But the instant he and Fleet had loosened their grips, Herbott had bolted away, trying to escape, and they had had to do the same thing all over again.
"Hit him over the head with something! Find a limb! Kill him!"
Had he, Dr. William Bambridge, really said that?
Yes, and he had meant it. But instead of a tree limb, Fleet had found a coil of rope, and the first thing they had done was pull a noose around Herbott's neck so they could control him. They'd tied his hands and feet tightly, then tumbled him over the side, into the Captain's antique boat. He and Fleet both so loaded on adrenaline that they'd walked and talked with the exaggerated control of drunks.
"We have to stay calm, Bambridge."
"Yes, calm. Exactly right."
"He left us only one option."
"Our actions are entirely justified. That son of a bitch!"
After that, things were a blur. Bambridge had tended to the old man while Fleet rushed around trying the portable VHF radios each of them had stored in their skiffs, just on the chance there was another boat in range. But the batteries were dead. So he had cut their own boats free and waded the sailboat away from the mangroves far enough to get the raw wood mast stepped and the sail up.
The whole time, Herbott had been yelling, "Let's think about this. We can make a deal here. Cut me loose and we'll talk about it. I have connections!"
Calm despite his wounds, Henry Short had sat on the bow, directing them through the first narrow cuts toward Mango, his shirt and pants sopped with blood. To Charles Herbott, all he had said was, "Short'un, you had no call to throw my side-by-side into the bay. I'm gonna miss that gun."
Which had caused Herbott to laugh hysterically. "You know the funny thing, boys? The gun! That fucking gun! It wasn't loaded!"
What got Angela Walker's attention was someone down by the water yelling, "Call an ambulance! A doctor! This is an emergency!"
She turned and saw a decrepit-looking boat with a peeling gray hull and a leaf brown sail moving slowly, slowly toward shore.
She had noticed it earlier, farther off, but had dismissed it as just another sailboat.
The man doing the yelling had matted hair, a scraggily beard, and his shorts were belted with a rope. He looked like a shipwreck victim
… and that's when it dawned on her.
My God… it's them.
She had been hunting around for Tucker Gatrell; wanted to congratulate him before she pinned him to the wall and made him admit that he had wasted her whole day just to demonstrate how clever he could be.
As if she didn't already know that.
Maybe confront Ford, too-find out whether he had been helping his uncle from the start. But hoped he hadn't been. For some reason, she kept imagining herself in that jade-colored boat of his, learning how to water-ski.
But then she heard the man yelling, and she fell in with a group of people jogging toward the boat.
"Someone find a doctor. We need an ambulance!"
The scraggily man kept repeating that, even as he jumped into the shallows and pulled the boat ashore. "Somebody get to a phone and call the police!"
Walker pushed her way through the crowd, hesitated at the water, then slogged through the mud to the boat, saying, "I am the police," as she started asking questions, trying to place the two men who stood there gaunt as scarecrows, looking at her.
The one at the back of the boat was Chuck Fleet, the surveyor. He was burned copper by the sun, and had a reddish beard, but it was him. She could tell from the photographs she had studied every night-for how many nights?
But when the shirtless man said he was William Bambridge, she couldn't believe it. The Bambridge she knew from the files had a pork-chop face and a professorial smugness. This man was hollow-cheeked and wild-eyed. The skin flopped around on his bones as he continued to swing his arms, shouting orders. "We can't stand around talking. The Captain's hurt bad! Someone get his legs. We'll carry him to land."
Walker knew she had to assume control, and she did. She caught Bambridge by the elbow, swung him around, saying, "This woman says she's an off-duty paramedic." She motioned toward a woman who was already leaning over the injured man. "So you let her take care of things while we talk, okay?"
"But he's my friend-"
"He's a kidnapper!" Some unknown voice calling from what seemed to be the bottom of the boat.
The paramedic called to Walker, "This guy's lost a lot of blood. We need air rescue, a chopper."
To the crowd, Walker said, "Someone go find a telephone. Say Special Agent Walker is requesting a helicopter. Now!" as she leaned to look into the boat for the first time.
What in the hell was going on here?
