by DS Whitaker
Smith gritted his teeth and sat back in the chair, crossing his legs. “Fine.”
Jacque smiled, “Robin, believe me, when I first heard about this concept, I had a similar reaction. But quite a lot has changed since Irmaria. Reports show the hurricanes did more than destroy our buildings, it changed the ecology drastically. The coral reefs we once treasured are gone, wiped out. In Section Five of your binder, you’ll see the ecologist’s report. A team of renowned marine biologists, from around the world, evaluated the area. Sadly, the reefs are not expected to recover for at least fifty years.”
Robin turned pages until she got to Section Five. An executive summary, followed by color photographs of the reef damage. Scientific study references outlining the assumptions and data. It seemed legitimate. “Hold on. Even if the corals are damaged, adding this kind of infrastructure and development would surely slow the reef’s recovery, wouldn’t it? I mean, all the industrial and airport runoff, the extra sewage from the visitors, it would only exacerbate the problem. The corals might never recover.”
“All great points. And the consortium has considered all those aspects and a mitigation plan is outlined in Section Six. In fact, the bridge design will include state-of-the-art technology for micro-plastics removal and create artificial beds to seed new corals. This project will be a model for ocean restoration. The proposal includes a ten-year study of the ecosystem to assess changes.”
“And when do they want to do this?”
Smith chimed up, “As soon as possible. All the other players in the BVI are on-board. The House of Commons won’t pursue it unless it’s a joint effort with the States. Congress needs your buy-in to advance the bill in the House. Senator Soria already wrote a letter of endorsement.”
Robin propped her cheek on her palm, staring at Smith with her head cocked. “I’m sorry, Mr. Smith, what is your role in this proposal again?”
Smith puffed up his chest and cocked his head to match hers. “I represent the private entity of this public-private partnership. The company I represent will put up a third of the construction costs for a third of the annual revenue over the next fifty years.”
Robin returned his stare. “What company was that again?”
Jacque quaked, “Senator, the terms of the partnership are described in Section Ten. There are hosts of other partners. NGO’s like Sea Turtles in Motion and Strong Marine Life Habitat.”
“Jacque, I appreciate you coming all this way. But, unfortunately, I need more time to take a closer look at this.”
Smith uncrossed his legs. “Crosswell. That sounds familiar. You mentioned a family emergency. Do you have relatives here?”
Robin’s eyes bulged. With the news of Johnnie’s arrest yesterday, the name Crosswell was in the local news everywhere today. But this was none of Miami’s business. “No, just me.”
“Hmmm. Who’s that in the picture over there?” Smith pointed to a 5 x 7 picture frame on the credenza behind her desk of her and Johnnie, both wearing black rimmed sunglasses, sitting at the Skinny Knees bar with umbrella drinks.
She lied, “My friend, Olaf.”
Smith chuckled, “Olaf, eh?” He turned to Jacque, “We shouldn’t take any more of the Senator’s time.” He added gruffly, “Senator Crosswell has some reading to do.”
Jacque gave a weak smile. “Yes, yes. We should go. Robin, fantastic meeting you. We appreciate your time to the utmost. If amenable, I’ll ring you next Monday to get your impressions of the plan?”
Robin nodded. “That would be fine.”
Smith rose from his chair, grabbing Jacque by the upper arm and steering him to the door like he was taking a prisoner to a cell. He gave a look to Robin, his irises black. “Have a nice day, Senator Crosswell. We’ll be in touch.”
Somehow, Robin felt being ‘in touch’ was more of a threat than a cordial parting phrase. She rose to shake their hands, but Smith shoved Jacque ahead—apparently not interested in exchanging the usual pleasantries.
Halfway through the door, Jacque turned his head and added a quick, “Toodles,” before Smith herded him out of sight.
What an odd pair.
She sat back in her chair, wondering why Mr. Smith was acting like such a belligerent goon. Robin called out, “Dottie!”
Dot poked her head in. “Yes?”
“Clear my calendar for the rest of the day. Something strange is going on and I need to figure this out.”
“Yes, consider it done. Anything I can do to help?”
