Killing Time in

Paradise

A Daisy Greenwood Novel

By E.J. Bell

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2017 E.J. Bell

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, businesses, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only.
Prologue

One year ago, twenty-two minutes past sunrise on a bitterly cold Manhattan morning, I shot out of my lobby, eyeballs freezing upon contact with 20℉ air, directly into an idling Lincoln Town Car. I was going to John F. Kennedy International for a 10:00 a.m. nonstop to Hawaii for a dear friend's wedding. The only other person outside in the blue-green twilight was our Croatian superintendent, half-smoked cigarette dangling at all times from his lips, who was building a cheerleader-style pyramid on the sidewalk with garbage bags. He threw the "flyer" to the top and gave me a wave.

Jen, the bride, had been my best friend since nursery school. In the 8th grade we both had crushes on our sandy-haired English teacher Mr. Sawyer even though he wore nerdy cardigans with elbow patches. Jen said he was adorkable. After class pretending to ask a question about a passage in Night, she'd flirt with him. I'd wait in the hall, huffing my bangs out and thinking she was gross. In high school she'd push me into maroon bathroom stalls to sneak a smoke with her. "I'm running track," I'd say, always having an excuse.

"We don't really have that much in common," I once pointed out. "Yeah, we're oil and vinegar," she replied. Oh boy. I figured she needed me.

Almost two decades later we're still friends. On Saturdays we jog together in Central Park for about five minutes until she declares "Endorphins released. I'm done," sees a park bench, lights a cigarette, and begins her critique of passing male joggers. She has this theory that a man's jogging style is the same as his sex style. When he's running if he pumps his shoulders back and forth or tilts his head, that's exactly what he'll do after he climbs on top of you. The facial expression will be the same, too. Basically this is your preview. Thanks to her I need therapy to watch the summer Olympics. She thinks I'm inhibited and uptight. I think she secretly goes through my closet and throws away my turtleneck sweaters.

As the car pulled away I sank into the backseat and felt guilty about the mountain of garbage moldering on the sidewalk. If my building generates this much crap, imagine what all the five boroughs of New York City produce? In college for my study abroad program, I boarded with a snotty French family that each week produced only enough garbage to fill up a Tropicana juice carton. Everything else was recycled. But they were psycho.

I did what I could for the environment. I take travel mugs with me to Starbucks, I drive a Mini, after work I wear the same black stretchy yoga pants replete with hole in crotch ten times before laundering them with chemicals that pollute the earth. I also discovered the way to offset your carbon footprint is to buy those big bottles of wine that's equal to two regular bottles. Less glass.

I imagine how cool it would be to live a low-carbon-footprint life, like in the TV show Tiny House Nation. Off-the-grid, au naturel, earth-mother-composter-style (this style can probably be accomplished simply by spending $1000 in Whole Foods' Whole Body department), where no one can bother me. No more marketing calls, junk mail, internet. No more make-up. No more stuffy suits. No more traffic. No more light pollution. But, I couldn't even imagine where to begin.

At JFK my friend Ace met me at security. We used to date. Ace has green eyes and light brown hair pushed off his forehead. He's good looking and good in bed.

I remember the first time I saw him ten years ago—it was all over for me. He pursued me but only because he loves a challenge. I could just tell he would never be mine. New York men have very short attention spans. If I got out quick, I reasoned, I'll never have to stand by and watch someone I was falling for become a stranger again. I ended things and he remained my friend. It was so My Best Friend's Wedding.

I asked him to come with me because the thought of attending a wedding solo was nauseating. When we arrived on the island we fell back into our old routine. It was exactly the kind of fun artificial-romance we both needed. We went hiking, had fireside luau dinners, make-out sessions under waterfalls. I admit I was nostalgic—in the intervening years I hadn't liked anyone as much.

The wedding took place on the Hyatt's lush tropical grounds. Jen had landed a nice normal guy who managed the Sternz Trust, which funded charitable causes like PBS, the World Wildlife Fund and the Natural Resources Defense Council. When they first met she didn't know it was his trust. Geoff Sternz's great-grandfather was known in certain circles as the quiet Rockefeller. Geoff loved to share his family history with anyone who'd listen. In 1430 his ancestors made their first western migration from Russia to Bohemia, a land famous for its glass manufacturing. The Sternzs produced glass until their final western migration in 1807 to Pennsylvania, where they expanded into steel. Their claim to fame was supplying steel for the Empire State building. They couldn't fill the orders fast enough. Their beams were so fresh that even after traveling two hundred miles on the highway in the dead of winter, the beams arrived at the worksite warm to the touch. Lucky bitch.

Ace and I had never quite adjusted to the time change and even on our last day of vacation we awoke at dawn. Spurred by the runner in me, we began the day with a five-mile sunrise run along a black beach flanked by emerald green mountains and turquoise ocean. The scenery produced a calmness in me I hadn't felt in a long time. I'd been having problems at home, if you call barely being able to drag oneself out of bed a problem. I was stressed and depressed. I didn't want to do anything anymore. I dreaded leaving the apartment. Dreaded the onslaught of people and crowds everywhere. I hated the cold. I hated the sirens blaring all night long. Being a New Yorker had been fun for a few decades but now I wanted to hear my thoughts. Feel solitude. I love the city that never sleeps. If only she would pass out occasionally.

I worked for the Michael Page employment agency and loved my job. I was an excellent career coach and considered it a privilege to help people realize their goals. When I began to head the Financial Institutions division, the pressure increased. I stopped working with people. Instead I became tied to a computer screen doing analytics. Over time I worked more and saw my friends less. I stopped going to movies, out to dinner, the park.

After the sunrise run I took a shower and let the jets pound my head. Ace got in, put his hands on my hips and kissed my neck. He ran through our day's schedule but I didn't hear a word.

"Earth to Daisy," he said.

"Sorry."

"What's wrong?"

I looked up at him with a head full of pink conditioner. "If I tell you, don't laugh."

"Okaay."

"I can't go home," I said.

"You can't go home," he repeated dumbly.

"The thought is unbearable. Everyday when I come home from work I feel like I have Urban Stress. My brain becomes frozen. Someone talks to me but I can't comprehend, can't respond. I'll be watching TV and during the commercial I forget what show I was watching."

"You're not making sense."

"I told you, it's Urban Stress. It's real. I looked it up. I hate my life and my job is so monotonous that if I have to keep doing it for the next thirty years I'll die. I've been in New York forever. I'm terrified of the thought that I'll live in only one place my whole life."

I got out of the shower, put on a sundress and towel dried my hair.

"Are you happy in New York?" I asked him.

"Of course. But I grew up in L.A. and I can't stand it there."

I opened the balcony slider, draped the towel over a chair and gazed at the ocean. Brightly colored birds flitted here and there.

So my life was not glamorous or exciting. Plenty of peoples' lives didn't turn out the way they hoped. I still have a good life. I have a roof over my head, my health, friends. In all of my adulthood I've been in control of the key events in my life. I did well in my studies, I have a good career. I travel where I want. I can buy things. I'm catching green lights. If I'm not happy I have only myself to blame, right?

"I'm not happy there anymore. It feels like there's a weight on my chest."

Ace took my hand. "Everyone in New York feels the exact same way." Ace put an arm around my shoulders. "Does your best friend getting married have anything to do with this? Would it help if I proposed?"

I punched him. He feigned a wounded look and rubbed his arm. "I mean it. You're my best friend. I always planned to have you as my second wife. That's the good one, you know."

"Hilarious."

I did want to settle down eventually but for now I needed change.

"I wish I could stay here." I loved the damp smell in the air, the shocking bright-green of the jungle, the call of the frogs, coqui, coqui.

"I dread going home. I want to be somewhere warm." I'm already considered middle-aged so I have only twenty summers left before I'm considered old. Twenty. It's a shame each one will last just two months.

I realized I don't have much time left.

Ace said, "Come to think of it, I don't remember the last time I saw you smile."

I made a facial expression that said You see?

"You should move."

"Pfft. I can't just move. What about...everything?"

"You just do it," he said. "If it's what you want go for it. Believe."

Ironically in my line of work I preached the same thing. If you don't believe in you neither will they. I made candidates affix Post-it notes to their bathroom mirrors: You are THE top quantitative analyst in the city. I had kite surfing posters on my office walls with hollow slogans like Do What You Love.

"Why not? Why can't you?" Ace pressed.

"I'd like to move to a quiet small town. I just can't imagine how to go about it. Or my mother's reaction."

I imagined the conversation:

My mother: Why do you want to get away from us?

Me: I'm not trying to get away from anyone. I want to experience a larger  world.

Mother: That's so selfish.

Ace said, "You're a big girl. You don't have to do what you're told."

"Well, not everyone can just up and move. That's not reality. I'd have to find a job. And what would I do? I'm sick of head hunting. Plus, it took me a long time to find that apartment."

Ace replied, "It is reality. People move every day. Life throws you curveballs. Sometimes you go with Plan B."

I tried to absorb this. I rubbed out the furrow between my brows and tried to relax my face. I'd worry more if I got wrinkles. The image of my yoga teacher Sarah popped into my head. She'd say, "relax the space between your eyes, now relax your jaw, your tongue..." This chick was so chill she could probably relax her earlobes.

As we left the hotel room and headed for the rental car I said, "I think I know what to do."

Ace said, "Don't waste your time complaining you don't like your life. Use the time you have left to make your life the one want."

Looking back on that trip I credit Ace for getting me thinking. I had a new vision of myself on a porch swing under a starry sky, palm trees rustling in the breeze.

We hopped into our rental car and drove to what the locals call da big rock. People at the wedding said jumping off was a bucket-list thing. I thought it was a great way to say goodbye to Hawaii.

When we got to da rock I realized it was higher than I'd thought. We climbed up the back. My heart was pounding.

People were milling around at the top, some sitting some standing. The atmosphere was pure adrenaline. I hung towards the rear. A little kid with black hair and caramel skin sidled up to me. "You can do it," he said.

Ace had his arm around my shoulders and jokingly chanted my name. In short order the crowd joined him. "Daisy. Daisy. Daisy."

I was horrified. My blood pressure dropped and I felt nauseated. Like an automaton I was passed along till I found myself standing at the edge.

The little boy said, "Don't look down. Just jump."

I took a breath, raised my arms and leapt.

As I flew through air I heard absolutely nothing.

Zhooosh. I splashed into the water. When I came up for air I had no stress or anxiety. It was like a cleansing, a baptism. It was so much fun I did it again.

That afternoon I set a date in my head and a plan in motion. This time next year I'd be out.
Chapter One

It was Monday morning and I was stuck in traffic on U.S. Route 41. Shoot. I didn't want to be late on the first day of my new job. I checked the dashboard clock, 8:21 a.m. and it had been bumper-to-bumper for the last ten minutes. My entire commute from Old Naples to Pelican Bay was supposed to be only ten minutes.

I thought leaving the hustle and bustle of the big city for small town life in Naples, Florida would be all Jimmy Buffet and cheeseburgers in paradise. Turns out, you can escape the bitter cold and frozen feet but never EVER the daily grind. There's traffic and bullshit everywhere now. People are bitching and moaning in Papua, New Guinea right now. I guarantee it.

Someone's exhaust pipe blew a cloud of fumes into my face. I waved my hand in front of my nose, powered up my windows, and cranked up the AC. So much for weaving myself back into the fabric of the natural world. Still, my dreams came true—I got my porch swing, the scent of ocean wafting past my window, and a mean annual temperature of 75℉.

My name is Daisy Greenwood and I'm an accidental country girl. I escaped the New York trifecta of cold, crime and high prices for quiet life on the gulf coast. They can't make pizza or bagels here but they're flush in peel n' eat shrimp.

The hardest part was not finding a job, packing up or saying good-bye. It was summoning the courage to let go of what was bad in my life. I had become accustomed to the feeling that something was missing and I hadn't had the will to reach for a different existence. Until now.

I was stopped at a traffic light so I slathered on the sunscreen. I have a fair complexion from my mom's mom, hazel eyes from my dad, and light brown hair. I'm five-foot-eight, a size six and I stay trim through daily 6:00 a.m. jogs in my neighborhood. Being outdoors is one of the reasons I love living in the South. If I ever go inside a gym you can bet an alien has taken over my body. I've joined and quit enough gyms to know I hate fluorescent lights, the smell of black rubber flooring and having one single bench in a locker room crammed with fifty women. Also, standing in front of my refrigerator door staring at the gym's Pilates class schedule which is securely pinned under a Georgi's Souvlakis Delivered! magnet does not burn any calories. Instead I own a wristband activity tracker and try to log no less than a gajillion steps per day.

Today I was wearing a formfitting lycra-y white tank under a buttoned blazer, slim white ankle pants and my favorite Manolos: the ladylike low-heel pump in black, of course. I'd remembered to stash my raincoat in my tote bag. The rainy season had begun and little known fact: we get 100 days of thunder and lightning a year in western Florida. It's almost as bad as Seattle. We're also the lightning capital of the United States with 1.2 million strikes per year and more than double the number of lightning deaths than any other state. More hurricanes make landfall here than anywhere, and our extremes of rainfall, from droughts to floods, cause sinkholes to swallow people alive. Because you always have to watch the weather, everyone here is an amateur meteorologist. Our climate is violent, abrupt, and practically supernatural.

But land is cheap. On Friday I signed the mortgage papers for my first house. I now own five times the space I had in Manhattan for the same price.

My house is a single-level, modern take on Old Florida architecture, with impact-resistant windows and elegant white Bahama style hurricane shutters that extend out from the bottom. It's four blocks from the beach and from my porch I can catch a tiny glimpse of the sun setting over the Gulf of Mexico.

I am the new chief operating officer of a local non-profit organization called the West Coast Conservancy of Florida, aka WCC. Our charter is three-fold: buy virgin forests, meadows and wetlands to preserve in perpetuity; protect local wildlife; and operate a nature center located east of town, on the western edge of the Everglades amidst an ancient cypress forest. The nature center has a two mile boardwalk that meanders through four distinct ecosystems. The damp vine-draped forest and the sun-drenched savanna are my favorites. And the thing that drives the whole operation is money, which the WCC expected me to get. You see, I'd spent years convincing banking institutions to take chances on unproven job candidates, convincing them to trust my vetting process, basically getting people to do what I said. Now I had to transfer these skills to a non-profit and convince people to part with their money.

To get the job, I also had a little help from Jen's husband. Geoff's mother lives in Naples and belongs to the same country club as the WCC's septuagenarian founder, Evelyn Dunton. One day, Evelyn phoned Geoff to try to recruit him as her successor. He declined, but knowing I wanted to leave New York he threw my name in the hat.

"So, you're a headhunter? You must be a big ball buster," she'd said in our interview.

"I'm unflappable," I responded. Asking for a job on behalf of others is only a little less difficult than asking for yourself. It's a grueling uncomfortable task requiring a thick skin. So, I'm tough. Disappointment and bad news are crunchy afternoon snacks to me.

She'd said, "That will come in handy when asking for money. You can't take no for an answer."

I was hired and it was just what I needed to get out of my rut.

I oversee the charity's fundraising and day-to-day ops in both the head office and nature center. I admit I'm not a longstanding environmentalist. But in another life I could have been because I love my new job. I have that high again.

At 8:31 a.m. I arrived, drove into the covered garage and pulled into an empty space. I took a minute to corral sunglasses, cellphone and keys into my bag.

"Beep-beep."

I looked in the rearview. There was a muddy pick-up truck behind me and within, a man leaned on his horn.

I put my palms up and gave a look in the rearview that said What do you want?

The man looked roughly my age and extremely tan. He gestured something with his hands. I gave a smile and a little wave into the mirror because I knew from living among New York's crazies they hate to be ignored. He narrowed his eyes, threw his clutch into gear and drove off.

I blew out my bangs and got out. The humidity weighed down on me like a dentist's lead blanket. I started walking to the elevator. I passed the same man along the way. He had parked and was unpacking equipment from the flatbed. He was wearing a filthy t-shirt, cargo pants and a tattered baseball cap.

I smiled, said, "Good Morning" and walked by quickly.

"You're in my spot," he said.

I stopped. "I am allowed to park in the Conservancy section."

He took his cap off, pushed his hair back from his face and replaced the cap. For a second I thought he had a chiseled, gorgeous face until I reminded myself that he was dressed little better than a homeless man. He was a hobosexual.

"Listen," he said, "I apologize if I was rude. I've been up all night and I'm late for a conference call. Take my space for today."

I nodded my head slowly. Sure, a conference call between you and all the other crackheads. This guy was probably crazy and I was starting to get a migraine behind my right ear, the sign I need caffeine.

I said, "I hope you have a nice day. By the way, can you tell me if there's a Starbucks around here?" But he'd already turned his back to me. "Don't worry about it," I said, "have a good day."

_____

Before I stepped into the office I whipped out my compact and checked my 'do.

Cripes. My anti-frizz hair goop was powerless in this humidity, about as effective as wax paper on the space shuttle. I tucked flyaways into my ponytail and pushed in the plate-glass door to the reception area, expecting to see our receptionist Lanay. Instead there was a young man behind the desk. When I approached he was staring intently at the computer screen and tapping keys in the hunt-and-peck method. He was wearing camouflage pants with rubber fishing waders and a fishing vest adorned with an array of tackle. I wrinkled my nose. He smelled, I don't know, rotten.

He looked up at me with friendly blue eyes and smiled with straight white teeth that reminded me of Chiclets. He had a slight overbite and an equine nose.

"I know you," he said. These days everyone looks at your CareerConnexions page.

"Hello," I replied. He turned his head toward the hallway and shouted, "Miss Ev! She's here."

Evelyn came out of her office, straightened her Chanel jacket and rushed toward me, wrists dripping with diamonds.

She said, "Tsk, Clifford. How many times do I have to tell you not to shout? Pick up the phone and press one. It couldn't be easier."

"Sorry."

I extended my hand but she grabbed my arms and gave me a stiff little hug. "I'm so glad you're finally here. This job is getting in the way of my bridge."

Evelyn Dunton was the socialite heir to a Lake Michigan coal and shipping fortune. She had a platinum bob, petite figure, and perpetually sunny demeanor. She and her late husband were noted philanthropists; they had a wing named after them at Naples General.

Evelyn was a long-time admirer of the legendary Marjory Stoneman Douglas, the Miami journalist best known for her 1940's campaign to preserve the Florida Everglades and her poetic book about it, The Everglades: River of Grass.

Evelyn established the Conservancy with a chunk of her fortune and worked there for fun.

She said, "Daisy, this is Snake Tuck-, I mean Clifford Tucker."

Snake winked at me and said, "Don't listen to her. Call me Snake." He extended his arm and shook my hand. "Nice to meet you." His handshake was bone crushing. He must be one of those catfish noodlers. Would explain the smell.

I don't know why but I instantly liked this Duck Dynasty cracker with the toothy grin and sunburnt cheeks.

Evelyn said, "Clifford is one of our nature guides and our helper when Lanay is out sick." Behind Evelyn's back Snake mimed a person chugging a bottle then passing out.

I gave Snake a knowing nod. I'd met Lanay when Evelyn sent her to my house with a banker's cardboard box full of job-prep reading material. She showed up wearing a see-through crocheted top over a hot pink bra and cut-off shorts. Her bleached blond hair was frazzled, her burnt ends almost white. She had delicate, birdlike features—wide-set eyes and a narrow nose. She was typical Florida—skinny, tan, blond and neon. A self-professed cracker and proud of it.

That day, Lanay had dropped the box on the floor, scanned my discombobulated home and gave me the hard once over. "You got any friends here?"

"Not yet," I said defensively.

Her head tilted and she looked at me with eagle eyes. "So why'd would you move here?"

"I don't know. I guess I wanted something new." I pushed some boxes against the wall. "I had the same job for a decade. Saw the same people. Walked the same sidewalk."

"'Round here we call it same-shit-different-day-itis. You sound like a baby. Can I have a tour?"

"Help-" yourself, is what I was going to say but she was already gone, helping herself.

She came back. "How about you get out of those clothes, put on something nice, and come to Bunco night with me. Darlene's hosting."

I looked down at my clothes. "These are nice."

Next thing I know we're standing in my closet while Lanay inspected every thread I own. One by one she scraped hangers across the rack. "Black, black, black, gray, black, navy. Why do you wear such ugly colors?"

"Technically only one of those is a color. That's how I used to dress for work."

"You're in the South now, Sugar. This is just-"

She picked up a beige mock turtleneck and said, "Are you a psychopath?" She threw the top on the floor. "Your entire wardrobe is the gateway drug to no sex."

I picked up the top and folded it. The ugly shirt made me think about my old life. I missed my friends, my family.

Lanay was self-obsessed. She held my Prada pencil skirt to her boney hips, preened in the full-length mirror and proclaimed, "This is okay. But your tops, gross. You need color. You need cleavage." She gestured to my wardrobe, and with big emotionless eyes and a deadpan voice she said, "You dress like a man. Are you a man? Do you have like a penis?"

I looked at my clothes. She was right. I dressed like an old Italian widow. Before we left for Darlene's Lanay ordered me into a red tank top that I considered an undergarment and some wedge sandals. I was lucky she didn't use her bare hands to rip my full-length jeans into Daisy Dukes with me still in them, scratching my legs to bloody shreds in the process. With that hideous trendy needlepoint manicure of hers I'd bleed out in seconds.

We got into her beat-up Supra and I Googled bunco on my phone for the basic rules.

But at Darlene's house I learned that, in addition to three dice, Bunco consists of: 1.) a dozen women in short shorts and cropped or low-cut shirts divided into teams, 2.) everybody talking over each other, and 3.) tequila, lots of tequila.

Game night was one part gossip—sex, STD's, whose boyfriend is good-fer-nuthin' (not Darlene's, "he's almost off drugs and only one month away from his divorce"); one part blustering ("I'm not scared of you, Megan/Jaqui/Ashley"); and one part absolute chaos where I'm body-slammed by drunk women shaking dice, shouting out numbers and jumping up to scream "BUNCO!"

——

Evelyn showed me into an office adjacent to hers. I sat at my desk and stashed my tote in the bottom drawer. She hitched a thumb in the direction of her office. "I'm finishing a meeting. Get settled in, grab some coffee and I'll be back tout de suite."

The first thing I did was open my window. In my old office the windows were sealed shut like I was a vacuum packed peanut. Next, I took out my phone and played Carly Simon's Let the River Run. On the occasion of starting a new job I had to channel Melanie from Working Girl.

Next, I completed the Volunteer Wildlife Officer application for the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission, or FWC. While I was scanning it to them with a photocopy of my license, I wondered how I'd look in that ugly uniform. I was accustomed to designer duds, black as they were. I smiled to myself imagining that Victoria Beckham or Stella McCartney had redesigned all the ugly police uniforms out there.

I turned on the computer, logged into the email system and scanned subject lines—benefits enrollment, New Exhibit for Nature Center, Setting up your printer, Welcome (a message from our staff botanist, who was presently out in the field collecting pleopeltis polypodioides samples), and Panther Hunt. The last email from staff biologist Dr. Benjamin Mason advised when and where I should report for an upcoming three day panther expedition. In other words, swamp camping. At night. With alligators and Lord knows what else.