A wiry old man-with his parchment brown skin, he could have been a hundred years old-lay unconscious, bleeding, bandaged in an assortment of rags. On the floor beneath him was the third missing man, Charles Herbott. Herbott was roped up tightly, belly to the deck, but he could still look up at Walker by arching his neck. Actually managed to smile at her as he said, "You really are a cop? Great. Then arrest these three men. The old man for kidnapping. The other two as accessories. Now, get a knife and cut me loose!"
"Why is Mr. Herbott tied?" She was looking at Fleet, who hadn't said a word so far.}ust stood there with a mild look of relief on his face, stretching his arms and neck as if he was very tired.
"Because he attacked Captain Short with a machete, that's why. So we had to restrain him, tie him up like that. Self-defense. He'd've done the same to us. I think he needs some psychiatric help."
"That's a lie!"
The way Herbott screamed out the words made Walker think that Fleet was probably right about the last part.
"But the old man, he did kidnap you?"
"No. Absolutely not." Bambridge talking again-she couldn't get over how skinny he was.
Fleet said, "It's complicated, but, no, he didn't kidnap us."
"No one hijacked your boats? The old man? No one else?"
"They broke down, all three. Captain Short helped us."
"Then why did Herbott attack him with a machete?"
"That's complicated, too. But the attack was unprovoked-"
From the boat: "They're out to get me, I tell you. He's lying!"
"No, I'm not lying. I saw the whole thing from the bushes. The entire chain of events. If anything, you should arrest Herbott for attempted murder."
"Talk to the governor, lady, and see how far you get with that. Hah!"
To Walker, Herbott was sounding crazier and crazier.
Walker said, "Okay, one at a time, one at a time. I'm not arresting anybody. No one's going anywhere till I hear the whole story. Mr. Fleet, first you. Privately. Dr. Bambridge, you just stand there on the beach. Wait until we're done."
Herbott from the boat: "Goddamn it, untie me! You're detaining me illegally."
"I'm not detaining you, Mr. Herbott. I just don't have time to set you free. Be patient."
Walker listened to Fleet, then to Bambridge; felt sorry for the men-they were so exhausted, they were weaving. Once she had to interrupt Fleet, tell people in the crowd to step back, stay away from the boat. Another time to point Tucker Gatrell to the injured man as Gatrell came splashing up, demanding, " 'Scuse my language, Miz Walker, but what the deuce is goin' on in my bay?"
She paused long enough to watch Gatrell kneel over the man; heard him say, "Gawldamn, Henry, you back down every bad actor in these islands, only to let one of these pencilheads get the drop on you?"
Every now and then, Walker would think to herself, I found them.
By the time it was Herbott's turn, the helicopter was dropping down, scattering sand and throwing water as it landed on the beach. The thing was going whap-whap-whap, and Walker had to hold her skirt down as she ducked beneath the blades. She identified herself to the pilot; asked him to radio the Sheriff's Department and have them send a detective unit to help her get this mess sorted out. From her purse, she took one of her cards, and wrote o
n the back, "I've got the three missing boaters."
But when she got back to the sailboat, she realized that was wrong.
A man was standing there, one of the gawkers, a sheepish expression on his face. "The man in here?" he said to her. "When I untied him, he just shoved me out of the way and ran off. No thanks or nothing. That's him-see him up there? The one running up the road toward that white van."
TWENTY-ONE
When the paramedic told Tuck, "The IV's kicked Mr. Short's blood pressure right back up-things are looking pretty good," he thanked the man, turned to tip his hat to Agent Walker, then walked back toward his ranch house, shaking hands along the way.
People would say to him, "Glad the state ain't taking your land, but too bad about the water."
Tuck would say, "Well, maybe it kills germs, being poisoned the way it is. One way or the other, it's keepin' me young."
He wanted to sit in his chair on the porch, just look at the view, enjoy the feeling of the land being his. Let Lemar Flowers handle things when Miz Walker stopped to ask more questions, as he knew she would. Just sit there smiling, watching her face as Lemar explained the facts of life when it came to old maritime law.