“I need a private detective. Someone local.”
“Oh. Really? Well, I know someone who is available and works for free.”
“Huh? Who?”
Dot pointed both thumbs at herself.
“Ha!” Robin shook her head. “You’re a detective? What have you detected before?”
“Remember when someone was stealing lunch bags from the kitchen? I was the one who figured out it was Milton. And the time my car was stolen? I tracked down the culprit before Tobias.”
“Dottie, I think this one’s different. That Thomas Smith guy seems dangerous. I mean, it wasn’t anything he said exactly, but if you saw the evil looks he gave me...”
With a grin, Dot polished her light blue nails across her blouse and blew on them. “Which means I’m the perfect person.”
“How so?”
“Bad guys never see me coming.”
***
The Merv-man whistled.
Stumpy looked around. He ran across the sand toward the pavilion. Meal time!
Sure enough, the man with the jingly pockets and long face greeted him with some unfamiliar words. He didn’t know many words except for the important ones that involved treats. Those weeks of playing with the man, learning which items to take—which were good and which weren’t—helped him understand. The man didn’t want leaves or shells or bottle caps or shards of glass. No reward for those.
But first, Stumpy wanted to see what today’s prize was.
The man held out chunks of dried apricot, sweet, delicious. The man said, “Get.”
Stumpy blinked and dashed off.
It was never clear what the man wanted with all the sparkly bits and leather squares. Although with sugary fruit at stake—scrumptious, crunchy—he would pick out the biggest sparkle in his cache. But he couldn’t let the man see where he went or he might steal it all, leaving nothing for future exchange.
He darted through the grass and low bushes, weaving, waiting, darting again, making his way to the treasure he buried. Scratching at the sand in the right spot where he stored the gleaming pieces for safe-keeping, Stumpy located the looped metal with the stone thingies, clutching it in his jaw. He reburied the rest with waves of his shortened tail, scurrying his way back to the pavilion, saliva dripping around the prize, hoping, longing…
He dropped the item at the man’s feet and cocked his head to the side, studying his reaction.
It was a good reaction. Some verbal praise, saying his name. The man picked up the object, dusting off the sand.
The food! Don’t forget the food!
Stumpy placed his foot on the man’s boot. Don’t climb… he doesn’t like that. No food if you use your claws… Feed me! Now! I’m right here!
The man chucked the apricots across the pavilion, into a nearby clump of bushes.
He raced toward it, hoping his rival, Green-tail, wouldn’t get there first. Because that would be unfair. But he could fight, even without his tail. Fight and bite and claw and run.
The sugary fruit chunks were there, untouched, untaken. He chomped down on the irregular disks, his teeth gnashing, ripping off smaller pieces. His mind went blank with ecstasy, ribbons of sweetness down his gullet, holding down corners of larger pieces with two toes for better purchase. In almost no time, the reward was gone.
He needed more!
Stumpy scampered back to the pavilion, but the man was gone. He swiveled his neck, looking, twitching. The man was at the wood structure with a door. He scurried over
.
The tall-faced one looked down at him. “No”—something.
He also understood the word ‘no’. It meant he’d have to wait until the next time.
But where was the cheesy-man? He never wanted shiny things for trade. And it had been several days… when would he return? Puffs were crunchy, cheddary, the best. And the round-eyed man talked to him nicely and smiled. Sometimes they would watch the sunrise together. It was special.
Plus, the long-haired, wrinkly man who gave fresh fruit was also gone.
Why did they leave him? Did they forget about him?
Humans were so fickle. So unreliable.
Stumpy heard a certain vehicle, his nemesis. The taker of tails, the metal beast of all evils.
He ambled toward the pavement, toward the sound that haunted him. He recognized the knobby tires, the whine of the engine. Placing his body in front of the devil, he hissed, refusing to move as the gigantic cube of metal inched forward.
“Go somewhere else, Oh, Can of Pain! This is my beach! I demand your departure!”