My forehead became cold and clammy. According to Evelyn my duties did not include field work. I would organize telethons, stroke big donors' egos, run numbers, monitor HR, procure supplies, plan fundraisers, oversee the Nature Center. That was enough. City girls don't camp. They don't even glamp (glamour + camping). Well, perhaps I could if the glamping is done Meryl Streep/Out of Africa-style with huge tents on platforms, real furniture, gourmet meals on bone china and let's not forget Robert Redford in my tent.

I put it out of my head.

Next to my desk lay a stack of Evelyn's mail and the local newspaper. I scanned the headlines. Red Tide Shuts Down Resident's Beach. Naples Youth Sailing Foundation Holds Fundraiser. Councilman Stewart "Chip" Wilson Found Dead—Probe Ongoing.

The last headline jarred me. Apparently, the deceased councilman allegedly received bribes from a shady developer seeking to buy public land for a fraction of its value upon which he would build cheap condos. The developer would have made a fortune off the backs of the taxpaying public.

In the grainy black and white photo the dead councilman looked kind, albeit with a balding pate and pot belly.

Naples Councilman Chip Wilson was found dead last week in his home on Tall Pine Lane. He suffered a "single devastating gunshot wound" according to Collier County coroner Dr. Alfred Thomas. Dr. Thomas said that he requires the findings of the joint investigation by the Naples Police Department and the Florida Department of Law Enforcement to rule whether death resulted from homicide, suicide or an accident. Wilson, who was embroiled in a bribery scandal, had stepped down from public office due to an indictment on racketeering and receipt of illegal incentives charges which he denied. Naples P.D. spokesman Detective Martin Rudinsky said the councilman's death is being investigated as a homicide. Wilson's alleged conspirator, condominium developer Robert Swindell, was also under indictment in connection with the bribery. The indictment alleges that Swindell attempted to convert municipal-owned park land to private use by executing a land swap and paying a nominal fee. Swindell was charged with racketeering and illegal compensation. Per his indictment Swindell was accused of 'depriving the citizens of Collier County of the honest services of government officials by offering incentives to green-light his purchase of public land for below market value and for favorable treatment of associated construction applications.' Through his lawyer Swindell denied the charges and involvement in Wilson's death despite speculation that Wilson was poised to turn state's evidence. Both men had been released on bond pending trial.

As previously reported Naples residents were surprised when the city council voted in February to accept the swap, citing restrictions in the subject parcel's deed, namely its official designation as Green Acres which requires it to maintain a 'park-like atmosphere for the perpetual benefit of the citizens of the City of Naples.'

In recent years Naples and surrounding environs have seen an uptick in land conservation efforts which require extensive funding. Several recent preservation projects were accomplished through a combination of public tax propositions and fundraising by not-for-profits. Naples P.D. has yet to release details of its investigation except to confirm Swindell is a person of interest in the Wilson death. A second councilman and long-time leader of Florida's Cuban-American community David Cruz has recently faced scrutiny in connection with the land swap but charges have not been filed.

Through the wall agitated voices from Evelyn's office startled me.

An accented male said, "Do you really put me on par with Wilson?"

I stood next to the wall.

Evelyn said, "Shh! You voted with Wilson for the townhouses. You used to be our biggest supporter."

The man said, "Give me time. I can explain everything."

"I don't know what you're involved in, David."

Their voices went down a notch.

I stared at the wall in disbelief. It was the councilman mentioned in the paper.

I went down to reception to talk to Clifford. Or Snake. He was still scowling at the computer screen.

I gestured toward Evelyn's office. "Hi. What's going on in there?" Then I gave a sideways glance at his boots. "And why are you wearing waders?"

He looked up, still repeatedly tapping enter on the keyboard.

He said, "I gotta make sure my time sheet gets to payroll."

"I think you're good."

Snake looked down at his feet. "Yeah, boots." He wriggled out of them. "Me and Dr. Mason were out pulling an all nighter in the Ten Thousand Islands. Doc's our biologist. All this week we're catching Kemp's Ridley sea turtles to put satellite tags on. That tells us about their migration and how they adapt to things like water temperature. Doc takes a lot of time to do his work. He weighs 'em, takes samples, prepares the shells for the tags, writes a million notes. I just help out and drive the boat. Mostly I fish."

He removed the waders and stashed them under the desk. He nodded toward Evelyn's office and frowned. "Now, what's going on in there's been going on a long time. Let's get coffee. I'll fill you in."

Snake led me to the break room which was outfitted with an espresso maker. I did a mental happy dance. There was a legit breakfast spread on the counter—croissants, tiny jars of jam, a fruit platter, a basket of bagels and a tray of smoked salmon. I put fruit into a bowl and made a double shot latté, knowing I'd revisit the buffet soon enough.

I took my coffee and fruit to a table and Snake sat across from me with a plate of croissants. He put three heaping teaspoons of sugar in his coffee, looked at me to see if I was looking, then poured in another couple teaspoons.

"Notwithstanding the election-rigging that done in Al Gore, Florida's the most corrupt state in the union. I read that in the New York Times. Someone did a study. Incidentally, Florida's also the most haunted state and has the highest number of resident circus freaks."

Snake read the Times? I didn't read the Times. Maybe as part of my new life I should get my head out of the sand, read a paper once in a while, take fiber supplements and schedule a physical.

"Corruption? What corruption?" I wasn't phased by the most-freaks-per-acre claim.

Snake ticked fifteen towns whose politicians had been convicted of fraud or racketeering.

"I didn't know about this seedy side."

"Yup. Our own Chip Wilson—big Conservancy supporter—was going behind everyone's backs to green-light projects that destroyed forest. It didn't go unnoticed. People were starting to suspect. Plus, you take notice when someone's fortunes change overnight."

He explained, "He started out in politics driving a Camry. Next thing you know he's in a Mercedes. He used to live in the Ixora condo complex on Broad. Then he moves into the Wilderness development where the buy-in alone is sixty grand. It was common knowledge that if you wanted to build something in this town you saw Chip. Everyone in Naples is sick of overdevelopment, sick of high rises and sick of traffic."

"The man in Evelyn's office—that's David Cruz, right?"

"Yes, they are close friends. He was real upset about Chip's death. But I digest." He took a bite of his croissant and slurped his coffee.

"You mean 'digress,'" I said.

"No, digest. These croissants are great. You should have one."

"Tell me about Cruz."

"David? Half Cuban half American. He represents the Cuban community—it's a big voting bloc. But he's extremely popular with all Neapolitans. He's the latin Kennedy. Gonna be mayor soon."

"He's in today's paper," I said.

"There's a lot with Chip's murder. The town is going crazy. But I don't think David's involved. Evelyn would've said something. Dr. Mason doesn't like him."

"Why not?"

"Doc says Cruz votes with Wilson, who was Swindell's puppet maybe. See, our job is to keep land out of the developer hands. Doc says Swindell and others are doing the future a disservice. Says overdevelopment hurts the public good. He says Cruz was in with Wilson and Swindell."

"Does Cruz have an explanation?"

"Sure. He says some land swaps are favorable, that he can make a developer improve a public asset like widen a road or redo a playground."

It was common knowledge—even for newbies like me—that overdevelopment was killing the Old Florida way of life. Our brochure listed the facts: Florida loses two-hundred acres of virgin forest every single day. Half of the original Everglades is gone and development will consume the remainder. Entire species including the Florida panther and manatee are nearly extinct. The diversion of fresh water and increased fertilizer run-off has killed untold wildlife and permanently damaged the Florida Keys' reefs and her fisheries.

Evelyn entered the break room with Cruz. There was no picture with the article and I'd assumed he was paunchy and gouty-looking like Chip. Instead I came face to face with the finest Latin man I'd ever seen. He had black eyes, a straight nose, chiseled cheekbones, caramel skin and a lot of black wavy hair. He looked like my Hollywood crush Benjamin Bratt.

Evelyn introduced us (and showed no sign of distress). "David Cruz, this is Daisy Greenwood. David's a wonderful supporter of our work."

Cruz shook my hand and placed his free hand on top of mine for the politician's handshake. I snatched my hand back a beat too soon.

As Evelyn spoke Cruz kept his eyes on me. His gaze made me nervous and I found I suddenly didn't know what to do with my hands. I tried placing them on my hips but that felt standoffish and unnatural. I clasped them in front of my abdomen and tried not to look bungling and awkward. All I could think about while I turned red was the Seinfeld episode where Elaine argues about grace during her job interview:

Interviewer: Not many people have grace.

Elaine: Well, you know, grace is a tough one. I like to think I have a little grace. Not as much as Jackie O...

Interviewer: You can't have a little grace. You either have grace or you don't.

Elaine: Okay, fine. I have no grace.

Interviewer: And you can't acquire grace.

Elaine: Well, I have no intention of getting grace.

Interviewer: Grace isn't something you can pick up at the market.

Elaine: Alright, alright, look, I don't have grace, I don't want grace, I don't even say grace, okay?

Interviewer: Thank you for coming in.

Elaine: Yeah yeah.

I snapped out of my thoughts when Evelyn spoke, "Daisy, why don't you connect with David on the fundraiser. David is honorary co-chair. Our fundraisers are world class events. You wouldn't believe the crowd that turns out for nature—even our most reclusive Port Royal blue bloods come out and attempt to one-up each other."

David said, "Why don't we meet and I'll bring you up to speed?"

Evelyn said, "This is a priority."

"Of course."

"Well, then, I'll see you all tomorrow. I'm off!" Her index finger made a curlycue in the air and she left.

I was handing my card to David when Evelyn stuck her head through the door. "Daisy, I forgot to tell you, you're going on the swamp safari with the biology team on Thursday. They tag panthers. I want you to see our work in action. See Ben when you're done here. His office is next door." To Cruz she said, "I'll speak with you soon?" She turned on her coral Hermès flats and left.

David grabbed my hand. "It was a pleasure to meet you. I'll phone later to set something up."

I was still jarred by the swamp safari. I stuttered, "Y-yes, of course. My pleasure, as well."

I sat down. Snake was slathering strawberry jam on his third croissant. "I'm psyched. Don't you love camping? You look pale. Are you okay?"

No. This was supposed to be Pleasantville, but things were starting to come back in color. Of course, I was stunned that my organization could be affected by a murder scandal (poor Chip!), but more importantly I was freaking out about sleeping outside with snakes and alligators. I could feign illness to avoid it but that would be too Three's Company-y. I heard a man's voice behind me.

"Did I hear my name in here?"

I turned to look and a sick feeling lurched in my stomach.
Chapter Two

Snake said, "Hey, Doc. Have you met Miss Greenwood?"

"You're Dr. Mason?"

Dr. Benjamin Mason walked to the coffee machine. "The one and only. And you are Miss Greenwood." He gave me a tight smile.

This was not the same redneck from before. This version was straight out of a magazine. Morphed from hobosexual to metrosexual. He'd showered and poured well-defined shoulders into a fitted navy polo. Jeans and espresso OluKai loafers completed the picture. His complexion was smooth, his hair dark blond, clean-smelling and tousled to one side.

In our meetings Evelyn had spoken highly of her entire team, especially Dr. Benjamin Mason. And during my research on wetland ecology and the local land-use politics I'd turned to his articles stored in the banker's box.

Mason was a staunch protector of wildlife and virgin forest. Prior to working for the WCC, Mason was a top-ranking biologist for the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission (aka FWC), where he oversaw research on species from bears to panthers to Everglades minks.

He frequently contributed to newspapers on development and land-use issues. His editorials lambasted greedy agricultural polluters and commercial developers. He targeted cane growers and "big Ag" because it infuriated him that corporate playboys who call themselves "humble farmers" have never been physically acquainted with dirt.

I remembered his writing for the Miami Times:

Years ago Big Sugar hired lobbyists and in exchange for campaign contributions were awarded wholly unnecessary price supports, aka subsidies. Our tax money is also loaned to Big Sugar through the U.S. Department of Agriculture and if sugar prices fall below $.20 per pound, growers repay those loans not with money but with raw sugar, resulting in a repurchase of sugar by taxpayers. It's a double windfall for a tiny few billionaires. The U.S. government proceeds to offload the loan repayment sugar at a discount to other campaign contributors, specifically ethanol producers, who turn around and jack up fuel prices. The federal sugar program costs taxpayers $1.9 billion annually and to boot your elected congresspeople limit your access to cheaper foreign sugar via tariffs. If we abolished these tariffs consumers and sugar-using manufacturers could save a billion dollars, spurring domestic economic growth. One university study suggests that doing away with this racket would save consumers untold billions and add 20,000 new jobs to sugar-centric industries. In addition to stealing our tax money, cane growers steal billions of gallons of public freshwater for irrigation. Then they dump billions of gallons of fertilizer wastewater into our ecosystem without paying to clean it first. Senator Rubio (R-Fl) asserts that the sugar program is necessary for national security because we need "food security" and he never asks his donor-friends in Big Sugar to assume the cost of draining the people's aquifer or cleaning up their waste. But you are free to take your son or daughter fishing in our Methylmercury-contaminated waters.

By now most Floridians are aware of the pollution and hypocrisy and are angry. People move here to enjoy the boating lifestyle so they took notice when life in the bays below Miami died in the salty nitrate water. But the millionaires keep getting richer. One south Florida sugar family (which controls one-quarter of America's sugar) collects over 30 million dollars a year in taxpayer subsidies. Unfortunately Mason can't stop subsidies and hypocrisy but he tries to get corrupt people off our backs.

He wrote another doozy about an island in the Florida Keys owned by a pharmaceutical company that bred monkeys for sale to medical laboratories. The whole thing went haywire. The monkeys mated rapidly and troop numbers swelled. The unprecedented quantity of monkey feces produced choked and poisoned the trees and shrubs. Any mangroves that survived were eaten. You can own a private island but the shoreline mangrove remains protected by the federal government. Without the mangrove the island eroded into the ocean. In other cases, many poor or ethnic landscape workers were prosecuted and sent to jail for mangrove cutting. Mason wondered why company executives did not suffer the same fate. Similarly, a few miles north at the Upper Keys Yacht Club, home to corporate millionaires, upon orders workers chopped down mangrove that blocked members' villas' ocean views. No Club exec received jail time.

Florida was a pay to play state. The sugar lobby can buy subsidies from corrupt legislators, big Ag pollutes the water for free and rich people never have to do time.

_____

After Snake made formal introductions a chill hung in the air. I started to apologize for the earlier weirdness. "The parking lot. I'm sorry..."

His hand flew into a stop gesture cutting me off. "Forget it," he said.

I was incensed. I hate when people don't let me finish. Plus, I was a bundle of nerves, it being my first day. I narrowed my eyes.

"Well, anyway, I didn't know."

Clifford chimed in nonchalantly. "Oh yeah. Lanay told me to call you at home but I forgot. Your spot is number eight. You gotta look down. It's painted on the ground." Then Snake returned to his breakfast, his mouth covered with crumbs.

Mason made his coffee and picked up his mug. His jaw was set and he didn't make eye contact. In a neutral voice he said, "We're glad to have you" and walked out.

_____

Five minutes later I knocked at his door. "Can we talk about the upcoming panther hunt?"

He waved to a chair. "Of course."

He was compliant but cool. He should grow up. Instead of reacting I set my mind to behave exactly how I advised job candidates. Whether scooping ice cream or running a meeting, do it attentively and stoically. Keep your head down and your nose to the grindstone.

I get why I was being included in this excursion. But I am a girly girl to the core and the first to admit my body is unqualified for such a practical undertaking. The only reason I would ever go camping is to prove to a boyfriend how low-maintenance I am.

Mason gave me the lowdown on what to bring and when to be ready for pick-up. We would trek through swamps on specially designed buggies and make camp at night. He handed me a research paper written on the status of the local panthers. The statistics are grim he said. The population had declined due to loss of breeding ground and vehicular collisions. Panthers from Texas were introduced to bolster the local's in-bred genes. He said the hunt would be led by the FWC with the WCC and other wildlife organizations donating various resources. The team, essentially a mobile veterinary unit, was comprised of biologists, technicians, a veterinarian, assistants, and a hounds man and his dogs.

"Why dogs?" I asked.

"Because over several millennia, in order to get food Pleistocene canids evolved the ability to sniff out prey and execute long-distance olfactory hunts. Dogs and cats aren't natural enemies like in cartoons. Everything is prey to a dog. Canidae are a naturally aggressive and voracious species. Have you ever noticed how all dogs are always hungry? Conversely, over thousands of years the felidae family adapted to this danger by evolving very sharp claws and climbing ability. They evolved into master climbers and can literally run up a tree. That's where teamwork comes in. The hounds can suss out a cat and track it for miles until it's treed. When we catch up a technician shoots a sedative into its leg and the sedated cat falls into a specially designed air bag on the ground. The feline vet treats the cat for any illnesses, takes blood and tissue samples, and attaches a radio collar."

"You know what? I'll just go over this report at home. I don't want to take anymore of your time," I said.

"Fine by me. I'm just doing what Evelyn asked," he said.

I tugged my blazer down and squared my shoulders. "Look, I'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot." I'd been in Naples barely three weeks. How did I make an enemy already?

He replied, "For the record I don't think you should be a part of the hunt. It won't be a fun little adventure. It's for experienced vets and biologists. It's physically demanding. You won't be able to keep up."

"Well, if Evelyn wants me to see our work first hand then I intend to respect her decision."

"You better bring a thermos then."

"Why is that?"

"Because there's no Starbucks in the Everglades," he said snidely. "There are 12,000 Starbucks in the U.S. and 19,000 worldwide. Each year they use five billion paper cups made from thousands of acres of virgin forest. At WCC we don't support that kind of destruction." He turned away and stared at his computer screen.

I thought, I'm never gonna make it. Nothing is ever going to be right. He called my name and I had a glimmer of hope.

"Yes?"

"Here's a list of camping gear you need. You can expense it."

"Oh."

"Have a nice day," he said.

I retreated to my office. Maybe I wasn't the hippie-crunchy hardcore environmentalist he was but at least I wasn't a judgmental ass. The nerve! Implying I'm not serious. Saying I can't cut it. He pegged me for a city slicker because I enjoy a consistent cup of coffee?

My weakness was caring about what other people think. I hated when someone didn't like me. I had to let go of that starting with Mason.

Okay, starting now.

I spent the rest of the day delving into the administrative tasks Evelyn didn't enjoy. Snake came in and asked if I wanted to buy produce at the farmer's market. I was more in the mood for a fatty pastrami sandwich but said sure.

_____

The market is held in the parking lot of the Presbyterian church and despite the afternoon hour it was a buzzing social scene. As we walked the aisles I marveled at the selection. Back home there was no sweet local fruit off-season. I stopped for lettuce. Picking it up I thought aloud, "Wonder what precautions they've taken to prevent e. coli and listeria?"

Snake whipped his head around and said, "Shh! You can't talk like that around here. These are upstanding organic farmers. For pete sakes, you're part of the community now." I looked around to see the fleeing masses in which I'd instilled the alleged contamination hysteria threatening to destroy small organic farmers, but the pitchfork lynch mob wasn't heading my way.

"Organic shmorganic. Bacteria's on every farm."

"It's fine." He gave me a dirty look while I paid for the lettuce and handed over a twenty. I gave him "the look" right back. It seems I'd traded the kosher (deli) nostra for the organic racket. With his mouth full of free pickle samples, Snake let me know he was leaving to go see about a boat.

I spent the next several minutes by myself, staring at a selection of fudge. In the corner of my eye there was a titter in the crowd by the Empanada truck. I walked toward it. It was David Cruz surrounded by an entourage.

He spotted me and broke away from the crowd. His eyes were soft and sexy in the afternoon sun.

"How do you like our little local market?"

"Nice."

"Personally, I miss the supermarket's cut up fruit on the styrofoam tray with too much plastic wrap."

I laughed. "You can't do that. Wasteful packaging. Shame on you," I said.

"What? The packaging added a nice chemical flavor to the fruit," he said. I shook my head in mock disapproval. I love a man with a sense of humor.

David steered me to his favorite vendors and we sampled jams, kettle corn and pickled beets. I bought a small kettle corn, thanked Cruz for the tour, and excused myself to head over to the sporting goods store. "I need to get some camping gear," I said.

He smiled and shook his head. I felt his eyes on my back as I walked away.

_____

When I got home I dropped five bags of camping gear on the living room floor, kicked off my shoes, plugged in my phone and plopped onto the sofa. I took a beat to recharge my brain pan then padded into the kitchen and put Stouffer's French Bread pizza in the oven.

I took my dinner to the front porch to see the last remnants of the sunset. Pink and blue bands of light lay stacked across the horizon. There were evening noises in the neighborhood. People coming home, pots banging through a neighbor's kitchen window, someone calling their pet's name, kids riding bikes on the sidewalk. Despite the noises, the evening felt quiet. It was like the beach. You lie down surrounded by a thousand noisy people at mid-day, yet there's an overwhelming sense of quietude that lulls you to sleep.

My mind drifted to Mason. Boy was he mean. It was too bad because he was gorgeous. I decided I'd show him I could handle a few days in the Everglades. I was gonna channel my inner Demi Moore and totally G.I. Jane that trip.

When it got dark I went in and put on the tea kettle. I put my tea cup, a sleeve of cookies and the stack of reading material from Mason onto a wooden tray and brought everything to my bedroom. I propped up a pillow, lay back, turned on the TV for company and started my reading:

Fifteen thousand years ago the last ice age began to retreat northward leaving a cool, dry climate in North America. For up to 10,000 years, low sea water exposed a region around the Bering Strait called Beringia. The previously submerged land connected Siberia and North America. On the western side of Beringia tribes from the west and tribes from southeast Asia converged, uniting bloodlines. During that era animals were the first creatures to cross to North America. Following them the new Beringians crossed the strait over land. (And, when snow or ice was high, by ultra light canoe—watercraft made of thin wooden frames wrapped with giant, tightly-stretched walrus skins. Today, people in that region still produce this canoe, the lightest watercraft in existence to date.)

Beringians are the direct ancestors of Native Americans (and their numerous progeny who traveled south to colonize Central and South America before Europeans). There is a popular Native American tenet passed down from one generation to the next about where they believe their origins lie. When asked from where do his people originate, a Native American says "they aren't from anywhere else, they've always just been here." His grandma or great grandpa told him this, as did their elders, and to an extent this belief is true. Geneticists have discovered that nowhere in the world except in the Americas does Native American, or blended Eurasian/East Asian DNA, exist. Not even in the eastern region of the Bering Strait, where the two peoples once converged. They all crossed, and none stayed behind.

After crossing the Beringians followed their prey all over, even into southern Florida. By 12,000 B.C.E., Beringian progeny, the paleo-indians, had settled Florida which back then was twice as wide as it is today and much colder thanks to sea levels up to one hundred meters lower. The west coast of Florida was eighty-six miles seaward of its present-day location. Present-day Fort Myers Beach was once an inland hilly area. That may be why paleo-indian archeological sites have not been discovered in Florida—they are submerged beneath the ocean, miles offshore.

With the Ice Age coming to a close, the Continental Ice Sheet melted, seas rose and the Florida peninsula shrank. Newly-created savannas supported a plethora of oversized pleistocene monsters: mastodons, woolly mammoths with sixteen-foot tusks, giant ground sloths, giant tortoises, armadillos and saber-toothed tigers.

I was enthralled. I tried to imagine the Paleo-Indians' mental state amidst these predators. How does one contend with a saber-toothed master killer or a Mastodon three times the size of an elephant?