"As it so happens," Lemar would say, "I am also Mr. Short's legal counsel. And I hope you don't waste the court's time by trying to involve him in some frivolous charges."
Old Lemar, he knew how to weave words together. Like that land trust business. Lemar had said, "You want to sell your nephew seventy-five acres without him knowing it? Then you put it down on paper at appraised value, but only pay yourself a buck; do it all through a set-up corporate front. Name it Development Unlimited and Key Enterprises. Let the state try to figure out what it is. That's what you call him, isn't it? D-u-k-e?"
Tuck had liked that. Only he'd changed Key to Kamikaze- thought it had more flair. And Marion wouldn't know a thing about it.
"Until you die," Lemar had pointed out. "Then he gets it, free of inheritance tax."
Lemar had sounded kind of eager when he said that. After all, he had the same deal-only Lemar just got twenty-five acres.
Tuck already had plans for who got the rest.
Which made him think of Joseph.
That damn Injun. First time a plan of mine's ever worked right, and he's not around to see it. Maybe I'll call that Cypress Gate man, have him return the chickens and give back his horse in trade. Kinda miss the noisy little bastards, plus, it would keep Joe at home.
At the road, Tuck stopped to check for traffic-couldn't wait until all these damn tourists lost interest and headed home. First time in his life he could remember having to look for cars before crossing.
That morning, before saddling his horse, Joseph had told him, "What you done was make Mango just like the rest of Florida. That's saving it?"
But like Lemar said, "You got to break a few eggs to make an omelet."
From where he stood, Tuck could look beyond the sharp curve that led up Mango Road to the Tamiami Trail. A few cars were headed away, not many. People were too busy gawking at Henry Short down by the water. Even some of the state park people, standing there as if they might be able to help, but really just fascinated by the blood.
People don't get to see blood no more unless it's on TV or in a hospital. Like they're surprised we're made of it, blood and dust.
Tuck started to cross but then paused to watch the helicopter flap off. That took a minute or so, and the next time he glanced up the road, there was Joseph! That big black horse, Buster, had been quarter-gaiting in close to the mangroves, which is why Tuck hadn't seen him in the first place. It was always something Tuck took pleasure in, watching Joseph ride-though he would never have admitted it. The big man could sit a horse. Held himself on the saddle so that he flowed right along with the animal, no effort at all. Like he was doing now: Joe holding the reins in his left hand, wearing jeans and a pretty blue shirt one of the trailer park women had made for him. Had something in a white bag tied to the saddle horn, and… something else that was different, too, but Tuck couldn't figure it at first. But then he realized, Joseph wasn't wearing his roper's hat. Joe almost always wore his hat, especially when he was riding, but now he was bare-headed, except for a bright red ribbon of rag he had tied around his forehead so that the ribbon snapped in the wind.
Gawldamn, now he's even startin' to dress like an Injun.
Joseph looked up and waved, a look of amusement on his face. Tuck waved back, then stood there figuring how he'd work it. Joseph would ride up and say, "How'd the meeting go?" But Tuck decided he wouldn't answer right off. He'd say, "You want to know so bad, whyn't you stay here, see for yourself?"
Let Joseph stew a while, then just let the story slip out kind of matter-of-fact, like he'd expected to beat the park people all along, no problem.
Tuck grinned. Yep, that's just what he'd do. Make Joseph pull the story out of him; let the man see for himself just what a smart partner he'd had for all these years.
But then Tuck heard a woman yell, "Somebody stop that man!" and he stopped thinking about Joseph.
It was Miz Walker's voice, Tuck realized, and he whirled around to see that pretty woman sprinting away from the beach, pushing people aside as she ran toward the road.
A couple hundred yards ahead of her, someone else was running, too. A man, short little guy with muscles, that Tuck remembered from the marina, the day he'd used the chart to convince him that, by boat, the best way to Everglades National Park was through a narrow little cut. The Auger Hole, which was only about three or four miles from old Henry's island.
Herbott, that was the guy's name. Tuck had gotten another quick look at him, hog-tied in the bottom of Henry's boat.
Some cop. I deliver her four men and she's already lost two of 'em.