The cube stopped. Still, he wanted to bite it. Tear off rubber. Maybe the wiper blades…
His foe retreated, moving in reverse, pulling into a vacant area. The engine noise ceased. Doors opened. Two humans got out, laughing.
Were they mocking his pain? His short tail? These were not good people. He could bite them, claw them.
A commotion behind him. Near the curb, Green-Tail was chewing on a sumptuous red apple.
This could not stand. Not within his territory. Not in his presence.
Stumpy dashed toward the red orb. It would be his.
And Green-tail would learn— through slashes and bites and ripped dorsal crests—that he, Stumpy, was the one and only—the true—Iguana King.
Chapter 17
The forest hike was going as badly as he expected.
“Mister Ranger? Why do you wear those weird glasses? Did you know some sharks have fifteen rows of teeth? I can curl my tongue. Can you?” Chase, the six-year-old, looked up at him, matching Johnnie’s stride by moving his legs faster. Over the last half-hour, this kid wouldn’t stop talking and reciting dumb riddles. “Mister Ranger, do you know what the cow says when it’s tired of walking?”
He’d told the group several times he was a park guide, at least for today, and not a ranger. Real rangers were law enforcement, like Merv, or interpretive. There was literally no way he could have qualified to become an enforcement ranger with his police record and setbacks. And he didn’t have the temperament or education to be an interpretive ranger. But the kid enjoyed calling him ranger and Johnnie gave up arguing.
Johnnie now knew everything about little Chase. His favorite color (blue), his dog’s name (Chumlie–Wumbly), what he got for Christmas (an iPad), his favorite TV show (Star Wars: The Clone Wars), and what he wanted to be when he grew up (a scientist who studies sharks or an ice cream man).
Johnnie took a deep breath, pausing purposefully to slow the onslaught of more questions, “No, what did the cow say when he was tired of walking?”
Chase giggled. “I’m poopy pooped! Get it?”
No, he didn’t get it. Johnnie looked behind him, doing a visual head count. “We have to stop and wait for the others.” A gust of wind brushed his arms and a sizable black cloud above them darkened the path. He eyed it and wondered if the storm clouds would pass them by.
Chase stuck out his tongue. “But I need to go to the bathroom!”
Johnnie surveyed their surroundings. “See that clump of bushes? Go back there.”
“No, I need to go number two.”
Five of the adults walked up. Only two more were lagging.
Johnnie said to the arriving group, “We’ll wait for the others. This would be a good time to drink some water.”
Chase tugged on Johnnie’s belt. “Mister Ranger, I need to go!”
Of course, the two missing adults were Chase’s parents. The mom was wearing heeled sandals, and the dad was helping her, propping her up from falling in the slimy mud caused by the morning rain shower.
“Chase, why don’t you go see where your parents are and report back?”
A woman in the group, short and overweight, with brown curly hair, dressed like Steve Irwin, chimed in, “Ranger John, you can’t let a little boy wander the path alone! Are you crazy?”
Did she have to use the word crazy? He exhaled through his teeth. “Fine, do you want to go look for them?”
The short woman glared at him. “Fine.” She turned to Chase. “Honey-pie, come with me. We’ll go get your mom and dad together.” Mrs. Irwin held out her hand.
Chase took the woman’s hand and stuck out his tongue at Johnnie.
The pair walked up the hill, disappearing where the path made a turn.
The other four hikers looked at Johnnie. He needed a distraction. Something to occupy them while they waited. “So, how is everyone doing?” The second he uttered this, he regretted opening his stupid mouth.
An older man, maybe in his seventies, wearing a bright orange Hawaiian shirt, responded, “Well, my knee feels a bit inflamed. Took some ibuprofen before we left the hotel. How much further until we get to end?”
As if the day couldn’t get worse, the God of Pain and Irony chose this precise moment to dump water from the heavens in a torrent. Not unusual for mid-day on the island. Rains came and went, most times lasting less than ten minutes. But the group screamed. From up the hill, more screams, probably from Chase, his parents and Mrs. Irwin. Some took off their backpacks, using them as cover. Others hugged themselves, shivering.