At one time, in the exact spot where I now lay in my bed extinct mega-creatures co-existed with the earliest American settlers. Battling the elements without modern shelter and being stalked by insanely huge creatures sure puts modern problems into perspective. I popped a cookie and kept going:

About 8,000 B.C.E., with temperatures rising, South American cougars (the relatives of African Cheetahs) migrated to North America.

With the ice age over, tree life thrived. Vast forest covered Missouri and Arkansas, and thick cypress swamp dominated Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama. One contiguous pine forest stretched from the Carolinas, Georgia, and all the way down the Atlantic Coastal Ridge to Miami. As recently as one hundred years ago, that 1,800 mile-long multi-state forest was the panther's original home-range, and it took a panther forty hours to traverse. Today, due to profound deforestation, the few remaining panthers are squeezed into a 200 square mile portion of Southwest Florida.

My cell phone buzzed. It was a text from David Cruz. Discuss gala tomorrow 7 pm? Meeting outside the office was not wise. I pondered the right response while I went back to flipping through the white paper:

Panthers are solitary creatures rarely seen by humans or each other. Unlike species that congregate and form "packs," panthers crave solitude and set boundaries. When two panthers' hunting grounds converge their competitive nature compels aggression, often resulting in mortality. Thus, every acre of habitat lost to housing or farms increases the mortality rate.

Panthers are the "umbrella species." This means conserving their habitat benefits numerous other species including humans. They share habitat with black bears, coyotes, bobcats, white-tailed deer, wild boar, small mammals, birds, reptiles, amphibians and rare tropical plants—which will all survive extinction if they stay under the umbrella. Local humans benefit, too. Preserving land tracts means more surface through which water filters into the aquifer. If the entire everglades were paved over or farmed the water supply would end or be irrevocably polluted. The panthers ensure excellent drinking water and a diverse wildlife legacy for future generations.

I put down the booklet, looked at my cell phone, tapped out sounds good and sent the response.

As soon as I put down my phone it rang. It was Evelyn.

"I need your help. A couple days ago Clifford and Ben did some fieldwork tagging sea turtles. We got a call from the people running the GPS tracking system on the tags. The satellite data shows a mapping problem with one of them."

This could mean nothing or mean a turtle was in trouble.

"I've read that the computer mapping programs have glitches," I said.

"Well, the tag sent out two signals near the tagging site. And since sea turtles don't need to come up for air all that often, and with satellites passing intermittently, it's uncommon to receive that kind of signal."

"One of the tagged subjects is injured near the site?"

"Ben is going back for a quick look around. It's in the Ten Thousand Islands Wildlife Refuge. You're going with him in the morning."

"What about Snake?"

"He has to go to the dentist. That boy has a mouthful of cavities. Besides, this way you can see more of Ben's work." Again, I didn't know that was ever going to be a thing here.

"Understood," I said cooperatively. Awesome, another chance for Mr. Passive Aggressive to remind me of my utter irrelevance.

My first day on the job hadn't gone as planned and I was starting to feel sorry for myself. I shut the light and picked up the TV remote control. I channel-surfed through Cheaters, Extreme Cougar Wives and Naked and Afraid before settling on The Golden Girls. I settled in for the night with Blanche, Dorothy, Rose and Sofia—a big mental hug from America's grandmas.

The image of David Cruz at the farmer's market popped into my head and I smiled. I don't know what came over me. I must have been high on the sultry night air. Normally, I was not the type to fantasize about men I had just met. Handbags yes.

Maybe I was channeling Kathleen Turner from Bodyheat. Either way I was thinking about the Cuban Kennedy. I imagined his arms around my waist, fingers brushing down my back as lightly as curls of smoke.

"Bzz-bzz." I opened my eyes. My cell phone snapped me into reality. It was from Cruz: Looking forward to tomorrow night.

"Aargh!" I let out a shout, threw my phone across the room, and buried my face in the pillow.

_____

A noise like clattering garbage cans woke me in the middle of the night and I couldn't fall asleep again. I looked at the clock. 2:00 a.m.

I got out of bed and did twenty sit-ups. Didn't help. I threw on an old sweatshirt and sneakers and went out for a walk hoping fresh air would relax me.

I walked west on Fourteenth Avenue South to the beach. It was a calm night, no breeze. At the foot of the staircase of the wooden walkway that crosses the dune, I saw two pairs of shoes. That meant a couple was canoodling somewhere on the beach. I had to be careful to give them space.

The blue light of the moon was just enough to light the way. Goosebumps covered my arms and I shivered in the coolness coming off the sea. I walked toward the pier, lost in thought.

Thirty feet ahead a small yellow light appeared. I thought it was the couple with a flashlight. The light disappeared for a second then reappeared much closer as three lights, stopping me dead in my tracks. The lights looked like orbs. With trembling hands I fumbled with my phone, trying to turn on the flashlight. The orbs multiplied again and crept even closer. I froze in fear, shivers running down my spine. The glowing orbs came to about eight feet away, stopped and turned 180 degrees. I peered through the hazy yellow glow and saw the faint outline of a man's shoulders and back. The lights then disappeared.
Chapter Three

I scanned the beach around me but it was deserted and silent except for waves lapping the shore. Even the crickets were sleeping. I began to sprint toward home. I crossed the boardwalk to the street, ran down Twelfth Avenue and cut over to Fourteenth via Gordon. I reached my front door, punched my code into the keypad, rushed in and slammed it behind me. I doubled over, grabbed my stomach and let out the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. I kicked off my sneakers and padded to my bedroom. Keeping the lights on, I crawled into bed.

I knew I was never going to sleep. I needed to talk to someone. I dialed Snake.

"I'm sorry to wake you."

"It's okay. I'm online, playing World of Warcraft with some Mud Monsters."

"Wh-what? Actually, nevermind. I have to tell you something. I saw something. It's going to sound crazy but earlier you mentioned something..." I trailed off, unsure of myself.

"Let me guess. You went into the swamp and something happened that you can't explain."

"I was on the beach. There were lights."

"Huh. I don't know about the beach but everyone knows there's ghost lights in the swamp. One guy I know has seen a light in the swamp. Some say it's light reflecting on all that swamp gas which comes out of the peat. But considering our history of violence here I'm sure it's supernatural."

"What do you mean history of violence?"

"Well, there were three Seminole Wars, right? Local legend says in the second war, the warrior-chief Micancopy stalked Major Francis Dade and his troops and massacred them right near here. Dade's men never saw it coming. They say the restless spirits of ambushed men appear as lights wandering the forest at night." I shuddered. He continued, "and before the Seminole Wars there was the Calusa and the Spanish conquest. They spilt blood all over this land."

——

I'd learned about this area's deadly history. It is said these swamps are filled with blood.

From 500 B.C.E. until 1700 C.E., the Calusa paleo-indians ruled this coast. They were named for their main transportation hub, the Caloosahatchee river, which begins across the state near Lake Okeechobee and flows west to the Gulf of Mexico. At their zenith, the tribe numbered 50,000 people.

They were the first people in world history to cultivate estuarine fisheries and their massive cypress canoes could sail farther than Cuba.

Due to heavy shellfish consumption, they created massive coastal mounds from empty whelk, conch, oyster and mollusk shells. Some mounds spanned five acres and rose twenty-eight feet above sea level. The mounds supported domed meeting halls capable of housing thousands of people.

When the Calusa spotted the Spanish offshore in 1500, they were already wise to colonial treachery. They'd given refuge to Cuban Indians telling tales of Spanish brutality.

The first recorded contact between the Calusa and Europeans was in 1513 when Juan Ponce de León sailed up the Caloosahatchee. Twenty Calusa vessels attacked and Ponce de León retreated. In 1517 Francisco Hernández de Córdoba landed on the coast after discovering the Yucatán. He retreated.

In 1528, the Pánfilo de Narváez expedition was the first heavily armed incursion. Through prior conquest of Jamaica and Cuba, he had gained a reputation for burning indian chiefs alive. But by the time he landed in present-day Tampa only 300 men had survived. Within weeks one hundred more died. The remainder were picked off by Calusa warriors. Narváez perished on a raft bound for Cuba.

In 1539 Hernando deSoto landed in present-day Tampa and explored for four years. He traveled the furthest of all the conquistadors—through Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, Tennessee, Mississippi, Arkansas, Texas and Alabama—and brought European diseases which thinned the local population. DeSoto's diseases opened the door for Pedro Menéndez deAvilés to finally strike the first peace with a now-decimated Calusa in 1566.

In 1702, war erupted between Spain and England, and English-ruled mid-Atlantic colonies hired the Uchise Creek Nation and the Yamasee Indians from present-day North and South Carolina to go forth and destroy all tribes south of the mid-Atlantic region and capture the survivors for slave labor on English-owned plantations. In a nutshell, the last nail in the Calusa coffin was fellow indians.

Some Creek, Yamasee and Calusa hid in Florida and later became part of the Seminole Nation (from the Spanish word "cimarron," meaning "untamed").

Fifty years later, with the Seminole population at 5,000, the U.S. government was bribed by wealthy settlers seeking to co-opt the fertile, south Florida land for cane growing. In order to expel the Seminoles and steal the land, the wealthy men needed the government to launch the infamous Seminole Wars. Via this campaign, the government seized 24 million Seminole acres. Most Seminole left for a patch of barren land given to them in Oklahoma, but some stayed to fight. At the close of the Third Seminole War approximately 450 Seminole remained in the Everglades.

——

I refocused on Snake. He continued, "Then you know that the Spanish brought disease to the Calusa, destroying an entire culture. You have to read Jared Diamond's Guns, Germs and Steel."

"Sure, sure," I said.

"Well, between the demise of the Calusa and the three Seminole Wars there are spirits of vanquished people everywhere. Once-free men, women and children who died in pain and suffering. The swamps are filled with their blood."

"I wonder, would the slave raiders have done something different if they'd known what was later in store for them with the Seminole Wars?"

"No. It's about timing.You have to survive your moment in time, and anyway, the victors are simply those people who domesticate animals first. Because they bring the cowpox and such. Now, even though I personally never saw the strange lights, I did see something strange last winter. I was up near Brooksville with my off-roading club, the Mud Monsters..." On my end, I motioned in the air with my hand: keep going, keep going. Following Snake's line of thought was like following a car without turn signals.

"-and we were passing through a swamp called Bull Frog Pond. Anyway, our convoy got stuck even though there were only two inches of mud—nothing a 4X4 can't handle. Still, we had to pull winch to get out. And it was cold. Twenty degrees colder than where we started. Local legend says there was an old Seminole who escaped forced relocation by hiding out there near an overgrown burial mound. From his hiding place he witnessed the procession of army forces through Bull Frog Pond—soldiers carrying munitions in wheeled carts. Folks say the Indian cursed them and any white man or cart who ever crossed those sacred grounds. To this day, spirits of broken driveshafts and axles are known to roam the site. Ghouls of snapped bolts, twisted frames and tangled winch-cords float through the woods."

Sounded a little far-fetched but who was I to talk?

I thanked Snake, assured him I was alright, and he went back to playing some medieval global warfare computer game with the other night owls.

_____

The next morning I woke up disoriented, TV still on.

Since coming here, sleeping with the TV turned on comforts me. I'm not used to being alone in a big dark house. I hear strange noises in the yard and get jumpy. It's probably raccoons foraging for scraps in the rattle-y, galvanized-steel garbage cans. Sometimes a howling wind comes in off the Gulf, making sleep impossible. On those nights even the grandmas can't comfort me. I find myself puttering around the house at 3:00 a.m., reorganizing the junk drawer or sitting at my computer clicking on one simple trick for a flat belly.

I sat up and watched news until the weather report came on. Then I got out of bed, padded into the bathroom and brushed my teeth. Before getting in the shower, I checked my phone. There was a message from Mason. It was an address in Everglades City where we'd meet at 10:30 a.m.

I stood under the hot shower until my skin turned red and my brain fog lifted. I combed out my hair, worked in some gel and put it into an ugly sort of bun. My goal was to let it air dry, unfurl it and have frizz-free beachy waves. But the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I won't be surprised if I come out looking like early Chaka Khan.

I made coffee and took it to the backyard. When I thought about the fail that was yesterday I shivered. From the thing with Mason to the mortifying fantasy about Cruz to the creepy lights. I had to tell myself aloud "relax." I tilted my face to the sun and closed my eyes.

——

I headed out early to fit in a Costco run before meeting Mason. I was running out of cookies and I loved those bags of popcorn the size of bean bag chairs.

While big-box bargains make my heart-rate skyrocket, I missed the instant satisfaction of midnight pizza and corner convenience stores. That's the downside to country living. I can stock up at Costco but if I forget milk I'll have to drive forty-five minutes to the supermarket before my morning coffee.

When I arrived at Costco I stopped at the big TVs. I thought about a new 70 inch model for my bedroom (would definitely help me feel like people were IN my room) then I headed to the snack aisle. I picked up a box of crackers so big I could serve them at the thaw party of my cryogenically frozen body. I also got cookies, apples and a twenty piece tupperware set. My name is Daisy and I'm a Costco addict. I stood in the check-out line for ten minutes before I realized I was queuing up for a sample of crab salad on a cracker.

I left Costco and headed south on Airport-Pulling Road to Tamiami Trail. I popped Van Morrison into the CD player, put on Into the Mystic and cruised.

When I passed the turn off to Marco Island the scenery got "real Florida" real fast. I passed a tomato farm, a biker bar with a thirty-foot alligator statue on the roof and a gas station with a FRIED ALLIGATOR sign in the window.

I felt electricity in the air as soon as I entered Everglades City limits. It felt like a black cloud following me.

Mason was waiting for me at the dock. I didn't know which was weirder, the paddles in his hands or evil smile on his face.

I'd read a lot about Everglades City. It was one of just two towns in this remote low-lying island chain. A hundred years ago pioneers settled this Caribbean-like chain of islets but the conditions were brutal and life proved too hard for most. Some who stayed profited from rum-running, moonshine production and drug smuggling that occurred across the century.

In the 1980's, the area was home to the infamous Saltwater Cowboys. They were drug dealers who went out in crab boats in the dead of the night through mangrove covered channels to rendezvous with South American drug ships. They collected tons of Columbian marijuana and delivered it to vans that drove the product across the glades to Miami or up the eastern seaboard.

Once there was a Colombian ship carrying one hundred tons of marijuana. But the stench of pot was too obvious. To mask the smell the ship also carried a herd of cattle, manure on the deck nice and ripe. When the ship rendezvoused with the crab boat crew members realized that cows blocked access to the cargo hold. The men started to push the cattle off the ship straight to their deaths into the Gulf of Mexico. It was horrific. Later, when the smugglers recounted their ordeal with compadres over beers they were dubbed "saltwater cowboys."

I looked around. "Where's the motorboat?" I asked.

"We're going on a kayakfari," he said.

"What's that?"

"It's like a safari but on the water." He threw his hands up. "Look, Snake ran the company boat into a sandbar. The engine needs to get flushed. But we're not going far. Have you ever been on a kayak?"

"No."

A sarcastic voice in my head teased myself: High maintenance? Who? Me? No...

Seriously, I have a fear of drowning. I'm always certain the boat will capsize. Maybe that explained my general sense of dread.

Mason noticed. "Hey, what's the matter?"

I straightened my shoulders, shook my head and said, "Just show me our route on the map."

He nodded toward the general store across the street. "After we pick up provisions. I ordered turkey sandwiches at the deli."

We walked over to the general store whose window sign said LIVE BAIT. A vintage PEPSI sign was nailed to the side of the building. I followed Mason down the center aisle to the back deli counter where sandwiches awaited in cocoons of white paper. Mason scooped them up and we went to the register grabbing four liters of water on the way.

An elderly man sat behind the antique register. He wore a wrinkled dress shirt and a navy-blue captain's hat.

"I'm back, Jack." Mason gestured towards me by way of introduction. "Miss Daisy Greenwood."

The man extended his hand. "Jack Roberts. Glad to meetcha, Ma'am. Hope y'all don't get lost out there today."

I gave a perplexed smile. "Why would you say that?"

He nodded toward the bay. "Last night I could have sworn I heard old Ed laughing out there."

I looked at Mason who shook his head. "Jack's just full of stories. I'm sure Miss Greenwood has no interest in folk tales."

"Ain't no tale, son. Last night I heard roaring laughter coming from those islands out there. Sounded just like Edgar J. Watson."

I said, "Who's Edgar Watson?"

Mason rolled his eyes, folded his arms across his chest and resigned himself to a wooden stool.

Jack said,"He's only the most infamous man in the history of these parts. He's from Chokoloskee, that village couple miles south 'a here." He pronounced it the old Florida way, chuck-a-luskee.

"Watson settled here around 1890 with his wife and child, bought a plantation at Chatham Bend, a small island out yonder, and grew cane. He was known to associate with outlaws and murderers and he always carried a double-barrel shotgun. He hired outlanders to work his farm but some of them disappeared soon after demanding their pay. And squatters who lived on his land also disappeared." He paused. "Would you like some coffee, Miss Greenwood?"

Mason smirked and said, "She only drinks-" But I turned to him with an interjecting hand and gave a warning glance.

"No, thank you," I said to Jack with a smile.

"Anyhow, one day some fishermen found a missing local woman floating dead in the bay and someone said it was Edgar Watson's doing and townsfolk got all riled up. Around the same time a hurricane was brewing offshore making everyone jumpy. Someone went up to Fort Myers to report the death but no one came down to investigate. Finally, the townsfolk went crazy, formed a mob to go after Watson, and gunned him down."

Jack paused to sip coffee from a white styrofoam cup, the same model in which he sold bait worms.

"Some say they executed an innocent man. That's why his spirit refuses to go. He's still around, messing with people. Just two weeks ago a college class came here to take an ecotour," Jack made air quotes with knobby-knuckled fingers, "at the Coast Guard center and a lecturer talked about old-towny life including the life and times of old E.J., whose portrait was on display. Just then some of the students went into a kind of trance. It was as if Old Ed was whispering to them from the great beyond.

"They got on the tour boat and headed out to the islands. On Sandfly Key they went on a nature walk. They heard a gunshot and a scream and noticed a student was missing. After a search they found him. He was flat on his back in a stupor, his ball cap on the ground next to him. The eeriest part is that his hat had little holes in it, the kind you get from a shotgun blast. From buckshot. I just know it was Old Ed who'd lured him away, tryin' to steal a soul to pay for what'd been done to him. That's why he haunts the islands, unfinished business.

"I've even seen Old Ed walking right down this here main street one coal black night," Jack gestured with both hands, "an' another time I seen him riding a skiff out in them strange islands. Both times he got on that long black coat and black hat." Jack gazed toward the water.

Shaking his head Mason jumped off the stool. "This is ridiculous. Jack, you ought to be ashamed spreading such nonsense. Let's go, Daisy."

Jack grinned and chucked Mason in the chin. "It's all true, son. I know it."

"Thank you for the history lesson, Mr. Roberts. It was fascinating," I said.

Mason patted the old man's arm. "Let me know if you need anything."

Outside Mason said, "I think there might've been whiskey in his coffee."

"Why does he need you?" I asked.

For the first time since I'd met him Mason's eyes held empathy.

"His wife died and he doesn't know where his son is. I don't think he's called his dad in years. I look out for him. Make sure he gets his heart medicine and such."

"Is he ill?"

"He says he's not, but he is. He doesn't work anymore. There's a nice Latin lady who actually runs his store. She lives in a house in back with her children. He still runs the porch."

I nodded.

"What? I just look out for him. It's nothing."

"You're just a big softy, aren't you?"

We went back to the launch and Mason unfurled a laminated map on the picnic table. He lined our route with a red Sharpie.

"We're going to cross Chokoloskee Bay, go southwest through Sandfly Pass then exit into the Gulf of Mexico at Jewell Key. After we inspect Jewell Key—where the signal is—we'll come back in with the tide."

I looked down at the map of the Ten Thousands Islands National Wildlife Refuge. It was a labyrinthine water wilderness.

I picked up my life vest and looked out on the bay. "If there's thousands of islands how will we not get lost?" I tried to keep my voice low and steady, not panic-sounding.

"First of all, there aren't actually ten thousand islands. A long time ago a surveyor looked out across the islands and said 'there must be ten thousand of them.' But there's only a couple hundred. Second, we can't get lost. I have my trusty eTrex GPS."

He squeezed my shoulder like a trainer to his prizefighter before the first round. "Hey, don't listen to that old-timer. They got nothing better to do out here."

We lowered ourselves into the tandem kayak and took off. I was in the front seat of the tandem kayak and Mason pushed us away from the dock.

I started paddling.

"Whoa," he said.

"What?"

"Every time you paddle, you throw water up into my face back here."

"I'm sorry. I'm not doing it on purpose."

A chuckle escaped my lips. He got angry. I turned to look at him. Water dripped off the tip of his nose.

He tried giving me pointers designed to stop my paddle from pushing water up. Nothing worked. I splashed him every stroke. Finally, I couldn't hold in my laughter. Amazingly, he laughed, too. It must have melted the ice, because I felt the tension between us fade.

Eventually, we got into rhythm. We saw dolphins, manatees and countless fish species.
Chapter Four

The bay was glass and the placid scene was stunning. We made our way through a maze of mangrove islands and through foliage-covered channels. They were like mangrove half-pipes, with sun streaming through the waxy green leaves to dance on the green-black water. This estuary attracted hundreds of species of wildlife. During the summer as many as ten thousand wading birds roost on a small island in Pumpkin Bay. Female loggerhead sea turtles drag themselves onto nearby beaches to nest. Manatees feed and find shelter from the cold in the Faka-Union Canal.

Narrow beaches shaded by sea grape, gumbo limbo and Jamaican dogwood face the Gulf of Mexico. Black mangrove's pencil shaped pneumatophores stick up from the soil and intertwine with red mangrove's prop roots which curve down like graceful knees. Less salt-tolerant white mangrove pops up in the mix here and there. North of the mangrove islands the freshwater and brackish marshes are carpeted with cordgrass, bulrush, cattails and black needlerush. The islands in the northern part of the park provide enough high ground to support cabbage palm, slash pine and live oak.

The tidal waters have a distinct and pungent smell, like wet wood and rotten eggs. I knew from reading every book in our nature center that the smell is sulphur. Mangroves and their raised roots grow in fine silty mud and are usually surrounded by stagnant water that never gets aerated. When oxygen fails to penetrate dense mud, anaerobic decomposition occurs producing sulphur gas.

I looked up at the blue sky and saw the silent contrail of a commercial airliner leaving Miami International Airport. I took in the sounds. Fish were jumping. Cattails rustled in the breeze. Overhead an osprey whistled. It sounded like a whistling tea kettle being quickly taken off its flame.

On one island, a magnificent peregrine falcon was perched on the highest branch of an oak hammock. Another island hosted a large colony of ibis.

A third island was completely covered with white pelicans. All of its trees were leafless and dead, poisoned by copious amounts of white guano. The whole island was painted white with the stuff, from the bare tree branches down to every inch of ground. It was a strange and surreal scene.

"Almost there. We're past Sandfly Key," Mason said. "Are you still nervous about that old coot?"

"No, but I get a little nervous on open water."

I considered telling him about last night's ghost lights.

He said, "I've got another story if you're up for it."

"What the heck."

"Then let me tell you the local campfire tale of Arthur Baker, the Mad Dredgeman."

"Oooh sounds spooky," I teased, turning around to show him wide eyes.

Mason winked in response and I tittered inside like a fourteen year old.

