and sat down on it. He felt oppressively lethargic, bone-tired.
"Brian came back with a great piece," Wiley said. "Mother, weeping hysterically; father, blind with rage. Tomorrow would be Collie Davenport's fourth birthday. Her room is full of bright presents, each tenderly wrapped. There's a Snoopy doll from Uncle Dennis, a Dr. Seuss from Grandpa. Collie, won't be there on her birthday, so the packages may sit there for a long time. Maybe forever. Her parents simply can't bear to go in her bedroom."
Keyes sagged. He couldn't believe that Wiley remembered the story, word for word. It was amazing.
"A real tearjerker," Wiley pronounced. "That morning half of Miami was weeping into their Rice Krispies." He seemed oblivious of pain, of the thickening puddle of blood under his leg.
"Kara Lynn," he said, "in my business, the coin of the realm is a good quote—it's the only thing that brings a newspaper story to life. One decent quote is the difference between dog food and caviar, and Brian's story about Callie Davenport was chocked with lyrical quotes. 'All I want,' sobbed the little girl's father, 'is ten minutes with the guy who did this. Ten minutes and a clawhammer.' A neighbor drove Callie's mother to the morgue to identify her daughter. Iwanted to lie down beside her,' Mrs. Davenport said. 'I wanted to put my arms around my baby and wake her up ... ' "
Keyes said, "That's enough."
"Don't be so modest," Wiley chided. "It's the only thing you ever wrote that made me jealous."
"I made it all up," Keyes said, taking Kara Lynn's hand. He was hoping she'd squeeze back, and she did.
Wiley looked perturbed, as if Brian had spoiled the big punch line.
"I drove out to the house," Keyes said in a monotone. "I was expecting a crowd. Neighbors, relatives, you know. But there was only one car in the driveway, they were all alone ... I knocked on the door. Mrs. Davenport answered and I could see in her eyes she'd been though hell. Behind her, I saw how they'd put all of Callie's pictures out in the living room—on the piano, the sofas, the TV console, everywhere ... you never saw so many baby pictures. Mr. Davenport sat on the floor with an old photo album across his lap ... he was crying his heart out ...
"In a nice voice Mrs. Davenport asked me what I wanted. At first I couldn't say a damn thing and then I told her I was an insurance adjuster and I was looking for the Smiths' house and I must have got the wrong address. Then I drove back to my apartment and made up the whole story, all those swell quotes. That's what the Sunprinted."
"The ultimate impiety," Wiley intoned, "the rape of truth."
"He's right," Keyes said. "But I just couldn't bring myself to do it, to go in that house and intrude on those people's grief. So I invented the whole damn story."
"I think it took guts to walk away," Kara Lynn said.
"Oh please." Wiley grimaced. "It was an act of profound cowardice. No self-respecting journalist turns his back on pain and suffering. It was an egregious and shameful thing, Pollyanna, your boyfriend's no hero."
Kara Lynn stared at Wiley and said, "You're pathetic." She said it in such a mordant and disdainful way that Wiley flinched. Obviously he'd misjudged her, and Keyes too. He had saved the Callie Davenport story all these years, anticipating the moment he might need it. Yet it had not produced the desired effect, not at all. He felt a little confused.
Keyes said to Kara Lynn, "I had to quit the paper. I'd stepped over the line and there was no going back."
"At least I hawk the truth," Wiley cut in. "That's what this campaign is all about—dramatizing the true consequence of folly." He struggled wobbly to his feet. He gained balance by clutching a sea-grape limb and shifting all weight to his left side. The other leg hung like a dead and blackening trunk.
"Brian, I don't know if you'll ever understand, but try. All that wretched grief the Davenports spent on their little girl is exactly what I feel when I think what's happened to this place. It's the same sense of loss, the same fury and primal lust for vengeance. The difference is, I can't turn my back the way you did. My particular villain is not some tattooed sex pervert, but an entire generation of blow-dried rapists with phones in their Volvos and five-million-dollar lines of credit and secretaries who give head. These are the kind of deviants who dreamed up the Osprey Club, idiots who couldn't tell an osprey from a fucking parakeet."