Chase’s mom came running toward them, now barefoot, her legs covered in brick-colored mud. Her once white Bermuda shorts were slicked with more mud. “Ranger, help!”
Rain dripped off the bill of Johnnie’s green Park Service ball cap. “What happened?”
She walked up to him, beet-faced, gasping for air, slapping him in the chest. “The God-damned rain! Get us out of here!”
“It will pass soon. And don’t touch me.” He began counting, closing his eyes.
“What? Can’t you call in a bus or jeep to get us out of this hell hole?”
He opened his eyes. She was still in his face, water matting down her hair, running down her nose. “Ma’am, the rain will probably pass in a couple minutes. We should continue on.” In a loud voice, he called. “Everyone, we’re moving on. Watch your step because the path will be slippery.”
Chase cried, “But I can’t!”
Chase’s mom cuddled him close. “I know, baby.” She yelled, “Hey, doofus! We need to get my son to a bathroom.”
Johnnie spun around. “Lady, there are no bathrooms until we get to the shore. Now, you can hike back up the way you came for a mile to the port-a-john at the railhead or little Chase can take a dump behind a bush, or you all can continue the next mile and a half to the boat pickup point. Choose now.”
Chase’s face wrinkled and his cheeks turned fuchsia; he began to cry, his chest convulsing.
Mrs. Irwin pointed at him with her hiking pole, “What is wrong with you? Talking to a mother and little boy like that?”
He should have felt bad for making the boy cry. Maybe part of him felt remorse. But the practicality of the matter instructed him that standing around in a downpour wasn’t helping anyone. Ironically, constant movement helped him forget the pain in his back. Stillness caused his mind to register the discomfort.
With narrowed eyes, Johnnie said, “The hike description went over all of this. Rain or shine. This is a three-hour nature hike, not a visit to Chuckie Cheese. Now, for those that want to continue, please follow me.”
The group didn’t follow. Mrs. Irwin said, “I think we should all go back.”
Johnnie looked skyward, rain falling on his glasses. Days at Hawksnest Beach were never like this. He studied their stricken, wet faces. “By a show of hands, who wants to go back?”
One by one, all the hands went up.
Johnnie clapped his h
ands together. “I guess we’re going back.” He took out his whistle. [Tweeeet] “About face!”
The troupe turned around, grumbling. Hiking up the newly soaked path was treacherous; even he had mild difficulty with his thick-soled boots. The hikers slipped and grabbed onto thin tree branches and brush during steep ascents. Chase, leading the pack, followed by his parents, was simpering. “Mommy, I don’t want to be here!”
Two minutes later, the deluge ended and the sun came out; intense rays warmed the air. Johnnie felt some vindication, but it did him little good. He still had another twenty minutes with this group. They mumbled between themselves and he heard the words, “report him” and “get my money back”.
Another group of hikers passed them. He radioed headquarters to let them know the change of plans and the new pickup location. At least Chase wasn’t pestering him anymore. That was a bonus.
When they finally arrived back at the trailhead, the Park Service bus was waiting for them. Little Chase ran to the port-a-pottie, holding his bum. But someone else was waiting. Mark.
The mega-douche was leaning against his SUV parked right next to the Pig. How did Mark find him? This couldn’t be good. Especially after what Cud told him. But he couldn’t deal with him now. He needed to get the visitors on the bus, safely out of the way, before he could engage.
The bus driver opened the door. “Good afternoon, Johnnie. Had some trouble today?” It was Candace from the Visitor Center. She was okay, but a little too cheerful for his taste.
“Good afternoon, Candy. Just the usual trouble.” He chuckled, “I didn’t murder anyone. Yet.”
Candy wrinkled her nose and shuddered. Apparently, she didn’t find it funny.
“It’s a joke.”
She smiled and laughed. “Ha! Johnnie, I’m just messing with you.”
Johnnie exhaled with relief. “I think, after the boy gets out of the bathroom, they’ll be ready to go.”
Candy exited the bus, sidled up to him, and whispered, “A reporter came to the center today asking about you. We didn’t tell him anything, but I think that’s the same guy.” She nodded her head towards Mark.