"In the 1900's, seeing dollar signs in swamps, which back then was half of Florida, greedy sugar barons sought to drain it and plant sugarcane. They forced the Army Corps of Engineers to commence a massive drainage operation. One of the laborers, Arthur Baker, was engaged long-distance to one Betty Ann Stephens. He wrote to her everyday and she to him.

"One day, Betty-Ann's letters ceased, and Arthur became angry and despondent. He went insane with despair. He was seen speaking to empty space, sometimes yelling at it and shaking his fist. Eventually the futile Everglades mission was abandoned and the workers fled that hellhole. Except for Arthur who refused to go. He stayed for several days and nights dehydrating to death. One day, following the flight of a flock of vultures, a curious Seminole boat came upon the abandoned dredge. The Indians tried to coax Arthur off but he spat incoherent epithets and brandished a knife. As they left the delirious white man they spied rows and rows of vultures perched on the limbs of the trees surrounding the boat, their razor sharp talons glittering in the sun like obsidian daggers. When the Seminoles were a good distance away, they turned back to see the flock of vultures descend, and saw nothing else but for the tall marsh grass. They heard the screams of a half-dead man being eaten alive by vultures, his flesh picked off the bone but too weak to fight back."

I looked at him in disgust. "Geez, this town is a lot crazier than I imagined."

"That's a good one, eh?" He grinned at me with perfect teeth and a megawatt smile.

Thankfully, after that last story and for the remainder of the trip Mason kept my mind off drowning or being murdered by evil spirits/swarms of Hitchcockian vultures by explaining the name origins of the these islands.

"Pumpkin Key was named when a fisherman discovered an abandoned Calusa field of neat rows of pumpkins. The ancient farmers were long gone but their hardy squash flourished for hundreds of years in the sun, rain and quietude. Grocery Place was named a 150 years ago when a hunting party heading down river unwisely partook of their whiskey before docking at camp and they lost all their supplies in the water. Caxambas, part of Marco Island, biggest of the Ten Thousand Islands, is one of the oldest places on the west coast. It's on a 1771 map of Florida as Caxymbas, an Arawak word meaning 'hole dug along the shore to find drinking water.' Mormon Key was named by a surveyor who discovered a squatter living there with two wives. Lostman's Key was named when some English sailors deserted their ship in Key West. They paid a local fisherman to help them escape. The double crossing fisherman took their money and left them on a deserted island, telling them to walk to the town on the other side of the island. Of course, there was no town. Shortly before dying the deserters were rescued by William Allen, the founder of Everglades City, who happened to be motoring past in his boat.

"And at the bottom of the ninety-nine mile long Ten Thousand Islands National park is the southern tip of the Florida peninsula, Christian Point. When Henry Flagler was building the railroad to the Keys the infamous category 5 Labor Day Hurricane of 1935 barreled through. The greedy Flagler had a small window in which to send rescue trains to the workers but he chose to spare the expense. The poor workforce, most of whom already had miserable lives prior to Flagler's brutal employ, had no shelter from the hurricane, the Keys having no high ground or hurricane shelters. When a train was finally dispatched it was too late. The men could do no more than huddle on cold, wet ground while pelting rain, gale force wind and sand abraded their faces raw. They sat in that for hours and hours. Most died from exposure or drowned in the storm surge, they were just washed away. Later their swept away bodies washed up at Christian Point. The island is a mass grave."

We beached the kayak on Jewell Key. Mason took off his sopping wet t-shirt, wrung it out and laid it flat on the bow.

Surreptitiously I checked out his body. You could say I'm a chest nut. Good pecs turn me on. Mason had that and more. Muscular legs, washboard abs, broad shoulders, sinewy forearms. He caught me looking. I turned around and held my phone up in the air, pretending to check for service.

I didn't know what had come over me. First I'm lusting after Cruz. Now this. Normally I look for monogamous relationships. Since I wasn't the love triangle type I figured I was simply a slut. It's not a crime I reasoned to be attracted to two men at once.

Jewell Key had a gleaming crescent-shaped powder beach. "This is going to sound weird but it seems like the beach is glowing," I said.

Mason said, "You're right. It's the fine oolite. Ooid precipitate."

"Inglés por favor."

He said, "'Ooid' is derived from an ancient Greek word meaning 'egg-shaped.' Starting a little north of here, and continuing up the coast to New England, the sand is different, darker. That sand is formed from thousands of years of weathering and physical abrasion. Mountains, rocks and sediment literally crushed themselves together and got deposited along the coast to form sandy beaches. Think of it like giant sandpaper sanding down the mountains and dumping it onto the shoreline. That sand you're used to was physically created. In contrast, the sand here, and south of here, was chemically created. It's the byproduct of a chemical reaction which produces sediment, in the same way you get that white ring around your bathroom faucet or the way oysters make pearls. Calcium carbonate is chemically lifted from ocean water to form precipitates called ooids or oolites. They are fine, white grains shaped like eggs."

I said, "So these ooid grains of sand are almost like little pearls?"

"It's obviously more complicated than that, and I'm simplifying it to the detriment of science, but yes. They are both byproducts of theoretically similar reactions. But there are a million other factors to its appearance, like the type of marine life in the water whose shells make up sand, and also how far the sand has traveled or how much it's been weathered. The most interesting thing is that this fine sand always seems to form the gently-sloping beaches to which nesting turtles gravitate. Using some advanced internal GPS system they intuit that they should come and nest here."

His Jeopardy! caliber knowledge combined with glistening wet pecs was irresistible. He was like the Professor from Gilligan's Island and Indiana Jones rolled into one.

We walked down the shoreline to the vicinity of the previous mobile lab. Before engaging the signal receiver Mason scoured the ground. The corner of a black object poked up through sand. It was the satellite transmitter. Mason retrieved and inspected it.

"I'm glad we didn't find...you know," I said. "You think the epoxy just didn't hold?"

Normally the researcher has to sand down the turtle's shell a little bit then glue on the transmitter with marine grade glue.

He shook his head. "That's not it. We didn't use this one at all. I don't know what happened. I'll take it back."

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Send it to the sea turtle foundation. We had donated money to them to fund the tags. But I'm not going out again this season."

The WCC donates money—or money and researchers—to wildlife organizations. A local species may be studied seasonally or year-round. Turtles are tagged/studied seasonally as are migratory birds, but collection of manatee, bear or panther data may occur year-round.

Before returning we ate our lunch on the beach.

"Listen, I want to apologize for yesterday," he said.

I looked at him over my sandwich.

"I was in a lousy mood. I'd been up all night and my girlfriend and I recently ended things. While I'm glad that's over, I had just bumped into her the day before and I guess..."

I hesitated but asked anyway. "What happened?"

"I'm still not sure. A couple years ago I left my job in Tallahassee to come here for her. I didn't know she was still seeing her ex."

"No one deserves that," I said by way of condolence. "You were a little harsh though."

"Yeah, well, you seemed a little high maintenance just like my ex."

Way to project, I thought. But I took pity on him and let it slide.

He looked out onto the water. "It's a mystery."

"What is?"

"How people stay together."

I used to wonder how people get together, stay together, all of it. But it got confusing and I gave up.

_____

True to Mason's word we coasted back with the tide. I reached my car and pointed it northbound on Collier Avenue. The clock said it was well before dinnertime so I decided it was high time to select my permanent ride. I was driving a cheap sub-compact rental. I called Snake for car shopping help. He was an engine guy. He picked up on the first ring.

"Yo, Day-zay!"

"Um, what was that?"

"I don't know," he said remorsefully, "something I was trying." I heard multiple "thunk" sounds—his forehead on the phone? Ah, a kindred spirit. I do dumb stuff like that.

"How was the dentist?" I asked, stifling a laugh.

"I'm not allowed to drink soda or iced tea."

"Yes, not good. Listen, I don't know what kind of car to get. You know these parts. I heard in the rainy season the roads are bad. And I'll need to go out east a lot, to meetings at the nature center or national parks." I offered to buy Snake dinner if he helped me car shop.

Our nature center is located northeast of Naples, halfway to Fort Myers and twenty miles east of the Gulf. It is near Okaloacoochee Slough State Forest, the Panther National Wildlife Refuge and the natural everglades (not just the portion designated a national park). I figured I'd be glad of a vehicle that could handle rough terrain.

Snake gave me his home address and I punched it into the GPS. I made a left onto US 41 and passed Collier-Seminole State Park, San Marco Road (which leads to the incredibly quaint village of Goodland), and Boynes South Golf Course.

The right side of US 41 was dominated by the heavy vegetation of Fakahatchee Strand Preserve State Park and Picayune Strand State Forest, both of which were once slated to be the infamous Golden Gate Estates.

In the 1960's the Gulf American Corporation drained 100,000 acres of Collier County. They dug roads through wetlands and pine hammocks. They dredged a meandering creek until it was as straight as a razor slicing through seas of sawgrass and mangrove until emptying into the Ten Thousand Islands estuary. The end result was a massive grid of white limestone roads dividing a former wilderness into city blocks and lots.

Gulf American sold overpriced lots by phone to people all over the world. They promised a luxury community with French restaurants, a country club, fountains on boulevards, playgrounds, shopping centers, schools, utilities, even public water and sewer service. In the dry season a fleet of airplanes flew buyers over the site. They gave away lots on The Price Is Right. They told overseas G.I.'s that Gulf American is affiliated with the federal government.

Buyers were wined and dined at distant country clubs whose rooms were bugged; Gulf American employees could identify skeptical spouses, interrupt sessions with a fake excuse and remove the skeptical spouse from the final pitch session.

The problem was that every wet season even the "drained" land flooded. In bars and churches and at dinner tables locals joked that land "out east" was being sold to suckers "by the gallon." When word got out that you'd need a boat to reach your property the mystique was shattered, the fraud unraveled.

The promised schools and stores were never built. It was a buggy, swampy, desolate underworld—a far cry from the high life.

Fast forward thirty years to today's Save Our Everglades campaign, of which reclaiming the southern Golden Gate Estates is a major component. The state of Florida is buying lots back from 22,000 individual owners in order to piece the land back into its original state—the unique ecosystem that in 1947 Marjorie Stoneman Douglass dubbed the river of grass.

What the state managed to acquire so far is now called Fakahatchee Strand Preserve State Park and Picayune Strand State Forest. Today, they are one-of-a-kind wild places of unrivaled beauty, with deep waters and high hammocks, bears, bobcats, deer, opossum, rare orchids, snakes and alligators. If you look at a satellite photo of the area you will see a vast, eerily empty grid of white roads. Main boulevards with their faded yellow divider lines are bisected by almost one hundred avenues in a perfect grid from 48th Avenue to 134th Avenue, and from satellite images taken over the course of a decade you can see the whole ghost town being slowly enveloped by creeping jungle.

Today only a couple crazy coots live on the edges of the original southern 'Estates.' There are no amenities, not even electricity or running water. It's a lawless no-man's land. In the 1980's this deserted neighborhood became known as "the blocks" and was the drug cartels' favorite place to land DC-3's in the dead of night. Nondescript panel vans would race to meet the plane and spirit away her illicit cargo, usually cocaine or marijuana. Rumor has it the practice still occurs. But at this moment, all I saw was slash pine and saw palmetto dotting the marsh while vultures circled far out.

I made a right onto State Road 951 and after three miles a right on Sabal Palm Road. A quick left on Beagle Lake Road, to the end, and I was at Snake's house.

"Beep-beep!"

He opened the door and waved me in from his stoop.
Chapter Five

Snake's house was a modest ranch with simple but immaculate landscaping. Weeded flower beds. Freshly mowed lawn. A driveway of white stones which went "crunch" under my tires.

A plump woman with a stiff brunette hairdo wearing a floral tunic over tight white leggings greeted me at the door. She was shaped like a chicken drumstick.

"Welcome! I'm Caroline. Clifford told me you're from New York. I love New York so I know we're gonna be friends. You'll come with me to knitting club and pie club and...."

Well, let's just say she kept going. Caroline Tucker's accent was strong. She pronounced "pie" pahh. I understood only half of what she said.

Snake said, "Mom, calm down. This is Daisy Greenwood. Daisy, my mother, Caroline."

Caroline Tucker herded me onto a sofa and pressed a plate of crumb cake into my lap. It's a good thing I speak fluent cake.

Most crumb cakes are three parts cake to one part crumb. Hers was three parts crumb. She poured me an iced tea and placed it on the table.

Her house was filled with silk flowers, tchotchkes and bowls of dusty potpourri. In the corner there was an illuminated curio cabinet filled with tiny ceramic shoes. I'd seen them before in the Hallmark store in the mall. There were more figurines on the side table including a ceramic Snoopy. He was dancing atop a cake. The side of the cake said "Do what makes you Happy!"

"Thank you for having me in your home, Mrs. Tucker." I raised my glass, took a sip of tea and ptoo! I had to spit it out of my mouth.

The liquid sprayed out of my mouth onto my lap. My napkin flew to my mouth to catch the dribbles.

"Oh my gosh! I'm sorry." Perplexed, I looked into the glass, amazed it was still brown with that amount of sugar.

Caroline seemed to not notice the episode. She kept yammering so I concentrated on eating my cake. My plate was decorated with a bad Impressionist portrait of a flower meadow. In a scroll font the plate rim said, "Province, France."

Caroline asked me a million questions without pausing for responses. I caught something about her doing "hair right here at home if you ever need anything." She pronounced "hair" hey-ya and channeled Dolly Parton from Steel Magnolias.

Caroline talked a lot about her cookbook club and its Book of Secret Family Recipes. Club members had to give her one hundred copies of an heirloom recipe and one empty binder. When finished participants received a binder with the most coveted cooking secrets. She said I would receive a copy to learn to "cook proper."

In my time there I hadn't managed to share anything about myself but I basked in her flitting around me and her heavenly cake. She seemed like a genuinely nice person if not in a forceful sort of way. In the future my initial impression would prove correct. Little did I know then of her habit of dropping by friends' homes unannounced, as she did with me to "just drop off" baskets of veggies from her cousin's farm or a round tupperware containing homemade orange spice cake or knitting supplies. And for every single thing she did for me, for which I never asked, she'd say, "Oh, I just wanted to do something nice for you," then, force me to acknowledge her niceness and make me hang out with her for hours. I liked it though.

Snake stood up abruptly. "Mom, we have to go."

"Clifford, dear, One Samuel tells us that a lack of patience can cause us to miss a blessing." She said "dear" dee-yah.

Uncontrollably, my eyes rolled to the back of my head. Are we quoting the bible? This was the twilight-zone part of Florida about which my heathen Yankee friends warned me.

Clifford also rolled his eyes.

After I promised to come for dinner next Friday (and received a Tupperware of crumb cake), Caroline permitted our exit.

Getting in the car Snake said, "Sorry about that."

"Don't be. I'm grateful to be invited to dinner."

Caroline was a sweetheart. Also, I couldn't wait for the secret family recipes which she said included the ultimate Pimiento Cheese, whatever that was.

"I don't actually live with my mom, okay?"

"Where do you live?"

"A small barn out back that I converted into a house." He seemed relieved to establish his autonomy.

"Sounds great. There sure was a lot of potpourri in there."

_____

We drove over to the Toyota dealership and sat inside the vehicles.

"I'm liking this RAV4," I said.

"I think you need something a little bigger."

I didn't see why but I supposed when it comes to engines, that's a man for you.

"What do you suggest?"

"Let's look at the FJ Cruiser."

We sat in a weirdly-shaped SUV. I kinda liked it.

Snake said, "I got an idea. Let's go see my friend from Mud Monsters."

We drove over to the Auto Emporium owned by his pal Jimbo. It wasn't a typical janky used-car lot. Inventory was a curated selection of new-ish trucks and 4X4s tricked out with accessories. Snake called them "gray market."

Jimbo greeted us and the two "mud monsters" conducted their secret club handshake which concluded with them linking arms, sticking their index finger inside their mouths and popping out their cheeks.

The Mud Monsters are family-oriented off-roaders who meet in the local swamps, sloughs (pronounced slewz), forests and glades to go on excursions, have barbecues, talk trucks and post photos of Jeeps and FJ Cruisers on social media.

We sat in a souped-up FJ outfitted with a snorkel and an ARB-brand winch bumper.

"I don't think I need all this." But I was fascinated by the space shuttle-like instrument panel. It had a bumper sticker with the upside-down phrase "If you can read this, turn me over" and an imitation license plate with the letters "WHT RD."

"What's a snorkel?"

Snake said, "When you press this button it switches the engine's air intake to that tube above the water line. When you cross a river it keeps water out of the engine."

That was cool. Jimbo said try it out for a week no charge. He put WHT RD onto a white Range Rover whose doors were removed.

A half-hour later I motored over to Budget while Snake followed in my truck. I turned in my compact vehicle and climbed into the FJ. Closing the car door on this behemoth produced a satisfying kplud.

"Okay, Snake, dinner's on me. What are you in the mood for?"

He guided me to CJ's Rib Crib on US 41 and did the ordering at the drive-up. Two full racks of baby backs, a dozen biscuits, pint of macaroni and cheese and then he asks me what I want. I said no thanks, I'm going to dinner, but I really wanted to dig into his bucket of ribs.

By the time I got home it was dusk. I had just enough time to get ready. I turned on the stereo and streamed Steve Winwood. I belted out Valerie! in a five-minute shower. I blow-dried my hair and ran a straightening iron over the frizzy bits, swiped on mascara, then bronzer. I was still pale. With the move and work, I still hadn't gone to the beach. I put on a black tank, skinny jeans and ballet flats.

It was a short drive to Cruz's house on Fourth Avenue North and it was amazing.

It was a smooth-stuccoed double-balconied, restored French Colonial. Like something out of mythic Ole Louisiana. Flower beds lined the brick walkway leading to the mahogany wood door. The elegant front door was flanked by ground-floor brick patios with French doors for windows. Antique hurricane lamps were suspended above the side French doors. Above, the second-story balcony wrapped back around both sides of the house with more symmetrical French doors, a wrought-iron railing and more leaded-glass hurricanes suspended from the ceiling. Twin coconut palms dotted the yard and a fifteen foot wide Banyan tree stood sentry in the far left corner. I rang the bell.

My palms were sweaty. I rubbed them on my jeans.

David Cruz opened the door and ushered me in. I hadn't previously absorbed his full height and stature. He was six-foot-plus of rock hard muscle in jeans and a nice t-shirt. He was gregarious, charismatic and oozing testosterone. The kind of man whose entrance turned on a room and made people want to be around him.

I handed over a bottle of wine.

"Come in, come in."

He gave me a tour of the open first floor which majored in recessed lighting, dark hardwood floors, clean lines and a massive TV, which was perched in front of an ivory Natuzzi sofa. It looked like the Property Brothers had blown through here. A narrow table behind the sofa held a curious collection of cigar boxes.

"What are those?"

"Those are-," he picked one up and turned it over in his hands—a range of emotions swept across his face—confusion, resignation, "art, I guess."

"They're beautiful. May I?"

"Please."

Vintage cigar boxes were painstakingly hand-painted and adorned with precious metals and gemstones glued on like a 3D collage. Each box had a theme. A nautical box was painted with marine symbols and flags, with miniature rope, real gold chain and gold anchors. Hundreds of blue crystals represented the sea. Another box was poker-themed with rubies set into the centers of poker chips carved from onyx. I turned it over. On the bottom was a burned-on stamp: Gran Cuban - Ybor City. Cruz pronounced it for me, grrahn koobahn. The trilled Spanish r's rolling out of his mouth felt like gold coins spilling out of a winning slot machine. Sexy.

"My ex-girlfriend makes those. Lucilla. She sells them at art fairs."

"They're beautiful and they smell...yummy."

"That's tobacco. What do you think it smells like?"

"I don't know, maybe a freshly-mown lawn in the rain?"

"They say the best cigars smell like the hand of a child who is sitting in a hay field in summer as he picks up a handful of rich, loamy soil full of weeds, flowers, insects, worms, pollen and crushed leaves."

"Mmm. Sounds wonderful. Where is Ybor City?" I asked.

"Today it's Tampa's historic district but long ago to avoid paying import tariffs, Cubans came here to build cigar factories. Lucilla's family was one of the largest cigar makers. The factories are closed. Now it's all condos, cafés and restaurants. Everyone wants those old buildings because developers can make a fortune renovating them. Even Bob Swindell tried to buy Lucilla's property."

An alarm went off in my head. This was my chance to ask him about his involvement with Swindell. But for some reason I was more interested in hearing about his ex-girlfriend.

"Are you still involved with her?"

"No. There was a lot of common ground, you know. Our families go way back—our grandparents were friends in Cuba. Our parents are friends. Naturally, we dated. Then one day she tells me she wants to get married right away because her doctor diagnosed her with ovarian cancer. She said her window to have a family was closing. So I considered marrying her and I told my parents what I was thinking—I just assumed they knew about her condition, too, from their friends. But they looked at me like I was crazy. It turns out she didn't have cancer. She just made up this insane lie. Even crazier was the fact that she knew she'd be found out almost immediately and didn't care." He made a curlycue gesture with his index finger at his temple, the international symbol for cuckoo.

He continued, "Anyway, she has a brother who was my best friend. But after that he never spoke to me again. I guess he thinks I spurned her."

"Did you?"

He knit his eyebrows. "Did I what?"

"Spurn her."

"I don't think so. I was in love with her. If she hadn't done what she did we'd probably be married now. But I will admit that since Lucilla I've preferred to remain...unencumbered."

I handed him the box and he held it in his palm. "She's crazy talented, don't you think? I feel sorry for her."

"Do you see her much?"

"Not really. Even though she kind of followed me here. She used to be in Tampa, but lives here now."

He seemed to want to change the subject and I couldn't blame him. His ex sounded like work. But things are not always what they seem. One never knows the truth because sometimes the truth is in the middle.

I still itched to inquire about his deceased friend Chip Wilson and the rumor Cruz had also taken bribes but I didn't want to push; he'd been quite close with the deceased. Plus my Spidey Sense told me Cruz had integrity. He couldn't be guilty. On the other hand I had a history of picking the wrong horse.

"How about opening that wine," I said.

We went into the kitchen. The marble countertop was strewn with paper bags from Il Forno, a chi-chi local restaurant.

"Well, dinner is ready, if you don't mind eating at my humble kitchen table."

I was thrilled to stay in. Back home in the city eating out is an accepted—and required—form of entertainment. I did it every night. It became so tedious that an evening with no plans was a treat.

Cruz's table was spread with assorted dishes. We shared a sweet-and-salty appetizer of cantaloupe wrapped in paper-thin prosciutto and a Caesar salad. After trying each of the three pastas I leaned back in my chair.

"I can't eat another bite." I thought about throwing a dinner roll across the room to create a diversion so that I could surreptitiously unbutton the top of my jeans.

Cruz stabbed a gnoccho with his fork and held it up to me with a smile. It was simmered in a velvety white sauce flavored with Cambozola cheese and toasted walnuts. "One more bite?"

"No way. I'm in a food coma." Plus I'd had three glasses of Tempranillo and my head was woozy.

"Well, save room for their signature dessert—ricotta cheesecake with orange glaze."

I helped clear the table while Cruz made cortaditos, Cuban espressos that are corte or "cut" with a dollop of warm milk. We took the coffee outside to the patio, which was as idyllic as the house.