Kara Lynn was amazed at Wiley's indefatigable fervor. Brian Keyes was not stirred; he'd heard it all before. Overhead the skies were clearing as the last of the rain clouds scudded west. On the horizon shone a tinge of magenta, the first promise of dawn. Time was running out and there was one last chore.
"Skip—"
"Brian, Kara Lynn, can you imagine the Asshole Quotient on this island one year from now? You'll need the goddamn Census Bureau just to count up all the gold chains—"
Keyes slipped the Browning into his belt. "Where's the boat, Skip?"
"I changed my mind," he said peevishly. "You'll have to find it yourself. If you don't, we all go boom together. That's a much better story, don't you think? Condo Island Blast Claims Three."
"Try four," Keyes said.
Wiley fingered his beard. His needle-sharp eyes went from Keyes to Kara Lynn and back. "What are you talking about?"
"She's here, Skip."
"Jenna?"
Keyes pointed to the hardwoods.
"Jenna's on the island?"
"I thought we'd play some bridge," said Keyes.
"Why'd you bring her!" Wiley demanded angrily.
"So we'd be even."
Wiley said, "Brian, I had no idea you were such a mean-spirited sonofabitch." He looked profoundly disappointed.
"Wait here," Keyes said. Quickly he went into the woods.
"Did you know about this?" Wiley asked Kara Lynn.
"What're you so upset about?" she said. "It'll make a better story, right?"
Mulling options, Wiley nibbled his lower lip.
Keyes returned, leading Jenna by the hand. At the sight of her, Wiley's face drained.
"Oh boy," he said in a shrunken voice.
"I'm sorry, Skip," Jenna said. She acted embarrassed, mortified, like a teenager who'd just wrecked her father's brand-new car.
"She's a little shy," Keyes explained. "She didn't want you to know she was here."
"I ruined everything," Jenna said. She gasped when she saw Wiley's mangled knee but made no move to dress the wound. Florence Nightingale Jenna was not.
Wiley looked at his watch. It said 6:07. Dawn came at 6:27 sharp.
"Skip's through talking," Keyes said to Jenna. "He's said everything he could possibly say. Now all four of us are going to get aboard the boat and get the hell off this island before it bl
ows up."
Wiley kneaded the calf of his right leg. "I can't believe you actually shot me," he said.
"I thought it might shut you up."
"Just what the hell were you aiming for?"
"What's the difference?" Keyes said.
Kara Lynn had climbed the old homestead plot. The elevation was scarcely ten feet, but it was high enough to afford a view of the surrounding waters, now calm. A distant wisp of brown diesel smoke attracted her attention.
"I think I see the barge," she said.
Keyes said, "What's it going to be, Skip?"
Wiley gazed at Jenna; Keyes figured it was about time for a big sloppy hug. They both looked ten years older than before, yet still not quite like a couple.
"There's a mooring at the north end, on the lee side, opposite the way you came," Wiley said tiredly. "That's where the Mako's anchored up. You'd best get going."
"We're allgoing," Keyes said.
"Not me," Wiley said. "You can't make me, podner." He was right. The gun didn't count for anything now.
"Hey, there's an eagle," Jenna said.
The bird was airborne, elegantly soaring toward the pines. It carried a silvery fish in its talons.
"Just look at that," Wiley marveled, his eyes brightening beneath the Seminole bandanna. He took off his baseball cap in salute.
"It's a gorgeous bird," Kara Lynn agreed, tugging on Brian's arm. Time to go, she was saying, step on it.
"Skip, come with us," Keyes urged.
"Or what? You gonna shoot me again?"
"Of course not."
Wiley said, "Forget about me, pal. I'm beginning to like it here." He held out his arms and Jenna went to him. Wiley kissed her on the forehead. He touched her hair and said, "I don't suppose you want to keep a one-legged lunatic company?"
Jenna's eyes, as usual, gave the answer. Keyes saw it and looked away. He'd seen it before.
"Aw, I don't blame you," Wiley said to her, "the bugs out here are just awful." He patted her on the butt and let go.
To Keyes he whispered, "Help her pick out a new coffee table, okay?"
"Skip, please—"