"I am ordering you to stop!"
Gad, now she had a gun out. Little black pistol-that made people scatter!
Tuck watched the man hesitate at the road, as if unsure which way to go. Walker was closing on him. That woman could run, even in a skirt! Then Herbott seemed to notice the white van-the engine was still running, keeping it cool inside. That quick, the man had the door open, jumped inside, and spun the tires, peeling out fast.
Tuck shook his head, chuckling to himself… but then he abruptly sobered, feeling a chill as if from a sharp wind. His eyes found Joseph, who was riding out on the road now, just east of where the blind curve swooped south. Then his eyes found the van again, accelerating fast from the south, with Herbott hunched over the wheel, no intention of slowing for the curve or anything else.
Then Tuck was running, too. Running hard toward Joseph, waving his arms at him, calling, "Get over, get over. Move that horse over, you gawldang fool!"
He was still yelling and waving when the van skidded around the curve, and then everything seemed to happen at once, but in terrible slow motion. Tuck could see surprise widen Joseph's eyes… the shock of being confronted by an out-of-control truck coming too fast to avoid hitting him… then a different kind of surprise-a kind of joyous bewilderment as his horse, Buster, exploded into one quick galloping stride and then jumped higher than any horse Tuck had ever seen jump before…
As Joseph Egret approached the last sharp curve into Mango, he saw the expression on Tuck's face, and he thought, I'll be damned, the old pirate won.
He could tell by Tuck's smirk, the way he had his hat tilted at a jaunty angle, thumbs in his belt loops, bowed legs and boots set firmly on the ground, like it was his forever, the land, the bay, the livestock, and everything else either one of them had ever cared much about.
It was Tuck's "you don't have to thank me now" pose.
Sure enough, he won, but he won't tell me about it. Not right off. He'll make me spend the whole night pullin' it out of him. Then I won't be able to get him to shut up about it for the next ten years.
That made Joseph smile, and he let Tuck see the smile as he waved back, talking to Buster as he did. "Know what this means, Buster? Means Tuck'll let me wa
sh these spots off your butt. No more crazy business. For a while, anyway. Tuck always likes to take a little vacation after something big like this. 'Bout six months, maybe."
Joseph had been talking along to Buster all day. Talked to him as they crossed the Tamiami Trail and followed Fakahatchee Trace back to his old palmetto shack. Talked to him as he dug up the bones of his grandfather and set them in the shade in a neat pile, all the earth brushed away, before placing them in the white pillowcase Sally Carmel had given him.
"He never amounted to much, but he wasn't a bad granddaddy, Buster. Took me all over the islands, campin' and fishin', and told me all them stories." Joseph had looked up at the horse briefly. "He did a lot of fightin', too, but it was all inside. That's what took his energy. But a man don't have to make something of his life to be worth somethin', huh?"
Later, Joseph told Buster what he was gonna do was rebury his grandfather down in the islands, maybe Henry Short's place. "Tuck says it's got a couple of nice mounds there, and flowin' water. And the mosquitoes is so bad, the treasure hunters won't come look n'."
Before h i left his old shack, Joseph took the Playboy calendar off the wall, then tied the door back on its hinges. It made the place look more respectable, Joseph felt.
Two hours later, he stopped at Jimmy Tiger's Famous Reptile Show, where he tapped shyly at the door and gave the calendar to Jimmy Tiger as a present.
"Joseph, you sure you don't need it?" Jimmy Tiger had shuffled him inside, brushing aside crawling great-grandchildren, then found a place by an oil lamp where, by holding the calendar right to his nose, Joseph knew the old man could see the calendar, because he described the photographs in detail.
"Look at that one! Ooh, and looka this one!"
While Jimmy's pretty granddaughter, Maria, fried fish for lunch, Jimmy asked him, "Joseph, you had any white women?"
Taken by surprise, Joseph had answered, "Today, you mean? It's still pretty early."
The last thing Joseph did before he left Jimmy Tiger's was give his black roper's hat to Maria. He could tell by the way she asked about where he'd bought it that she liked it. "Havana," he told her. "Nineteen fifty-eight."
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