Antique gray bricks salvaged from a 150-year-old plantation in South Carolina covered the ground in a chevron pattern. Each brick was priceless. A long time ago bricks were produced in a beautiful gray shade from a rare clay native to South Carolina and Georgia. Only the wealthiest could afford them. Due to their scarcity they're salvaged whenever found. Beyond the patio a small swimming pool/jacuzzi combo bubbled quietly in teal-blue light.

The patio had an outdoor sofa in front of a round fire pit that promised to ward off the night chill.

Cruz set the tray on the coffee table next to a folder marked "Gala."

"Do you want to go over that?" I asked.

"First, tell me about you. The whole town is buzzing with talk of you."

"Hmm."

"What's wrong?"

"I guess I feel nervous about taking over the Conservancy. Anyway, Evelyn's not leaving so quickly." She hadn't announced her retirement, yet, plus there would be an executive co-director from science, probably Dr. Mason.

I took a sip of coffee. It was sweet with a caramel colored espumita. "Mmm, nice and hot."

Cruz scooched closer and put an arm around my shoulders. I was immediately nervous, but I was chilly and he was warm. Plus, the wise and prudent angel on my shoulder was slumped in a heap, sleeping off the carbs and red wine, while the devil on the other shoulder was shimmying sexily in a red sequined bandeau top and loudly sniffing Cruz's shampoo. Was that mint and rosemary?

Be demure, I thought, stop smelling him.

"So, how do you like our tropical neck of the woods? Or should I say mosquito-infested swamps. New York is so cosmopolitan in comparison."

He was so close now that my heart was racing. His hand found mine and he laced our fingers.

I cleared my throat. "I love it here. But it's a strange mix of people, don't you think?"

"Maybe a little—a melting pot. You have your fishing types; the seniors, of course; the super-rich; the hispanic contingent; guys in the boonies with guns..."

"Who's your favorite?" I asked.

"Oh, it has to be the seniors. Old people are so blunt and racist. They don't care. They make me laugh. They will literally say anything that comes to mind. For example, when I visited the senior center one lady called me a tall drink of coconut water." We doubled over with laughter.

"Oh, that's too much," I said, blowing out a sigh.

"So, what did you love about New York?" he asked.

"That's easy. My neighborhood. Not only is it the best neighborhood in the city, I'm convinced it's the best neighborhood in the world. I was near everything. Restaurants, dry cleaners, Broadway, Lincoln Center, shoe stores, and of course, the park." I'd had a small one-bedroom on the corner of Central Park South and Sixth Ave that I purchased from a 96-year old lady and renovated.

"Ha," he said, poking me, "you equate shoe shopping with the high culture of Lincoln Center? Typical woman." At least he hadn't called me high-maintenance.

But seriously, only a short time ago, if someone told me I would leave New York to move to the edge of the biggest swamp in America I would have said they're nuts. I was a New York lifer.

"But what I loved the most were hot summer nights walking around the West Village with its tucked-away cobblestone streets, cast-iron gas lamps and brownstones you can steal peeks into. The old lamps cast this shimmering yellow glow that transported you to another place, another time. It was magical. Then you catch a cab uptown, roll down all the windows and feel the hot wind in your face. You'd catch all the green lights because in the summer the city is deserted." I paused to take a sip of coffee. "But, I needed to leave."

"Why's that?"

"Well, stress, for one. I always felt like I didn't do enough. I was too busy at work to have fun. I even canceled my subscription to Time Out New York because it stressed me out that I had no time to try the new restaurants or see the latest shows. I started feeling guilty for not taking advantage of New York. I began to wish there were fewer choices, which is crazy."

Cruz put a piece of cheesecake in front of me. "Don't stop," he said.

"Then about five years ago, I was in an accident. I was standing at the crosswalk on 48th when a panel van jumped the curb and slammed into me. I woke up in the hospital with a broken pelvis. I was lucky—minor ilium fracture. But the guy next to me..." I shook my head.

"Oh, no."

I gave a nod.

"He was on his way to Port Authority to get home to his wife and kids in Jersey." My throat closed, as it does whenever I thought about that dad. "After that you realize that someday all jobs, all relationships, all life will end."

I didn't mention the years I spent secretly hoping Ace would ask me to come back.

Cruz said, "Sometimes a shock knocks your center out of orbit. You lose your inner gyroscope and you feel like a spaceman, floating aimlessly."

"I know what you mean. In the beginning you're young and full of bluster and strength and happiness. Then in your 20's, maybe 30's, you realize you have no control. So you become this different, timid person." I wondered: is that why I came here? To recapture the feeling that anything is possible?

"Don't get me wrong, you can get into an accident anywhere. I just felt like New York was too busy."

"Did you like your job there?"

"Yes. It was fun. Hard and fun," I answered.

"Until you became an unrecognizable workaholic robot, right?" Cruz suggested.

"Exactly."

"Did you ever see the movie Sullivan's Travels?"

I shook my head.

"It's this old black-and-white movie about someone who goes in search of life's meaning and along the way loses everything—all his worldly possessions and even his identity. But he never loses faith in himself and in his fellow man. He finds that being alive is reason enough to be happy and that's when he finds his way back home. You're a little like Sullivan, running away, coming here, leaving your home, friends, family. And it's here that you'll find the way back to yourself."

"You might be right. Either way, I know there's no use dwelling on things. The sun is still going rise tomorrow and go down and it will be another day of my life. I ask myself: how do I want to spend it? Fixating on things or happy I get another day? How'd you get to be such a movie buff anyway?"

"My mom. She liked everything. Film noir, indie, action thrillers. Hey, did you ever read a TV Guide?"

I gave him a look.

"So you know how they have those one-sentence movie summaries?"

"Yes, the blurb."

"Well, for fun I make up my own life's synopsis. It helps me see where I am and where I need to go."

I chuckled. "I get it. Sort of like taking a snapshot of your life or taking your life's temperature. Okay, let's hear it."

"Okay. 'When a longtime community leader finds himself drawn into a murder scandal, he begins to doubt his life choices, and fantasizes about packing up and leaving town in the dead of night to start his life over far, far away."

"Oh," I said hesitantly, "I was wondering about that."

It was my chance to get the deets on the deceased councilman but Cruz's eyes were dark. Instead I said, "Guilt is not always a rational thing. It's often overinflated in our minds and thus a pointless emotion."

Cruz raised his brows.

I shrugged. "I took a lot of psychology classes on the road to becoming a career counselor."

"Good point," Cruz conceded, "but Kafka said: 'My guiding principle is this: guilt is never to be doubted.'"

"Touché." I dropped the subject but couldn't help but wonder. Had he transgressed? And against whom? His constituents? His ex-girlfriend?

He poured another glass of wine.

"Now, let's hear your blurb," he said.

I thought for a second. "How about this: A New York businesswoman adjusts to her new life in a backwater southern town and rediscovers her zest for life." We laughed. "I know, it's corny."

"Seriously, you hit it out of the park."

We sipped our wine.

His slipped an arm around my shoulders. "Is this acceptable?"

I nodded. I could feel his chest muscles. My attraction to him scrambled my brainwaves, displacing rational thought with gray TV static.

He set his glass down, turned and put his arms around my waist. He raised a hand to caress my cheek and pushed my hair away from my face. Slowly, he moved in for a kiss. 
Chapter Six

Cruz pulled away. Did he not like it? I took a beat to straighten my shoulders and put on a nonchalant face.

"Your turn to tell me about you," I said.

He caressed my arm, allaying my insecurities. "Well, I grew up in Miami. My mother is American. My dad Cuban."

"Really?"

"Mmm-hmm. They met when Cuba was still under Batista. She was an actress in the late 1950's doing supporting roles. For this one picture the studio rented my grandfather's ranch in the Cuban countryside. My dad was away in Havana studying to be a doctor. When he came home to visit he met my mom. They got married and she retired from acting. Then, la revolución. Half the family went to Florida. I was born here. Went to Princeton. Studied history. Fell into politics. But we went back a lot to visit."

"That's amazing. What's your favorite memory of Cuba?"

"Playing soccer on the beach with my cousins. For lunch we'd do a picnic on blankets. My tías always brought hard-boiled eggs, fresh from the farm. When you bit into them, the salt on your lips from the ocean would get on the eggs, making them savory and delicious." He had a faraway look. "To this day I can't eat a hard-boiled egg without thinking of Cuba."

I let a moment pass, then nodded toward the folder on the table. "Should we go over this stuff?"

He smiled. "Of course. I need to let you know which old men are the ass pinchers."

I laughed. "Yes. I want to sit far away from them."

"On the contrary, you have to talk to all of them. They're the big donors."

I inched away from Cruz. I needed to concentrate on the fundraising. Not much had changed from the previous year's gala in terms of minutiae—the party planner managed the venue and chose details like the menu, orchestra and flowers. Every year Mason chose a local animal as gala mascot. This year's was the small and sprightly Key Deer. I briefly thought of Mason on our kayakfari—how he'd warmed up to me despite the chill of our being polar opposites.

I realized that Cruz could have given me the lowdown via phone or email. He'd wanted to see me. And I felt like a big slut. This morning I was ogling one man's abs, and now I'm lusting after another altogether. What was wrong with me? Does the Florida sun fry your brain cells? I closed my notebook and stashed it in my bag.

Cruz cinched close to me. My heart was still pounding from the last kiss. Grabbing the back of my head, he kissed me. I put my hands on his chest to push him away but he responded by putting his tongue in my mouth and his hands on my breasts. I was putty. He pushed me onto my back and pried my legs apart with his knees.

I tore away. "I think we should stop," I said.

He stiffened. "You're right." He gently pulled me up and we took a beat to regroup.

The problem was not that I didn't like him. I just had too many thoughts running through my head and the enormity of it overwhelmed. For starters, I felt like a fish-out-of-water here. Leading to number two: the pressure to make this huge move work. While I'm relieved to ditch a life that made me blue, what if I fail? Three: something sinister was brewing in this town under the guise of coral lipstick normalcy and I wouldn't have time to root it out before it messed up my job if I'm preoccupied with the two hottest bachelors in town.

How, how could I have known that once you open the door to life, crap just starts pouring in?

While the Wilson murder might be the crime du jour, Naples had a history of bizarre crime. On a scorching summer day in 1985 one Steven Benson placed a pipe bomb under his family's Chevrolet Suburban. The explosion killed his mother Margaret and his nephew Scott. Steven's sister miraculously survived and later reported that Steven had sat by and watched her burn alive. The motive: money—namely his mother's ten million dollar inheritance from her father's Lancaster, Pennsylvania tobacco company. Steven must not have liked his mom or sister much, or for that matter Scott, who before his death reportedly was known to waste his youth drinking, doing drugs and racing his sports car at night out in "the blocks."

In 1994 one John Laroche found himself in Naples criminal court. His crime: orchid addiction. His habit had gotten so bad that he and three Seminole Indians entered the Fakahatchee Strand Preserve State Park to snatch ninety orchids and epiphytes. There are strict laws against destroying wildlife on park land and knowing this, Laroche had made sure he didn't touch a single plant. Only federally-recognized Indians were exempted from prosecution. Rather, he advised his associates on what to steal. His case eventually illuminated a subculture of plant fanatics who rely on a plant-black-market to broaden their collections. There's an orchid garden in England that has to protect its plants from theft with high-tech alarms and shatterproof glass like a jeweler does with diamonds. And if you did an internet search for plant crimes in Florida you'll find that horticultural thefts exceed drug crimes.

In 2011 a woman gave her sleeping housemate's Thin Mints cookies to said sleeping housemate's children. When Thin Mint owner/enthusiast Miss Hersha Howard awoke the next day, she accused the housemate of eating her Thin Mints. The woman replied that she gave the cookies to Miss Howard's children. Nonetheless, for the cookie crime Miss Howard allegedly hit her in the face, bit her breast, chased her with scissors and hit her over the head with a stake.

In 2012, in response to a complaint of gun brandishing, Naples man Mark Loescher was apprehended by police outside a Wells Fargo bank branch. Loescher told police he was unable to submit to police custody because he "desperately" needed to go to the "fusion center" to get his "monkey blood checked on," and further, being that he was the "current director of the CIA" he should get preferential treatment because he was fellow law enforcement. In addition to being "half-ape" and head of a U.S. federal agency, Loescher said he was "Elvis Presley's brother" and a friend of George W. Bush.

——

"Can I see you tomorrow?" Cruz asked.

I wrinkled my brow. "I think I need to get settled here first. You know concentrate on work for a while."

"So that's a no, you don't want to see me."

I tried to explain but his house phone rang and he stood. "I have to get this, but, please, don't go. I want to talk to you."

I must've been crazy. I did want to see him again.

He came back almost immediately. "It was just Lucilla," he said, annoyed.

"Oh?"

"She has some charity event. Needs a plus one."

"What did you say?"

"I said I'd get back to her."

The phone rang again. "Excuse me."

After thirty seconds I loaded up a tray with our cups and dishes and headed into the kitchen. I found Cruz leaning against the kitchen counter, holding the phone to his ear.

"I'll be right back," he whispered and disappeared down the hall into his study. I sat at the counter. I couldn't overhear the exact words but his voice seemed unsettled.

This was exasperating. I crossed my arms, leaned back and huffed out my bangs. Something jabbed my back. Cruz's jacket was draped over the back of my barstool and peeking out from the inside pocket was a mini cassette case. I took it out. It was marked "swindell conv" in chicken scrawl.

Given the bits I'd overheard at the office—and now this—so many questions raced through my mind. Why would Cruz get involved with so much to lose? Why did he tape their conversations? Who was he on the phone with now? Worst of all, was he using me and Evelyn and our organization to conceal his true agenda? Mason thought as much.

Golden boy or not, elections were coming and Cruz needed broad support to be re-seated. A lot of wealthy Neapolitans loved nature and I was the successor to a popular local organization. Aligning himself with the Conservancy would shore up a huge voting bloc. I heard footsteps and shoved the cassette down the front of my jeans.

"I'm sorry," he said, "Work."

I couldn't look him in the eye. "It's okay. It's late." I jumped off the stool. "Thank you for dinner and helping..." I said.

"Wait, when can I see you?" He grabbed my waist and put his hands on my hips. Oh god, he was going to feel the cassette down there.

"I like you," he said.

I extricated myself, picked up my purse and gave him my best client smile.

"I'll call you," I said, making a beeline to the door.

"Okay, but put this on," he grabbed a tan hat from the coat tree and put it on my head, "it's about to rain." He kissed my cheek and lowered the brim, frowning as I left.

I felt guilty about my larceny but I couldn't help myself. I need to get to the bottom of things.

It was harmless. I'd listen to the tape and return it tomorrow. I even left my sunglasses behind, strewn under the stack of Il Forno bags on the counter, just to have an excuse to drop by tomorrow and plant the cassette back.

But if my justifications were right, why did I feel lousy?

——

I walked outside to my FJ Cruiser, got in, and turned over the engine. The night was jet black except for the yellow glow of a streetlamp. The windows were foggy so I cranked the defroster.

A warm easterly wind with rain and gusts had come in off the gulf. Palm trees waved wildly like those wacky inflatable tube dancers on used-car lots. I could almost feel the barometric pressure dropping and the rain turned into a downpour.

My peripheral vision registered movement in Cruz's side yard by the gumbo limbo tree. I scanned the yard but didn't see anything. Just the same the hair on the nape of my neck stood up and a chill ran down my spine. I chalked up the moving shadow to stray pet or feral pest rooting around for a nice smelly garbage can. I was peering at the dashboard trying to crank up the defroster when craack! A sound like a shotgun pierced the night. My heart felt like it shot out of my mouth on a cartoon recoiling spring. I looked up in time to see a bolt of lightning amputate a branch from the gumbo limbo, which went thud on the neighbor's yard.

I had to hold my chest. Relax, I said aloud, it's just the storm kicking the crap out of a tree.

I gave the defroster another thirty seconds. I knew from years of northern winters that wiping the windshield with my hand would merely redistribute the pesky moisture.

As I waited for the window to clear, a second CRAACK exploded my left ear and a shadow retreated from my window. For a second I feared the murky figure was another swamp-ghost.

"What the fuck?"

This person had hit and shattered my side window. I could make out a man in black, wearing a dark balaclava. I screamed, he ran.

Quickly, I thought over my options.

Call the police. I'll go back to Cruz's house and call the police. On the other hand, they'll find the tape on me. This will not look good. And why me, exactly? Is it possible I was mistaken for Cruz?

I slumped over the wheel. The fact is I didn't know what was on the tape and even something incriminating could have a perfectly logical explanation.

There's no way I can face Cruz now. But do I need to warn him? The tape was starting to pinch down there. I reached in and pulled it out.

I can't do this anymore.

I went home, kicked off my shoes and shucked my damp clothes. I stashed the tape in the cookie jar and plopped onto the sofa. I sat in the dark and stared at the rain shadows on the wall. When had my life begun to free fall? This was supposed to be a paradise. Not a southern gothic nightmare. Florida was a weird place and I was appropriately scared. Ghost lights of long dead soldiers and Seminoles. A fight with a co-worker on my first day. Crazy old coots haunting the Ten Thousand Islands. Bribery scandals and the murder of a town councilman. That thing with Cruz. I slapped my forehead like Cher. Snap out of it!

Maybe this hick town was too much. Maybe I'd be better off in the cold gray city.

I needed advice. I decided to call Evelyn.

I wonder: could I be addicted to misery? Why else would I be this...stress magnet?

I once read about a behavior experiment using German Shepherds. To gauge the animals' ability to acclimate to a less-than-ideal environment, they put the poor dogs into a room with a slightly-electrified floor. The result of the experiment was that after a certain amount of conditioning not only did the dogs tolerate the painful floor, eventually they chose it over the non-electrified floor. In my time as a head hunter, I'd met a whole army of folks out there absolutely miserable in their jobs and lives, but who wouldn't lift a finger to change their situation because they've gotten so used to the drudgery. It's familiar, like an old friend, and sometimes familiarity equals happiness.

Is that me? Was I so used to my old misery that—now that it's gone—I need a substitute?

No. I wanted a no-drama life and it seemed that the only way to get it was to protect my job, and thus, my employer. I vowed to solve the Wilson murder for the sake of the Conservancy, and to help Cruz clear his name. It would be a shame if I had to start hating such a fine looking man. Plus I'd be restoring Mason's faith in his fellow man. That would put a smile on his face. I briefly recalled his shirtless rowing from this morning but my thoughts came hurtling back to present like a needle scratching a vinyl record because the reality was, right now, I didn't have a clue how to fix any of this.

I picked up the cordless phone next to the sofa, dialed and steadied my voice. It cracked anyway.

A man with a deep and mellifluous voice answered, "Hello."

"Good evening. May I please speak to Evelyn?"

He answered slowly and enunciated his syllables, like he was trying to figure out who I was. "Yeess. One second."

A muffled sound came out of the receiver then Evelyn came on. "Hello?"

"It's Daisy."

"Goodness, dear, what's wrong?"

I stammered, "I was- was just- attacked, I mean someone smashed my car window."

"What?"

She told me to start at the top. I obeyed, then she said, "We're coming to pick you up. We'll be there in five minutes."

I changed into sweatpants then sat down and stared at the wall until I heard their car horn. I grabbed my rain jacket and purse and hurried to the car.

Evelyn drove a white E350 station wagon the trunk of which was loaded with potted flowers. A couple bags of organic potting soil, gardening gloves, straw hats and multiple umbrellas were strewn across the white leather backseat. I shoved everything to one side and got in.

"Sorry," she said, "we went to the plant show today."

There was a distinguished-looking black man in the front passenger seat, presumably the man on the phone.

Evelyn said, "This is my boyfriend, Myles."

He turned to me with an awkwardly extended hand and a smile, "Myles Jasperson." He was handsome with friendly eyes, salt and pepper hair and freckles on his light black skin.

During one of our preliminary employment meetings Evelyn had mentioned a boyfriend of ten years. Her late husband had passed from a heart attack.

I shook his hand. "Daisy Greenwood. Nice to meet you."

Evelyn said, "You'll spend the night at my house. I have a guest room ready."

When we arrived we gathered in her vaulted living room and Roberta, her housekeeper, brought out tea. When Roberta was out of earshot Evelyn said, "Tell me again what happened."

I recounted every detail: the dinner, the phone calls, the tape, the rain storm, the attack. I left out the necking.

Evelyn said, "You are aware David is on our Board of Directors. I would've done the same thing. We need to know what he's up to."

"I know what I did was wrong. I regret it. It was an impulse. I just wanted to know who he really is."

She said, "If David broke the law he would have to pay. If he's innocent, well, you were protecting your organization. The question is should we listen to it?"

"I feel sick," I said.

"You're safe here," Myles patted my arm.

Evelyn nodded in agreement and said, "Here's what we're going to do. Will not listen to the tape. It'll just make us crazy. Return it as you planned." She wrung her hands. "This is so strange. I know David. There must be an explanation. Tomorrow I'll find out what's going on from my friend at the FDLE."

Myles shook his head. "I play golf with the man. I can't understand."

Evelyn rose and said, "What we need is a good night's rest. Everything will be clearer in the morning." She gestured to us. "Come."

Before showing me to my room Evelyn gave me the nickel tour. She said I may use her pool and hot tub.

"There's brand-new bathing suits in assorted sizes in all the guest rooms' closets." I wasn't in the mood.

Evelyn regaled me with the history of her neighborhood, Port Royal, the most exclusive in Naples. It was a fairytale enclave of lavish beach houses, yacht clubs, sparkling blue swimming pools and tennis whites. In lieu of typical green rectangular street signs, Port Royal's streets were marked with hand-crafted wrought-iron street signs.

"This development was founded in 1938 by midwesterners John and Helen Sample. After vacationing in Palm Beach and finding it flashy and debauched with its parties and liquor and high fashion, they headed here in hopes of finding a more puritanical citizenry. John and Helen were the epitome of narrow-mindedness. Back then the entire southern tip of Naples was a mangrove swamp. They decided to establish a new morally-clean community. For $54,000 they bought two square miles, dredged, subdivided, built the club and christened the whole thing Port Royal after the wealthy 17th century Jamaican port town.

"John and Helen alone comprised the 'membership committee.' They banned blacks, hispanics, Catholics and Jews. Wealthy locals would buy the non-waterfront lots—not to build on, but for the club membership alone. They were called 'dinner lots' because back then there were few restaurants in town and if you didn't belong to a country club you'd wait a long time for your dinner. During the early fifties, homes sold for $22,000. By the sixties, $55,000. Today no house is less than five million.

"Every buyer had to meet the Samples' impossible standards. One couple, some ultra wealthy Minnesota industrialists thought they had passed—they'd gotten a verbal okay. To celebrate Mrs. Sample invited them to the club for tennis. During the match John Sample overheard the Minnesota wife whisper 'darn' for missing a ball, and just like that they were banned for life."

I was incredulous. "Because of one swear?"

Evelyn nodded. "And the original Port Royal homeowners all agreed with Sample's overt discrimination—they are the families behind Briggs & Stratton engines, behind Kodak, Pittsburgh Plate Glass, Schlitz Beer, JIF Peanut Butter, R.C. Cola, all of them. And they weren't happy when a Federal court finally banned discrimination."

We reached the top of the grand staircase. Down the hall Evelyn opened a door into a guest room. It had a king bed, two overstuffed chairs in front of a fireplace and a balcony overlooking the pool and beach. The earlier storm passed leaving a chill in its wake. Evelyn flipped a switch and a fire sprang up. Evelyn sat in a chair and motioned me to sit.

"Evelyn, how well do you know Cruz?"

"David? Oh, he's a fixture of Naples. Everyone knows David. He and I are good friends. When I was very little I went to Cuba often—before the restrictions."

"I didn't know Cuba was a tourist destination then."

"Oh, yes. It was the playground of the rich and famous. In 1912 the railroad started the Havana Special. You could go to Penn Station in New York City and actually buy a ticket to Havana, Cuba. The train took you to Key West; there, you boarded a railroad-owned boat to Havana. The accommodations were quite luxurious. A few decades later we had the Orange Blossom Special train. It went from Penn Station to Miami where you boarded a Cubana Airlines flight to Havana. When I was a teenager in the 1950's we wintered in Miami and visited Havana on the weekends. The Tropicana night club had an arrangement with Cubana Air for a special plane—the first five rows of seats were removed to accommodate a five-piece band. After take off the velvet curtain would part and the band and dancers performed while flight attendants served daiquiris. Dancers went up and down the aisle making people dance. By the end of the show the plane was landing in Havana. A Tropicana limo took us to our hotel to freshen up, then to the club. It was the most glamorous spot in town. They had elaborate shows, a large orchestra, world-famous singers and showgirls who were knockouts. The girls wore tall feather headdresses in their dance numbers. The next day we'd fly home and not even stop at Customs. Havana was a heaven for playboys, Brando, the mob, Hemingway, Marilyn, even J.F.K. It all ended with Castro and the revolution. Cruz likes to hear my stories because he doesn't know those good old times."

"Sounds magical, except for Batista murdering 20,000 Cubans and stealing five hundred million dollars from his subjects," I said.

"I know," she said. "It was a sad situation. Well, I'm afraid I'm off to bed. Would you like a midnight snack before I go."

"No, that's too much trouble," I said.

"Nonsense. Roberta made cupcakes today. I'll send some up."

"Could you add a glass of milk?" I asked.

"Of course. Nighty-night."

A few minutes later there was a knock. Roberta delivered a sterling silver tray with assorted cupcakes and a glass of cold milk. I thanked her and closed the door but as soon as I set the tray on the ottoman there was another knock. It was Myles, standing there in some very classy pajamas, a matching robe and Trask bison shearling slippers.

"Nice pj's."

"Shh!" he whispered abruptly. "I heard you have cupcakes." He peered around my torso to spy my plate of cupcakes.

"Why are we whispering? Where's Ev?"

"In the sauna," he said, "and she'll kill me if I overdo the sugar." He patted his midsection. "I'm supposed to be watching it."

My cheek pinched in dismay. "Great. I'm contributing to your insulin resistance."

He snaked past me and plopped into my chair, looking like an innocent puppy.

"Just a half!" I commanded.

"Shh! A half, a half."

We ate in front of a flickering fire, crumbs on our faces, looking as greedy as badgers in the warm orange light. I let Myles have the milk. When our plates were clean we slumped back in our chairs.

I gave Myles the once-over. "Seriously though, those are some kick-ass pajamas."

"I know. You'd never expect the little things in life to be so good. They were a christmas gift from Ev. They're Filo di Scozia."

"What the heck is that?"

"Cotton. A couple of super-high-thread-count Italian duvets got together and had a baby and these are it."

We laughed and chatted until he tiptoed back to bed. That night I dreamed of homemade cake, showgirls' feathers and sateen pajamas.
Chapter Seven

The next morning Evelyn left early for tennis and I had breakfast with Myles on the verandah. Ceiling fans on the ceiling rotated in slow lazy circles, giving a Casablanca feel. These fans had three speeds—fast, medium and rich. I lifted the silver warming cover from the tray. Eggs Benedict. There was also coffee and a tray of fruit.

Myles said that Evelyn's mechanic had gone to my house and picked up my car. "He'll fix the window and drop it off later."

I raised an eyebrow. "Your mechanic makes house calls?"

"Do you envision Evelyn going in for an oil change?"

I nodded in agreement.

"In the meantime you can borrow my car."

"Oh, I can't take your car."

"Nonsense. I just need a lift to the club. I'm meeting Evelyn after tennis for the dance clinic. We do the cha-cha, the rumba..."

Miles put one hand on his chest the other in the air and chanted "2-3-4 and 1."

"Is that on your bucket list?" I asked.

"Champagne bucket list," he said.

"You got style," I teased. "You sure about the car?"

"Actually I try not to drive."

"Why is that?"

"Blind spot, right eye. I don't exactly have full use."

"I'm sorry."

He touched a slight scar above his temple. "This is a reminder of how lucky I am to be alive. You see, the world I grew up in could not be more dissimilar to this." He gestured around.

"May I inquire how you got it?"

"I got beat up pretty bad when I was a kid. Florida was—and in some parts still is—vehemently racist. Me, my friends, our families—we suffered one ordeal after another. I got this," he pointed to the scar, "for trying to go to school. See, this local college decided to admit three black kids and I'd won the Civic Leaders scholarship. Was planning to be a teacher." His eyes had a distant look. "My first day come, I got beat so bad I was in the hospital for a month. Lost seventy percent of my sight in this eye." He stared at his coffee cup.

"Slaves were officially freed in America in 1863 but de facto slavery existed in Florida for another hundred years. All over the state sheriffs, politicians and white businessmen colluded to force blacks into indentured servitude. For example, white-owned turpentine businesses offered us jobs in work camps. But once the worker arrived and saw the inhumane conditions, he'd want to leave. But the boss would say the black worker owed him the cost of transportation to the camp—some arbitrary and enormous sum of money, and the boss had already paid the local sheriff to enforce the debt, enforcing the servitude. If the black man didn't work off the debt, he'd be arrested, brutally beaten and frequently, murdered.

"Even the legal courts colluded to enslave us. Judges didn't permit blacks to bring lawsuits against whites. Threw those suits right out of court. Also you could get arrested just for taking a walk. They called it 'vagrancy'—because if turpentine camps needed to meet worker quotas, they bribed sheriffs from far and wide to arrests any black person on false charges and send them to slave labor. Then in '45, the sugar barons bribed the Governor to outright command all local law to arrest any unemployed black man and force him to work in the cane fields. And for the women, down in Miami they passed a law prohibiting blacks from working outside town limits because the whites demanded cheap maids for their homes. No, they wouldn't let their blacks go off and become skilled, or take a better paying job in another town. It was tantamount to slavery. Across the state crooked judges routinely sentenced blacks to jail merely for quitting a job on a white-owned farm. Farm supervisors regularly beat workers to death to set an example—to deter others from quitting. There were countless government-supported schemes to keep slavery alive." Myles was angry. "Yes ma'am, my very first memory in this world is of tears. Tears and crying." Myles took a breath. "Goodness gracious."

I took a moment to respect his memories then inquired, "Did you become a teacher?"

"Yep. I was a math teacher for twenty-nine years."

"How did you meet Evelyn?"

"I met Miss Ev at a flower show. We're both amateur botanists."

"Well, at least you two found each other. You have a beautiful home and cars full of flowers."

Myles chuckled. "Yes, life is good. Although I'm not what John Sample intended for Port Royal."

"Well, you're here and he's not."

"I guess that's all that matters."

_____

After breakfast we jumped into Myles' matching pearl-hued E350 station wagon which unlike Evelyn's filthy car had nary a speck of dust. I took the wheel and headed to the club.

"You like Cruz, don't you," Myles said.

"I could," I replied. I didn't tell him about Mason.

"I'm not good at relationships," I said. Although, I am a loyal and committed person. I just needed to pick the right horse.

"That can't be," Myles said. "I can't believe you haven't been snapped up."

"Ever hear of unrequited love?"

"Pshaw. Whoever that was was just protecting himself from you realizing you could do better. Honey, all the lights could go out and someone is still gonna find you, because you're the best thing in the room."

I was bowled over. "Thank you for saying that. Maybe I'm dumb and hard-headed and incapable of change or introspection. Why else would I be so screwed up?"

"Nah, you not screwed up anymore than the next person. You just have to change your outlook. But change is hard," Myles said.

"Exactly!" I said. I was feeling the anxiety now, "I just started this job. I'm barely settled in town and I have to go on this barbaric panther hunt tomorrow with Dr. Mason where I'm sleeping in the woods, and I'm stressed out when I'm supposed to be relaxed. He's probably going to leave me stranded in the woods because he hates me. And now I have to get Jimbo to take back my ridiculous truck and then there's Swindell..."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, you lost me," Myles said. "Listen, worrying isn't gonna do no good. You have to learn to let yourself be happy. See, life is a game and the way to win is to allow yourself a measure of happiness. We all hold the key and we don't even know it. It doesn't matter what someone else does or thinks, only what you do or think."

"It sounds so simple."

"It's not. Believe me, I know. Try being zen when you're born black in Florida in 1943. But one thing I learned is that you can't control what other people feel. Only what you feel. It's like a tree, a hardwood tree. Hardwoods grow the slowest but they are the strongest. You be that hardwood. Take all the time you want to figure out what makes you happy and in the end you'll be the strongest, too. You have to go slow and know what you want."

I had so many questions for Myles but we'd arrived at the club and Myles got out.

"Myles, what if I can't do it."

He leaned into my open window. "You can. You just can." I nodded and he turned to walk away.

"Yoo-hoo," Evelyn called. She was standing outside the club's entrance. I waved. At the door, Myles put an arm around Evelyn and they went inside.

Suddenly, I thought back to last night and knew I must look like hell. I checked my appearance in the mirror. My frizzy hair said "electrocution victim" and my clothes were wrinkled. All I needed to complete my look was smoke curling up from the top of my head. I drove away from the club looking like a polo housewife on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

——-

Years ago I'd heard sage advice from yet another friend and it had truly helped shape my journey so I knew I had to listen to Myles, too. The advice came when Ace and I were still dating. We were at the Ritz Carlton in St. Thomas for a winter getaway. At first he'd told me I wasn't allowed on the trip—college buddies only, no women. But I'd needed to get out of the cold and I promised to sequester myself in the spa. While they played golf, I sat on the beach. At night I was content to wrap myself in the plush bathrobe, eat room service in bed and watch TV. One day on the beach I met another golf widow. She told me something that struck a chord: when she'd reached a certain age she realized she had no interests and nothing to do except to dust her various collections. Shoes, figurines, perfume bottles, jewelry, vases, decorative plates. She had dozens of expensive handbags—never worn, still in their boxes.

"I shopped because that's just what you did," she'd said. She estimated the cost of her petty stuff at a quarter-million dollars easy.

"But it's all just stuff. What good does it do me now when the only thing I want is to be young again? I wish I'd spent every penny and every ounce of my energy building my mind and body, not accumulating." She was sixty and facing a cosmic case of buyer's remorse. I decided to learn from her. So in my twenties, I stopped accumulating. I even started divesting. If a friend or relative liked something I had, more often than not I gave it to them. I sought experiences instead. I still enjoyed my Chanel and Chloé but a girl can only carry one purse at a time.

Eventually my friend's wisdom became the germ of inspiration for my great escape. And now, if I chose to listen, Myles had just handed me the keys to the kingdom: the recipe for a contented life.

_____

I pulled into my driveway, picked up the mail and let myself in. I changed into capris and a scoop-neck tee and went to the kitchen to retrieve the cassette. I put on my ballet flats, grabbed my tote and locked the door behind me. On the drive to Cruz's house the local school was just opening and I had to stop for pedestrians at the crosswalk. It took forever. I looked down at the tape sitting on the passenger seat. It was calling my name. I shoved it into the stereo, grateful to Myles old-fashioned cassette tape collection for prompting a custom-installed, multifunction car stereo system. Thanks Celine, thanks Earth, Wind and Fire.

I pressed play.

Cruz: I don't care about Wilson. I just want my money. Thanks to my convincing speech, I delivered a unanimous council vote on your shitty townhouses. Now deliver on your end.

Swindell (I presumed): Don't get your skivvies in a twist. I got your payment right here.

(I heard a scraping noise and the sound of a zipper.)

Cruz: So, was it you who took care of Wilson, or one of your lowlife construction workers?

Swindell: You know the old adage, son. If you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself.

Cruz: Well, I'm glad you took care of it before he decided to turn me in. I think he was gonna use me to cut a deal for himself.

Swindell: Maybe, maybe.

I arrived at Cruz's house and turned off the radio. There was only one explanation for Cruz making this recording: he knows he's under investigation for corruption and he wants Swindell's confession on the murder to avoid doing the 2000 volt shuffle.

I walked up to the front door. It was ajar. I tapped it with one finger and it swung open.

"Hello?" I called.

Apprehensively, I entered. There was a mess on the living room floor. A lamp was knocked over, glass shards here and there. A chair was up-ended and there was a small deep-russet stain on the carpet. I scrambled to the kitchen where I found my cel phone right where I'd left it. I grabbed it and went through the house calling out Cruz's name. After checking every room I dialed 911. I told the operator that I was at a friend's house, that it looked wrong, possibly broken into, and that my friend was not there. After I provided the address the operator said, "Please hold." Then another person picked up and asked me to repeat everything. Geez!

Within five minutes a police cruiser with two uniforms arrived. A minute later a late-model blue Impala arrived with two plain clothed cops: a thirty-ish Latina and her partner, a younger guy with boyish good looks. The woman had curly brown hair held back by gel and a thin gold headband. Her dove-gray pantsuit screamed TJ Maxx and her plum lipstick would have been severe on anyone without her mocha skin. At first glance, the partner seemed wet behind the ears but his assessing eyes corrected me.

She was the first to approach. "I'm Special Agent Gloria Perez with the FBI." She showed her badge. "We've been working with local authorities for several months. May I ask you some questions?"

"Of course," I croaked.

She made me recount every detail of last night. Then I asked Perez what was going on and whether she thought Cruz was kidnapped.

Perez ignored my questions. "Back up. Why didn't you report the broken window last night?"

"Because I- I borrowed something from Cruz and, well, it's complicated."

She pulled me aside and said, "That's not telling me much. Look, our agency is investigating Swindell for alleged racketeering and bribery in three states and possibly murder. If you have anything to tell me, do so now. I know you would never impede a federal investigation." She emphasized her syllables slowly and in a commanding tone, as if I were a puppy being warned not to pee on the rug.

I pointed towards my car. "Front seat."

When she returned she said, "I'm not even going to ask if you listened to it."

I pursed my lips.

Her partner came over and handed her a small sheet of paper. She studied it for a moment, pocketed it and turned back to me.

"Can you tell me what happened to Cruz, please?"

"I'm sorry. I can't discuss an ongoing investigation. Aside from the call do you recall anything else from last night?"

I rubbed my furrowed brow. "No. You think something bad happened to him, don't you?"

"His car, wallet, cellphone, all still in the house. There is the sign of blood. And we called his office. He has no morning appointments but one this afternoon at the Chamber of Commerce. A crime scene tech is on the way. They're going to luminol the entire house. At the very least we'll determine whose blood is on the carpet. We can get Cruz's DNA to see if it matches. They'll also dust for prints."

"Swindell is responsible."

"It's too early to tell," she said, "but we'll go have a chat with him anyway."

A lightbulb went off in my head. "His hat! I have his hat. Do you want it for DNA?"

"No need. They bagged a nice half-smoked cigar from Cruz's ashtray."

——

I drove over to the office. On the way, I checked voicemails and listened to a message from Dad letting me know my parents will soon be visiting me for a two week sojourn. I thought back to the night I broke the news of my leaving. My parents had remained eerily calm. The next morning Dad had phoned, presumably to get to the bottom of all this. He asked why I wanted to leave New York. "Change of scenery," I'd said. I overheard my mother next to him saying, "What the heck does that mean?"

I had said, "I'm tired of the same old routine. Is this all there is? Day in day out, everything is exactly the same and it's going to be that way forever. I'm stagnating."

The last time I felt lust for life I was in my late teens and my twenties. Life still held surprises then. The unexpected happened. Like the time I drove through the bridge toll only to find the driver in front of me had paid my toll, or the time I ran into my college roommate in a Paris subway. Now I was on a flat trajectory. There were no more twists and turns. I still longed to try new things, just not in New York.

Dad listened then said, "I understand honey, but you're not a kid anymore. You get to a certain age you can't escape the drudgery of life."

_____

After stopping for coffee and a six-box from Peace, Love & Little Donuts on US 41 I called Evelyn from the parking lot and told her about Cruz. She was as panicked as I. She'd already called her friend at the Florida Department of Law Enforcement and left messages for him.

I stress-ate the mini donuts then groped for the stash of Starbucks napkins I kept in the center console. When I reached the office I suppressed my nerves, checked the mirror for powdered sugar around my mouth, re-aligned my shoulders out of their monstrous hunch and headed through the plate glass door. I picked up phone messages from Lanay then went to peek into Mason's office. He was out. I went to my office and turned on the computer. I needed to find out everything I could about Swindell and Cruz. There had to be a way to figure out what happened. I read every article twice. There was plenty on Swindell and his development projects across the South and even an article about one of his properties and a missing city planner. Swindell was bad news but other than his being scum I couldn't figure out any connection that would help find Cruz. As a lark, or possibly due to a bit of jealousy on my part, I switched my focus to Lucilla and her art boxes.

Her decorated cigar boxes were oft-featured in local newspapers. One article had her picture; she was strikingly beautiful with high cheekbones and almond eyes. It described her display tent as a "fixture on the art festival circuit," said her pieces always sold well and that she was branching out by making the boxes into ladies' purses. She also sat on a million dollars worth of real estate in the form of a defunct cigar factory on a large lot in downtown Tampa.

Her Ybor City property was a beautiful brick building with huge windows in an up-and-coming neighborhood. I could see why developers were drooling.

I itched to call Agent Perez. She answered and to my surprise was willing to provide her most current information. There had not yet been contact with Swindell but they were going to search his properties, in and out of state.

"So far, everyone has been cooperating. I assume you are, too, by not getting involved."

"Of course. I'm just concerned for my company, and David, of course."

There was a pause on the line, then she said, "I have a bad feeling about you, Miss Greenwood."

I spent the rest of the morning whittling down my work to-do list. At noon I left to take a walk and forage for lunch. I drove to a nearby outdoor mall with all the usual chi-chi stores, stunning fountains, potted palms, and shaded seating from which to enjoy the sound of artfully placed water features. I ordered a salad to-go from an Italian restaurant, took a bench and picked at my food. After ten minutes, I threw it away and headed back to work. On the way I passed a florist. I decided right then to cheer myself up by crossing off something on my bucket list. I went in and ordered weekly flowers home delivered. I'd always wanted to do that.

_____

Back at work I reviewed documents Mason left on my desk about the panther hunt in the morning. At one thirty p.m. Snake knocked on the door jamb. The marina had called. He needed me to write a check in order to get the boat back from the mechanic. After I signed the check he stayed to chat and I briefed him on recent developments. I knew I could trust him completely.

"It's a lot to handle your first week of work," he said.

"I know. You know, it's strange how much Cruz affects our little non-profit. His being so vocal, and heavily involved in our fundraising. I just can't believe he would do this. And then to go missing. It's strange. You should've seen his house."

Snake shook his head, "You think he was taping himself to get leverage with prosecutors?"

"I just don't know. My spidey sense says he's innocent."

We both worried silently, and wondered if we'd ever see Cruz again.

The ringing phone broke the silence, making me jump in my seat. It was Evelyn. I put her on speakerphone.

"My source said that Cruz is under investigation, a fact that wasn't formally confirmed until now, plus it seems Cruz has had several interviews with the FBI." She paused. "There's something else. After you reported the scene at Cruz's house, the agents paid a visit to Bob Swindell. He was nowhere to be found."

I said, "That's weird. He knows better than to leave town. On another note I've been pulling up newspaper clippings. Did you know that Swindell's been working his development schemes in Georgia and South Carolina, too."

"What did he do there?" Evelyn asked.

"A few years back, in Charleston, he somehow managed to wrangle a defunct, waterfront low-income housing development away from the County. They sold it to him and he was supposed to set aside some land for a waterfront park. He razed the old buildings and built million-dollar condos. He built the park, too, but after a couple years he closed it, citing loopholes in the original agreement. That made people mad. That's when they took a closer look. And get this: one of the alleged witnesses, a retired city planner, went missing. It's not connected to the waterfront project but I'm still trying to determine if he ever resurfaced. It was a long time ago."

Snake said, "You know, Bob Swindell has his family's hunting cabin out past the nature center. Way past Okaloacoochee. It's somewhere between Venus and Lake Okeechobee."

"Do you know its location?" Evelyn asked.

"No, but Uncle Rooster will know exactly where it is. He used to hunt with Papa Swindell. I'll call him."

"You think we should check it out?" I asked.

Evelyn said, "I can't condone that. Don't leave each other's sight for a second."
Chapter Eight

When I first arrived in Florida I was in high gear. I spent the first week living out of my suitcase at the Best Western, waiting for my house closing. I kept busy changing mailing addresses, opening bank and cable t.v. accounts, and exploring my new neighborhood. I kept track of the moving truck with their nifty iPad app, studied samples at Blinds To Go and boned up on my wildlife biology by reading reams of literature.

When I closed and moved into my house I entered into a blissful daze. I'd go so far as to call it euphoria. That's how I spent my second week. Relieved. In a dreamlike stupor. Can a born-and-bred New Yorker have a secret Southern soul? I puttered around my sun-filled home, went for walks on every nature trail and public beach within fifty miles, and taste-tested every bakery in town. I discovered Southern time, the cousin of "island time." I did not have an iota of regret over my decision to move to a hick town on the edge of America's outback, on the edge of an unruly, deep and endless swamp with the bizarre and highly-folkloric subculture that accompanies it. Even my body felt this was the right latitude and longitude. Although ironically, the fellow swamp-inhabiting Creole have this saying, "A fish trusts the water, and yet, it is in the water that it is cooked."

By far the craziest thing about this place had to be the drive over to the Naples Outlets. Up and down State Road 951, numerous road signs advise panther crossings. Yes, predators capable of eating most other animals (and humans) roam freely here and it's terrifying. Big yellow, diamond-shaped signs with an image of a panther and the caption "PANTHER XING, NEXT THREE MILES" dot our roads. I come from a place where stale pretzels are the scariest things on the sidewalk, so there's some culture shock. There's too many animals here that I didn't grow up with, too many exotic trees, too-bright colors, too-well-maintained roads confusing me with their smoothness and lack of potholes. It didn't feel like I was in America. Even walking through Walmart felt different—somehow cleaner, her goods way more promising than those in the store back home. The only thing I've heard that compares is the culture shock from visiting a remote foreign land, as Jen had for her honeymoon.

As she told it, they'd been traveling to India all night. When they touched down in Bangalore she fell asleep in the car en route to the Arabian Sea beach of Kerala. She awoke mid-way, when congestion on the rural road slowed traffic to a crawl. When she looked out the window the first thing she saw was a convoy of huge elephants walking in the swale beside the road, not more than five feet from her window. It was surreal and disconcerting; she thought she was dreaming. I feel that way here. I feel it in the banyan trees who's roots grow thicker than a house, in the orchids suspended on tree limbs in Picayune Strand, in the flocks of pink flamingos in roadside marshes, in the FRYED GATOR and ROADHOUSE BAR signs dotting the roads leading out of town, and I even feel it in the reason why so many people come to Florida: because somehow, here you feel like everything will be better.

Except today. Today I was too nervous to feel optimistic about going to Swindell's remote lodge. We took Myles' station wagon since I was done with the truck.

Snake was hungry so we first stopped at the deli for turkey sandwiches. Before leaving civilization behind Snake wanted dessert from McDonald's. He ordered three hot apple pies. I got one.

Growing up I loved Mickey D's fried apple pie. It had a crispy bubble-speckled crust with molten gooey filling. I had always burned my tongue on the hot-as-lava apple goodness. It came in that weird cardboard sleeve that made it easy to eat on-the-go. Eventually McDonald's went from fried to baked. The healthy version is doughy and leaden while the original fried was flaky and light.

Imagine my surprise when I opened the package to find an original deep-fried pie. I'd never expected to see it again and was flooded with memories of me and my sister telling our mom we were walking to the library and instead going to McDonald's for vanilla shakes and apple pies.

Snake heard me moan. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"It's fried." I said, spitting flakes of crust onto my lap. He rolled his eyes.

"Well, of course it is, silly goose."

"No. Northern franchises don't fry them. They're these idiotic baked things."

Snake cranked up the local top 40 radio station and we wended our way north-east, singing along to the radio at the top of our lungs, windows down, pie crumbs flying. We crossed Alligator Alley and Oil Well Road and buzzed through some weird-sounding towns: Devil's Garden, Corkscrew, Venus, Immokalee. We passed places the map called Owl Hammock, Tom's Still Hammock, Cowbone Hammock, Lone Chicken Island and Wild Cow Island. I didn't see any water or bridges so I asked Snake about these "islands."

"They're not actually islands. Here the land is so flat that whenever there is the slightest elevation, the vegetation changes completely. Just two inches is the difference between a lake and a forest, and the type of forest depends on the degree of elevation. Just one inch, you get cypress, pine. Two inches: oak, royal palm. The wild card is the variability of our wet and dry seasons. In wet season I've walked across lettuce lakes. In some dry seasons I've canoed across Little Corkscrew Island."

"One question: lettuce lakes?"

"Swamp lettuce, not the eating kind. In rainy season all the marshes flood and swamp lettuce takes over."

For most of the two hour drive we drove in a companionable silence, lost in our own thoughts. The highway was flat as a pancake and dotted with numerous fatality markers. White crosses decorated with flowers and ribbons. Occasionally the fatality marker had a photo of the crash victim inside a protective clear bag. Some of the crash victims were children. One boy was missing his front baby teeth. The children's crosses had dolls or teddy bears attached with twine. Another quirky feature of Florida's highways is our billboards. They advertise only two things: porn and devout Christianity. The signs alternate every two hundred yards: the Pleasure Chest, United Families International, Good Vibrations, True Light Pentecost. It was weird, Jesus and porn alternating like this for hundreds of miles. Do I want to be saved or save big on a dildo?

———

A half hour east of Venus (whose downtown consists of one building—the post office), Snake sniffed out the Swindell camp. It was a few miles off the main road down a sandy path. The cabin was obscured from the paper road by overgrown shrubs, dense laurel and live oaks. It was near a quiet creek which Snake said was a Caloosahatchee tributary. From his cabin Swindell could travel by boat east to Lake Okeechobee or all the way to the Gulf of Mexico.

I slowly rolled up the driveway. Snake peered through the windshield. "It's a twenty-by-twenty."

"Huh?"

"Your typical off-grid cabin. One big room, twenty square. Simple, utilitarian. I can see it's hooked up to electric, but probably dry. Most likely an outhouse out back, propane stove, bladder shower."

"What's that?"

"It's a rubber diaphragm hanging behind your cabin. You fill it up with well water, lay the bladder across some wooden planks going across the top of your outdoor shower, let the sun warm it up and in no time you have a hot shower. In a house like this you can live off the grid."

Snake got out and looked around. He nodded toward the river and said he was checking out the creek. He pronounced it: crick.

I got out, brushing crumbs off my lap. I looked at the sky; the eastern horizon held anvil-shaped clouds through which lightning bolts coursed. Soon we'd get, at a minimum, dry lightning. Maybe a deluge.

I followed Snake down the riverbank. A hispid cotton rat scurried off our path. A haze floated over the water's surface. The creek was silent and mysterious. Giant lily pads grew in the water, and in every direction gauzy Spanish moss draped the trees. I was blown away by its primordial beauty. I didn't know that places like this could exist on the mainland United States.

Snake gave a low whistle. "Yoda central," he said.

Great-crested flycatchers with their yellow bellies and red-eyed vireos with their black "eyebrows" provided the musical backdrop as we stepped onto a rickety dock extending into the bog. Below the surface otters were busy hunting crabs and crawfish. On the banks, scat from a bobcat and tracks from opossum and white-tailed deer dried in the mud. A hint of coolness wafted off the water. Around us, pine scrub, cypress and saw palmetto grew in-between oak.

We walked back to the house.

Snake whispered, "What should we do?"

Without responding, I marched straight to the front door and knocked. No answer.

"Let's check out the back," I said.

I set out toward the right side yard, Snake behind me.

"Geez, give me some space," I whispered.

"Evelyn said to stay close."

"Don't worry. Nothing is going to happen. Check out the other side yard and meet me in back."

I was creeping along my side of the house when my ears pricked up. I froze in my spot. I had heard loud rustling coming from the woods on my right, about twenty yards in. I looked in that direction but couldn't see anything for the dense foliage. The scrunching stopped.

Ever since I'd moved to this primordial wilderness, this hotbed of life, I noticed that my senses were heightened. Sounds are louder. Colors more vibrant.

The scrunching noise recommenced, giving me goosebumps, and the hair on my neck stood up. Pawing through saw palmetto and gallberry thickets I began to tiptoe toward the thrashing sound. The forest's understory was dense with leaves as sharp as blades. They tore at my arms and legs like cats' claws. High above the tree canopy was dominated by longleaf pine and slash pine. Through these high evergreen boughs I spotted a hunting peregrine falcon making wide arcs.

I stopped to listen, trying to get a directional marker. I looked down at the ground. Sandy, hard-packed dirt had given way to spongy loam. I spotted more opossum tracks in the mud and, in fact, muddy puddles which were suddenly everywhere. A spring must be near, I thought.

Not surprising since there are almost a thousand freshwater springs in the state.

The peculiar thrashing sound stopped, so I turned to go back, but I couldn't move my right foot. I tried to pick it up but it was stuck on something. I looked at my feet. No sticky thicket locking me down. Just mud. I tried to pick up my left foot.

No dice. I was sinking.

"Snake!" I called.

I looked around in vain for a grab-able branch. Then I tried to step out of my shoes, but by then my calves were buried in this substance the consistency of which was similar to wet cement. I tried hard to think and not panic.

How do they get out in the movies? I am going to die.

"SNAAAKE!" I screamed at the top of my lungs.

Tears streamed down my cheeks. A moment later Snake barreled through the bushes.

He assessed the ground. "Oh no. Jelly mud."

"Help!"

He took hold of my arms. "I gotcha."

"Get me outta here," I whimpered.

Calmly he said, "Don't worry, you can't drown. This is just liquified soil, kind of like a colloidal hydrogel." He sounded like Mason. "'Round here we call it 'jelly mud.' You can actually float in it because it is more dense than your body." When Snake pulled me out of the pit, the mud sucked my shoes off my feet with a sticky thwop!

When I was safely out of the death pool, I laid down on my back, put an arm over my face and let out a sob. It had finally dawned on me the extent to which I was out-of-my-element. It wasn't just the fact that I was covered head-to-toe in yellow goop—it was this whole, dumb move. I didn't belong here.

Snake prodded me. "Daisy, are you okay?"

I wiped my face with my shirt. "Uh huh," I sniffled. "Thank you. You saved my life."

"I didn't. Trust me. All you have to do is lean back and start kicking until your butt hits solid ground."

I wiped sweat from my brow with a trembling hand. Snake made me sit to catch my breath. I scraped mud off my legs in the meantime. Then we navigated through thicket back to the cabin.

There were three concrete steps leading up to the back door. Next to the stairs, an old Honda generator sat partially covered by a fraying blue tarp. Snake climbed the steps and turned the knob. The door swung open halfway. Snake and I looked at each other. He stuck his head in and peered for a full thirty seconds then declared, "Empty."

The house was neat as a button. Everything was old but clean and in good working order. The wood wall paneling was whitewashed to a light honey. The floor and the furniture were painted white. Blankets and sheets were folded and stacked on shelves above the beds. Table and dresser tops were clean of clutter. In one corner there was a small vanity and sink, and a cup holding a toothbrush. A cheap school locker mirror and a towel bar hung on the wall above the vanity. An empty box for the toothbrush had been thrown in the wastebasket.

"He was here recently," I said.

"How do you know?" Snake asked.

I showed him the toothbrush box.

Snake's eyes narrowed. "Just one? If Swindell kidnapped Cruz, there should be two."

"I don't think a murderer cares about his victims' dental health."

"True," he said. "Kidnapper," he corrected, pointing a finger at me.

We inspected the cabin top to bottom. Against the "kitchen" wall there was a simple stainless-steel sink set into an old white laminate counter. Out of the backside of the faucet was a gerry-rigged black hose leading through the cabin wall to the outside. Globs of white putty sealed the hole in the wall around the hose. Snake showed me how—on the side of the house—three fifty-five-gallon cisterns sat high upon wood pallets. This was the source of running water for the kitchen sink. There was also a mini fridge—unplugged and door open, a single burner propane stove, a toaster oven and a plastic garbage can.

Snake said, "I'll look in the garbage."

"Use these." I handed him a pair of rubber gloves I found under the sink.

He rummaged. "Paper cups, plates, SlimJims, receipt from McDonald's," he peered closer, "three Big Macs." He also retrieved a McDonald's napkin with a brown stain.

I sucked in air. "Blood?"

"Ketchup."

"Well, who eats three Big Macs?" I asked.

"Everyone south of the Mason Dixon line. Don't mean Cruz was with him. Un-uh."

"Well, why else is Swindell AWOL at the same time no one can find Cruz? Swindell's the only one who stands to benefit from a world without Cruz. Just like he got Wilson out of the way."

Snake placed the garbage back in the trash.

I looked around the kitchen area. There was a shiny round appliance I didn't recognize. Snake's eyes landed there, too. "Huh. I gotta get one of these for my fish camp."

"What is it?" I asked.

"It's a HandyHot."

"Handy who?"

"HandyHot. It's a portable electric washing machine made by Chicago Electric around World War II. You set it on your counter, plug it in, it washes your clothes and drains by a hose you put in the sink. See this rubber hose? You hook this into the faucet; water goes in. See this hose down here going out the wall? Swindell has it draining directly outside. Pretty smart, you ask me." I wasn't as bowled over. Snake continue to inspect, muttering, "Just what I need."

"You know, this cabin has everything and, except for the quicksand, it's pretty peaceful. I think I could handle this for a while, you know, get back to nature. Roast marshmallows in the fire. What do you think?"

"No way. I wouldn't stay here if you paid me. Not without a gun under my pillow. This place is in the middle of nowhere. You never know what kind of weirdos are around."

"Ha! This from a guy wearing a camouflage hat, camouflage army pants, CAT shit-kicking boots and a t-shirt that says Marlin-The Great American Rifle."

Snake cut his eyes to me.

"What?" I asked.

"At least I'm incognito," he replied. "You could use a little camo yourself, missy."

"Well, what's the difference between this place and your fish camp?"

"The fish camp ain't much different. Except it's got something this place'll never have."

"What's that?"

"A breeze. It's on an island."

"Wait," I sputtered, "you own an island?"

"It's actually a key."

"'Key' as in Florida Keys?"

"No, well, yes. But in Gullivan Bay, in the Ten Thousand Islands, not too far from the Keys. My granddaddy bought it seventy-two years ago. It's just a tiny mound. We were grandfathered-in when the government bought the land to establish the Ten Thousand Islands National Wildlife Refuge."

"It must be worth a fortune."

"Not at all. We got a small payment when they made it a park, but there's restrictions. It has to stay in the family. It can be handed down but not transferred. When there's no more Tuckers left to inherit it it goes over to the government."

"Well, still, I can't wait to see it."

"Will you come out there sometime? It sure is pretty."

"Yes, especially if the cabin is as nice as this."

Although we didn't find Cruz we knew someone had been here.

"Let's call Agent Perez." Even if Swindell did not abduct Cruz he was required to remain in Naples pending the racketeering charges. Fleeing to a hunting lodge down an overgrown paper road deep inside Florida's outback was a no-no.

We exited the way we entered and stopped to look around the scraggly backyard. We both had to answer nature's calls. Snake went into the woods and I headed for the more private pine-board outhouse. The pro: it was clean. The con: the smell emanating from the composting toilet.

Next to the bowl, an orange Home Depot bucket was filled with fragrant cedar chips. When I was done, I picked up the scooper from the bucket and scooped three loads of chips onto the top of the compost pile. Eventually someone would have to dig a hole in the woods, dump the chamber, shovel a holy mound of dirt on top, and start all over again.

I stepped outside and squinted in the low afternoon sun. I was barely two steps out the door when an object the approximate density of a two-by-four crashed down on my head. I heard thunk and saw blackness.
Chapter Nine

I fell headlong into the wormhole though which Jodie Foster careened allyoop in Contact. As I slid down a cosmic waterslide through dimensions, galaxies and stars, supernovas exploded around my head. When I came to, Snake was shaking me and bluebirds were swirling around my head tweeting. I touched the back of my skull.

"Ow!"

I looked at my fingers and saw blood. Snake put a handkerchief in my hand and guided it to my head. "Hold this to your head," he ordered.

"Wha' happened?" I asked.

Snakes eyes darted around. "I think you surprised someone."

"Bob Swindell?"

"Be my guess. When I came back from the woods, you were on the ground."

He patted my arm. "Please don't move. I'm going to the car for the phone."

He took out a knife that was concealed inside his boot. My eyes went full dinner plate.

"If anyone comes back, stick this knife into their belly and pull upwards."

The small knife had a Smith & Wesson hallmark and was hefty for its size. Its grip was coated with some kind of black rubberized sandpaper, making it hard to let it slip out of my hand. The blades were coated with the same black grit leaving just the knife edge sparkling silver. I propped myself on an elbow, keeping the cloth on my skull. I was frightened. First, the attack on my car, then nearly drowning and losing my good shoes, and now getting my bell rung.

Snake returned quickly and knelt down, concern on his face. My brain felt like a frozen computer right before you hit "control-alt-delete." Snake repeated you're okay; I stared out.

_____

I heard the thwpthwpthwp of a helicopter. By now I was defeated and depleted. A sack of potatoes, lumpy and pinned to the ground. Snake stood up and waved to the chopper, one hand shielding his eyes from dust. Ben Mason and Gloria Perez jumped out, crouched low and ran over.

"Evelyn sent a helicopter to take Daisy to Naples General. It's like she owns it or something. What the hell happened here?" Snake led Gloria over to the cabin. Mason knelt down and put a hand on my arm.

"Let's get you up. Come on. Put your arm around my neck."

"What are you doing here? You don't even like me."

He shook his head and smirked, "Boy, all you women file shit away for later. Come on now. I already apologized."

He lifted me to my feet and grunted an unintelligible epithet.

When my arm was around his neck, I said, "Admit it. I'm growing on you."

He rolled his eyes so far back we both should've toppled over. "Yeah," he said, "like a fungus. Now please try to walk."

We climbed into the helicopter, got me wedged into a seat and belted. Gloria jogged to the helicopter. "Wait," she said. "I need to talk to Miss Greenwood. Mr. Tucker says you didn't see your attacker. Is that right?"

I nodded. "He was behind me."

"If there's anything at all that you remember, anything, call me."

She turned to Mason. "I need to get techs out here. Snake will drive the car back."

Turning back to me, "Miss Greenwood, you're lucky to be alive. You don't know what could've happened." She banged on the door frame. "Get going."

We flew back to Naples. I was concussed just enough to forget my fear of flying. I managed to open my eyes enough to glimpse a rainbow ground-quilt of bright green marshgrass, pine forest and blue sinkhole lakes. Near Naples, golden sawgrass prairie was punctuated by wispy cypress, feathery palm and cloud-shaped live oak trees. We landed on the hospital roof and someone eased me into a wheelchair. In the exam room I laid down while Mason stood, arms crossed.

After the briefest wait for a doctor in medical history Dr. Aaronson entered, wearing a white lab coat over a dress shirt, stethoscope stuffed into the lab coat's patch pocket. He asked me routine questions and set about cleaning my wound. A nurse entered clutching a clipboard. She wore lavender scrubs, had a heavy drawl, and reminded me of Holly Hunter.

"Well (she pronounced it "way-il"), hello there. How you feel, Sugar?"

"I feel better. I'd like to go home and go to bed."

She handed me the clipboard. "You just need to fill out these forms. The usual. Name, primary injury, address. Yada yada yada."

Mason jumped in and took the clipboard. "Let me do that for you." He sat down in the vinyl chair, speaking to himself while ticked off boxes: Yes...no...head wound.

Turning to me, "Are you allergic to antibiotics?"

"No."

"Any major surgeries?"

"No."

"Are you on birth control?"

I cut my eyes to him. "Is that really on the form?"

"Yes."

I sighed. "No."

"Are you married?"

"You know the answer."

"Do you plan on getting married?"

"That's not on the form."

"What's your stance on monogamy? Dogs: one or two?"

"What is wrong with you?"

"Hold still!" said Dr. Aaronson. He finished, and pulled out a prescription pad and scribbled. "You didn't get a direct hit. It's a wide, shallow scrape, like you were hit on an angle." He handed me a prescription. "Pain meds. Take these if ibuprofen doesn't help."

"Thank you. May I go?"

"Yes," he said, handing me his card. "That has my cell number if you need anything."

I got up, wobbly-like.

"I'll take you home," said Mason.

_____

At my house Mason made me lie down on the sofa. He rummaged through my refrigerator and forced me to eat a leftover Tupperware of Mom's recipe pasta salad (al dente rotini, chopped red, orange and yellow peppers, salt, olive oil, sliced black olives).

Whenever I closed my eyes for more than five minutes he shook me awake. I felt like a terrorist in Guantanamo prison on their frequent flyer program.

When the phone rang Mason rose to answer but I was closer. Glaring at him, I pressed the receiver into my chest and whispered, "You're freaking me out. Stop."

It was Agent Perez. She said she wasn't happy that we went to Swindell's cabin and that crime scene techs found a gun buried in the woods behind the cabin. Ballistics will determine if it was used in the Wilson case. Lastly, the Feds are considering upgrading Swindell from "person of interest" to "suspect."

"Thanks to you and Mr. Tucker."

"What about Cruz?"

"Well," she took a sharp inhale, "both he and Bob Swindell have not been heard from. We're doing everything we can. But please, stay away from the investigation. You could get really hurt."

"Understood. By the way, did you find the object I was hit with?"

"I think so. We took it in for testing. It didn't look promising for prints. I'll let you know."

My brainpan began to fuzz over and Perez's words mushed together. I had a headache in the back of my neck. Mason took the phone and directed me to the sofa.

When I awoke it was dark. I couldn't tell if it was evening or late night. Mason sat in the armchair watching news with the sound turned down. I felt safe. I tried to imagine what it would be like to be Ben Mason's girlfriend.

"Evelyn and Snake called to see how you are." He clicked off the TV. "How do you feel?"

"I'm fine. What time is it?"

"A little after ten. Do you have a headache?"

I shook my head. "Don't worry, I don't have a concussion." I fluffed up the pillow and sat up. "Any news on Cruz?"

"No."

"You don't like him, do you?"

"I don't like his type," he said.

"What type is that?"

"The mighty dollar type. Our whole world is about money and greed and expansion, without regard to the environment. One day nature will be gone."

Softly, I said, "I know."

I remembered one of the articles Mason wrote for a science magazine. He'd quoted Frank Lloyd Wright: I believe in God, only I spell it n-a-t-u-r-e.

Mason said, "I don't know...maybe I misjudged him."

Mason had a good heart. He'd give anyone a second chance.

"Life's complicated, eh?"

I told Mason go home, you've done enough, and corralled him to the door. "We have an early day tomorrow. I know I've been packed since yesterday."

He hemmed and hawed. "I'll leave but I don't think it's a good idea for you to come tomorrow. I'm sure Evelyn would agree."

I stiffened, remembering his initial aspersions on my fitness for fieldwork.

"Oh? You don't want me there?"

He placed his hands on my shoulders. "On the contrary, I do."

A jet engine could have crashed into my house at that moment and I wouldn't have heard it. My ears went hot. I wanted to yelp or scream or do a little dance. I pressed my lips together. He leaned in but kissed the spot below my ear.

"Get some rest. We'll pick you up at nine."

I locked the door, padded down the hall and flopped onto my bed. I thought about the past few days. Back home I was pale, anxious and neurasthenic. I lived inside my head and worried about everything. Starving children, dirty nukes in the subway, the Tea Party, disappointing my parents, cancer, carbs. I mean, what didn't keep me up at night?

In New York I took the subway everyday with people from all walks of life. We wore masks of apathy and weariness. We never spoke to each other, and we all wished we were somewhere else.

Here I buy my morning coffee at Shitty Bagel Chain with a new medley of people. Artists, accountants, single moms, migrant farm workers, restaurant servers, teachers, fishermen, nurses. Unlike in New York City, here we talk to each other. There are no walls. I relish the bright faces of my stranger-friends. We strike up a conversations on line at Publix or at the Brick Coffee Bar.

Here I live on the edge of untamed wilderness. A Sunday afternoon excursion into the local state park is a subtropical adventure into ancient savanna prairie, jungle-like hammock or ethereal swamp-forest. An anteater, gator or wild boar could cross my path any second. At night we regale our friends with today's close encounter over fruity rum drinks at a chi chi restaurant on Third Street South. That's our unique, mish-mash, southern charm. We're in a town where the daytime humidity hits you smack in the face like steam coming off a pot of drained spaghetti. Lots of towns are nice, but there's something special about our soupy subtropical corner. It spawns flora in a gemstone palette: kiwi-colored Trinette, Kelly green Viburnum, hot-pink Torch Ginger, coral Ixora, yellow Poinciana, purple Birds-of-Paradise.

The locals are just as colorful. They are a diverse mix of Life is Good-wearing, boat show-going yuppies; old money; new money: regular money (no money); retired ladies in lavender Costco track suits; weathered salty-dogs fishing on the pier hogging every last bench; new-agers at the outdoor tables of hip Fifth Avenue coffee bars; and last but not least, Florida crackers, whose native population is being rapidly replaced by the invasive northern golfer.

The place I'm at now? Not exactly the fantasy life, but I'm one step closer. As crazy as it sounds I was finally having experiences.

Sure the past few days had me scared on a cellular level but I never felt more alive.

_____

My doorbell rang and rang and rang but someone had tied me to the bed. I was cinched down and couldn't break free.

I woke up and realized: I was simply dead tired.

Sun was streaming through the blinds. I threw my comforter back, slipped my feet into Target slippers and padded toward the door. I had bags under my eyes, a green pallor and hunched shoulders. I felt stiff and unsure of my body, like a Picasso painting where the body parts are grotesquely distorted and attached in the wrong places.

"I'm coming!"

I opened the door. It was Mason and Snake come to get me for the hunt.

"You're early."

"We're exactly on time," they said in unison. They gave me a once over and then gave each other the uh-oh glance, the kind parents exchange when their toddler is on the verge of a tantrum.

"Okay. Gimme ten seconds. There's doughnuts," I offered, hitching my thumb backwards, "in the kitchen."

Mason produced a take-out coffee in an environmentally-hostile cardboard cup. I was overjoyed.

"You saved me," I breathed.

"Snake also has a present for you."

Snake held out a shopping bag. "Despite your hurtful comments to me yesterday about my clothes, I got you a little gift."

I took out a floppy object from the bag.

"Desert camo cargo pants!" Snake said. "It's the latest thing for chicks."

I took the bag and kissed him on the cheek. He went red.

"I'm sorry about what I said. Will you forgive me?"

"Yes, but only if you come out to my fish camp. Don't worry, I'm going to make you love gutting fish."

Snake didn't catch my horrified look—he was already discussing said future fishing trip with Mason, each going on and on--suddenly oblivious to me standing there--about the great wonder that is flats fishing.

"Are you two conspiring to de-program the city slicker out of me?"

I smirked. My own Sheriff Andy and Backcountry Barney. I was definitely going to come back from today's hunt a Stepford Swamp Wife. "Now, don't go brainwashing all of me. Someday I might come in handy."

I took my fancy coffee and padded down the hall. I took a sixty-second shower and toweled off in front of the TV, specifically cable channel 25, my newest obsession. We didn't have it back home. Channel 25 is the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration's live radar and weather TV broadcast. It depicts nothing but a video clip of the National Weather Service's most recent radar loop for the greater Naples area, shown over and over again. The visual is accompanied by an automated recording of a man reading the forecast--wave height, temperature, wind speed, humidity, barometric pressure's voice. He sounds almost regal, and even though it's just a voice-over, I'm slightly in love with him. He sounds like the perfect man: he's a sailor and fisherman, he's possibly a retired detective or attorney with a stunning cache of adventure stories to retell around the dockside fire pit of his Key West home, he's 6'2" tall with a head full of sandy, tousled hair, and obviously has a smashing sense of humor. I found out that "he" is actually a text-to-speech-system-voice that NOAA nicknamed "Tom." No matter, I love Tom; I could listen to him 24/7.

Given the volatility of south Florida weather (frequent summer storms with 50 m.p.h. winds, year-round tropical cyclones, Hurricanes Andrew and friends...), it's amazing to see the exact path of incoming storms and almost everyone here watches it. I would go so far as to say that Channel 25 is both a lifeline for, and the glue that binds, our community. Boaters, joggers, restaurants, bars, stores and businesses with people out in the field keep Channel 25 on all day long so that we can take swift action when storms approach.

Today Tom said the temperature was eighty-one degrees, thirty-five percent humidity, with wind from the north at six, and the radar was clear.

I matched my new desert camouflage cargo pants with a scoop-neck tee. For protection in the field I tied a long-sleeved fisherman's shirt around my waist. It would be useful for preventing brush scrapes and sunburn on my arms. Fieldwork in the subtropics required lightweight quick-drying clothes.

I looked in the mirror. The pants were loose but my butt looked decent. In the camo, my shit-kicking boots and freshly painted coral nails, I looked wholesome. I was channeling Mallory Keaton.

I wiped off the lipgloss. You need to be serious, I told the mirror aloud, this is a science expedition.

There was a knock on my bedroom door.

Mason said, "You need to see something outside."

To the side of my front porch Snake was kneeling down in front of a torn box.

"We were loading up when we saw this," he said, one cheek pinched. It had been my first shipment of flowers. The delivery box had been sliced open and the flowers were julienned, probably with a box cutter.

They exchanged that look again, Sheriff Andy and Backwater Barney—like I was 129 pounds of C-4 on a hair trigger.

I could see the florist had done a good job. I hadn't gotten some tacky, gum ball-machine-looking, FTD bullshit. These had been Alchymist roses with orangey-peach centers and a dusting of pink on their edges. Their apricot effect was expertly contrasted with armeniacum in lavender. They would have been stunning on my foyer table had someone not beheaded them.

Mason shook his head, "Who would do this?"

Mason threw the flowers into the trash can. I worried that this was related to the smashed-in car window and felt compelled to report it to Agent Perez. I went back inside, retrieved her card from my purse and picked up the phone.

——-

A half-hour later we pulled into Naples Airport, not far from a parked Cessna. I peered out the back window.

"Why are we stopping here?" My first thought was that the state's biologists had flown in from Tallahassee.

The FWC's Panther Research Team was the organization-in-charge, and we were participating in the panther hunt solely at their behest. I squinted looking for them. The sun was so bright everything from sky to tarmac looked white-washed.

Mason looked up from a notepad and turned to Snake, "We need to get an aerial fix on number 29. It's a priority."

What-what? I was getting that familiar nauseated feeling in my stomach.

Mason proceeded to stash sunglasses, cell phone, maps, binoculars and water in a backpack. "We got data that number 29 has grown exponentially since her first collar was attached, so we think it might start to choke her. Of course we'd like a fix on all the collars."

To me he said, "Do you have to go to the bathroom?"

I shook my head.

My voice cracked, "We're not going up in that, right?"

My mouth went dry and sweat beaded on my forehead.

Problem is, I have this teeny tiny fear of flying. Plus this wasn't exactly the Kardashian express. It wasn't even a Netjet. It was an older Cessna 172 Skyhawk--a four-seat, single-engine, fixed-wing aircraft; and rust was showing through the gray over white paint job.

"Is there a problem?" asked Mason.

I shook my head.

"Don't worry. It's safe. You probably wish we had a newer model for the telemetry, and sure, you could go turbine, but then things get really expensive. Some agencies are using King Airs for LIDAR survey work, like in biodiversity studies of birds, but for telemetry, that's moving too fast. There's a reason why more Cessna 172s have been built than any other aircraft..."

His blabbering, which I didn't understand anyway, calmed me down. As usual, when Mason spoke, it was like taking a sexy, scientific quaalude.

As he exited the vehicle Snake reached back and grabbed a white deli bag. He held it out to me. "Breakfast burrito. Want half?"

My lip curled in revulsion as nausea racked my stomach.

"Who can eat up there?"
Chapter Ten

The state's panther preservation team uses aerial GPS to chart the big cats' movements. Telemetry actually begins on the ground. At a ground capture, and during the feline veterinarian's work-up of the tranq'd cat, a radio collar is placed around its neck. The radio transmitter is placed inside a small sealed canister attached to the collar. The collars can be cinched down for an individual fit because when a panther crosses a swamp, a loose collar could catch on a submerged tree branch and immobilize the cat, drowning it when the water unexpectedly rises.

From twenty miles away a receiver on the airplane reads and records signals emitted by the ground transmitters. Later the data are fed into a computer which displays land-use patterns. Collars have automatic switches that activate fast blips if a transmitter is motionless for two hours, indicating possible death. A converse blip indicates renewed movement. Most of the collars in the field can be charted on a single flight. Over time the hundreds of hours of telemetry data create computer models so that despite their phantom nature the panther's every step is illuminated.

With my heart racing, I followed the others into the rattletrap and buckled in. Mason sat next to me and explained: we'd fly from panther to panther, decreasing altitude if we want to note the type of vegetation in which a panther was located. Every available panther location is recorded on a topographical map. Back in the lab, new data is added to master files.

Mason said, "The end model shows how panthers interact with various landscape types and with each other. For example, data prove that they need more space to breed lest they slaughter each other. In about a decade approximately ten young males that we collared as kittens were later killed by adult males. Their crime was encroaching on claimed territory."

In my head I thought, this is also why we've never met aliens—the grand design has us staying far apart.

"It also tells us which particular habitat is most conducive to reproduction. Turns out, it's mixed hardwood hammock and cabbage palm thicket. It provides the most prey and shade cover."

If you've never been in an older Cessna, the one thing that would surprise you is how much the darn thing shakes. Ours buzzed loudly and was light enough to get tossed in a breeze. But judging from her crew's calm demeanor (Snake had a topo map spread on his lap, a pen in his teeth, and was playing a video game on his phone; Mason was working on his laptop), I was the only weak link.

Mason squeezed my hand reassuringly, then pointed out notable sights. "My favorite," he said, "is Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary in the western everglades, named after the crooked creek running through it."

"It's owned by the National Audubon Society," he said reverently, "and shelters the largest remaining virgin cypress forest in the world and the largest colony of endangered wood storks in America." I nodded, then I noticed that he was still holding my hand.

"See that land over there?" He ducked his face close to mine. He smelled like Dr. Bronner's soap. I was a believer in olfactory compatibility. I once broke up with someone because I didn't like his smell.

"Over there," he continued, "that swath—that's the Florida Panther National Wildlife Refuge. And there—," he pointed, "Big Cypress National Preserve. See how close we are?" I marveled at the lush green forests, grassy marshes and golden-glowing prairies southwest of Fort Myers.

"Corkscrew Sanctuary probably wouldn't be here but for Rhett Green," he said, leaning back in his seat.

I asked who that was.

"First let me give you the context. It's the late 1800's, and ladies' hats are decorated with feathers, the more the better. The demand was insane, so milliners sent representatives out to the country to hire bird hunters. There were plenty takers. A successful slaughter could net a hunter five thousand dollars, equivalent to eighty thousand dollars today. The first major massacre for the hat trade occurred on Long Island, New York when they shot an entire colony of roseate terns."

"Roh-zee-it," I repeated under my breath.

"That's right," Mason nodded and continued, "all the mature birds were shot, leaving the babies to starve to death. Then the hunters wiped out every rookery up and down the coast, from Maine to Florida. Every summer thousands of migrating North Atlantic gulls and terns had their wings cut off—their bodies left to rot in the nests next to their crying babies. Here white egrets were hunted almost to extinction, until the wardens came.

"The Audubon Society made people realize that birds needed protection, and it lobbied for poaching bans. There wasn't enough Federal money for enforcement so Audubon paid the wardens' salaries. Eventually poachers would be responsible for murdering at least three of Florida's early game wardens. Rhett Green was the warden in the Corkscrew. He knew the risk he was taking—poachers could attack him in seclusion, under the cover of night, where vultures would make short shrift of the evidence."

Listening to Mason was thrilling. Was everything about this man habit-forming? His smile, rugged jaw, those sexy, playful eyes... The altitude must have drained the blood from my brain because I went into spontaneous glazed-eye fantasy mode. In my mind we were standing under a canopy of fragrant cypress. Below our feet was a bed of soft golden needles. We began to kiss and there was some tongue. His hands were on my shoulders as we dropped to the forest floor. His hands on my rear pressed me closer. An updraft slapped the Cessna, shaking me from my reverie.

I took out my tablet to type some notes on Rhett Green. When I returned to the office, I would edit our nature center brochure to add a blurb of Rhett's story, and send the brochure for re-print. It was fitting that WCC paid homage to the game wardens. It was the kind of compelling tale our guides should share with the visitors to bring our woods to life. I set a reminder to Wikipedia him.

Since my move to the south country, and long into the future as I will later discover, I'm glued to Wikipedia and the internet in general, because if you weren't born and bred in the South, you will feel like you are in a foreign land. You will be looking things up forever. All around me, people were slinging Southernisms faster than I could process them. Indeed this whole area was steeped in a rich and mysterious history. The low-lying landscape bred Southern Gothic traditions, and the atmosphere held a supernatural charge that I'd already witnessed first-hand.

My curiosity was, and would remain, constant. Locales, foods, phrases, and even the critters ransacking my garbage were all new to me, and as a result I was always looking something up. My search history is a crazy patchwork of topics. There was Snake and his rant against invasive rat-sized African snails, warning me, "if you see them in your garden, kill them. They will literally eat your house—they love stucco and they transmit meningitis." Naturally I freaked out and needed to know how to dispose of these slime buckets. Up to now the only snail I knew was l'escargot. Then there's Caroline, who put me in her knitting circle. I would have to learn the stitches from YouTube. There's Myles, who I will later discover loves to drop by at random times to go to the Starbuck's and sit with him on the patio while he reminisces about the olden days and the foods his Mama cooked when he was a boy. His favorite dish was Hoppin' John, which from the computer I gleaned is made with black-eyed peas and is called Skippin' Jenny if consumed on New Year's Day. Wikipedia says the consumption of legumes on New Year's day goes back five thousand years, before Christ and the common era. In Babylonian times one ate these drought-tolerant legumes at Rosh Hashana, the first "New Year's" in history because they were a good luck talisman for the coming year.

There's oodles to Google after talking to Lanay. Before her party, I'd had to look up the official Bunco rules, although no amount of searches could have prepared me for the reality of spending an evening with fifteen outrageous southern women throwing dice and throwing back tequila. The girls went from angry screaming and cussing, to sudden bouts of crying, to hysterical laughter—their faces scrunched up, apples of their cheeks bright red from liquor, taking turns hollering, "You crazy bitch, I love you!" "NO! I love YOU!"

Naturally, later on I would google Rhett Green and his colleagues, and after reading everything available I'd eventually write a blurb about them. It had been tough coming up with a compelling opening, but I closed my eyes and tried to imagine Green's desolate world a hundred years ago:

Night after night, in the stillness of a primeval forest, Rhett Green lay alone in an old-fashioned ridge tent, which glowed a hazy yellow in the darkness from the flickering lamp within. To pass the time, he read or wrote or listened to the barred owls chant. It sounds like they're saying, "who cooks for you? Who cooks for yoo-hoo?" For Green, the closest aid and human contact was a two-day horseback ride to an outpost called Fort Myers. Since his fellow wardens had died protecting their charges, he slept with his gun. Referring to Snowy and Great egrets, he'd once told a reporter, "Those long whites never leave my mind."

Maybe he thought about Guy Bradley, the lone Audubon warden for the entire Everglades-to-Key West territory. Bradley, son of the famous, Lake Worth "Barefoot Mailman," was a farmer, and in his youth a small-time poacher himself. But Bradley, like other petty poachers, had renounced plume hunting when the sight of hundreds of birds' heads hanging dead out of their nests shocked and horrified him.

The most popular hat feathers came from nearby wading birds called "snowies." Even chic-er were hats with 'nuptial plumes,' elegant feathers grown only during the mating season, elegantly designed by evolution for avian courtship rituals. Poachers continually slipped into the everglade's densely populated rookeries, shot and plucked whole flocks clean and left the carcasses to rot. Unprotected eggs were eaten by predators, as were baby birds if they didn't first starve or die from exposure.

Bradley had gratefully accepted the position as game warden and worked hard for his $35/month paycheck. One day he caught some poachers red-handed and was shot and killed attempting to arrest one. He was thirty-five-years-old. Today his grave is a desolate sand bar on the southern tip of Florida.

Green also knew his northern counterpart, Columbus McCleod. McCleod went about day-to-day tasks with a poacher's bullet painfully lodged in his shoulder. He was murdered by poachers in 1908. His boat was found weighed down and sunk. Inside the boat, his bloodstained warden's cap had gashes in it consistent with an axe strike. His body was never recovered; the murderers never caught. Sadly, these were not the last Audubon deaths. But these brave men were soul of America's wildlife conservation movement.

Not a terrible draft, I'd later think. A little editing and fact checking, and I'd be done. I liked learning about this early band of wildlife protectors. It was their brand of courage that made this nation great. Forget the Marlboro Man or the styles of Ralph Lauren. These wardens embodied the real great American spirit.

——

Less than two hours later panther locations were plotted on the map and Mason ordered the Cessna down. The pilot roger'd that and radioed for landing. Back at Naples Airport we landed smoothly, for a winged sardine can. I had motion sickness, so with a pale-face and rubber band legs I teetered down the staircase onto the tarmac and tumbled head first like a pinwheel into Mason's car. I sat motionless for a few minutes to regain my balance while the boys packed the gear. When the motion my inner ear processed finally reconciled with that which my eyes witnessed, I felt better.

We drove north on State Road 29 past East Hinson Marsh toward the Bear Island Unit of Big Cypress National Preserve. Long ago short squat bears with white patches on their chests migrated down a once-uninterrupted strand of coastal forest that ran from the Carolinas to Miami. In the Everglades they ate the white buds of cabbage palms or turtle eggs, or waded into water to hunt fish. Now endangered, Ursus americanus floridanus are found only in remote northern Florida.

Mason introduced me to the panther research team from the GFC. There was a lead biologist, a feline veterinarian, junior biologists (including one who could climb trees), a dog handler with a pack of trained hounds, and volunteer helpers like us.

Mason mentioned to the team leader, Darrell, that he wasn't surprised they'd commenced the hunt in Big Cypress. He handed him a map. "We got a fix on some of the tagged cats in the park this morning." Mason turned to me, "because this is where they like to eat. Big Cypress is thirty-eight thousand acres of fertile soil, upland forests and most importantly, deer and hog."

Darrell welcomed me warmly and asked me to convey to Evelyn "fish'n'game's gratitude for Conservancy support." He added, as he clapped Mason's and Snake's shoulders, "Including these two big lugs here."

Snake introduced me to the rest of the research team and gave me a quick run down of the inner workings. "Half the team will take swamp buggies—these balloon-tired ATV's. They have turf-and-field tires built for the swamp. The hounds man and dogs go by foot. Or rather, paw." Snake paused expectantly, looking for my reaction. None came but that didn't dampen his unbreakable cheerfulness. "Anyway, a dog's sense of smell can pick up cat scent from when it brushed up against a twig. They'll follow the scent straight to the cat, no problem. But when the dogs get close, the panther'll run up a tree."

Snake was called away by one of his pals from the state and I moved on to Mason, who was petting one of the hounds. "I'm gonna go on foot with the dogs for a while. I want to look for plant specimens. I could use some collecting help if you're up for it," he said.

"Sure, but-" I nodded toward the swamp buggies, "they won't be too far, right?"

"They'll be one radio call away," he reassured. "How's your head anyway?"

I gave the thumbs up and moved on to Darrell.

"This is my first time doing fieldwork. Got any advice?"

"Yes, watch out for the carnivorous quintette. There's no other place on this planet with five large man-eating predators in one forest." He ticked them off on his fingers. "We got alligators, bears, bobcats, panthers and burmese pythons." I didn't see the side wink he'd thrown to Mason.

"Wh-what?" I stammered. Blood drained from my face. My friends had said I wouldn't survive a month out here, me being a city girl, but they meant without two a.m. pizza and and Intermix clothing boutique. We hadn't factored in wilderness survival. The two men doubled over with laughter.

"Ha-ha-ha. If you're done yukking it up, can someone please let me know how we're going to handle an actual encounter with a python? I'm well aware they're a scourge in the Everglades."

Out of a black duffel bag on the ground Mason produced a Remington Versa Max Sportsman shotgun with a carry strap that he slung diagonally across his chest—stock near his right shoulder, the barrel pointed down. Snake pointed to the classic Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum holstered on his hip.

Mason said, "There's absolutely no danger. We're just messin' with ya. The guns are just in case." I noticed that Mason's normally light Southern drawl had suddenly intensified. He was born in Savannah and bred internationally with an oil-exec father and socialite mother. When he wasn't in field attire, he was sophisticated, cultured, even bookish. Maybe the drawl was subconscious, going to his Georgia roots. Or maybe he was just putting on the act of stereotypical Deep South redneck for his old hunting partners.

Snake said, "It would be nice if we had some pythons to shoot, because last year's Python Challenge was a bust. Those monsters are eating up the Everglades. There's no more foxes, rabbits or raccoons, and almost no deer, possum or bobcat.

"Two million pet-trade boas, anacondas and pythons were imported through the Port of Miami since the seventies. People think baby snakes are cute until they mature," said Darrell.

"Then they dump 'em in the glades," said Mason, "and since they're non-native, they don't have natural enemies keeping their population down. Combined with the fact that they're prodigious breeders, they just took over."

Snake said, "Given that in the past 18 million years there hasn't been a local snake big enough to eat a deer, none of our native animals associate these monster snakes with a threat. They're just a nasty unnatural surprise to the eco-chain."

Darrell said, "At this point the only thing left to do is pray for a prolonged deep-freeze to kill them all. But that would also get the oranges."

——-

A short while later, my senses on high-alert, we were bushwhacking through upland forest. Mosquitos swarmed my head, but so far, knock on wood, my homeopathic insect repellant was working. The hounds had run ahead—judging by the distant barks I'd guess a quarter mile.

Mason stopped to examine a waxy epiphyte dangling from a branch. "Did you know that American children can identify a thousand corporate logos but less than ten plants and animals around their house?"

"You're kidding."

"I wish. There's an app for your iPhone—a game about recognizing corporate logos—but no game for trees. There's no demand."

We walked in silence, enjoying bird sounds, lush forest and quietude. Mason stopped to point out a spreading live oak whose branches were completely obscured by spanish moss and a Strangler Fig whose hand- and finger-shaped roots were choking the dying host tree. It was eerie how much it looked like an actual hand was choking the host tree.

When the trail became spongy and damp, Mason said we were coming into a swamp, and on the trail in front of us sat an enormous motionless alligator.

"Is it sleeping?"

"No."

"What are we going to do?"

"Walk right past it."

"What?"

"He's tired. It's cool out. He doesn't want anything to do with us. It's totally safe," Mason said.

"Well, I don't know about that. It's not like the expression 'It's a jungle out there' arose because it's so safe. I'm human Chicken Satay to this alligator."

I stepped gingerly past the mega-lizard, holding my breath till I'd gained some distance. Just when I was far enough away to relax, I screamed. "Aargh!"

A snake bite to the back of my ankle made me jump in the air. But when I looked down, I saw I'd stepped on a twig whose back-end was shaped like a slightly, curved-up wishbone. The two prongs had pressed into my rear ankle when I stepped on the front of the branch and it felt exactly like the bite from a snake's twin fangs.

I took a beat to calm down. My heart was going haywire and tears welled in my eyes. The truth was, I was out of my league and had been so from the moment I arrived in this land. I mean, there were moments, multiple moments, I actually feared for my life. If it wasn't outlaw ghosts, Seminole spirits, masked attackers, lunatic developers, or sink holes, a man-eating predator would end me. The snake bite was the final straw. No matter that Mason kept saying "You didn't get bit. Relax." In my mind, the Movie of My Life began to play. I imagined I was attacked by the croc—my torso trapped in his vice grip jaws, my legs and arms flailing around like a dummy's. For some reason, on my life movie's soundtrack The Four Seasons song December, 1963 (Oh, What a Night) plays while I'm being thrashed around in the gator's jaws, flailing through the air in slow motion. I'm really not sure why this song works so well.

"Yoo-hoo, earth to Daisy."

The proverbial needle scratched vinyl and I looked up to see Mason staring at me.

"Sorry," I mumbled.

Mason waved his hands over some palm fronds. "Look at this."

Our trail had hit a saw palmetto thicket. Saw palmetto is a short palm tree that lends most of Florida her ubiquitous tropical atmosphere.

"This is a keystone plant for wildlife," Mason said. "Bears eat its fleshy heart; other animals eat the berries. Look." He moved fronds out of the way to unveil a cluster of large black berries. "They taste like blue cheese and black pepper. If you break off a top frond you'll find an edible stalk, but be careful. They're covered with spikes." Mason held out a palmetto berry. "Try it."

I waved it away.

"It's not bad if you take little bites."

As I pushed through the thicket, their little saws clawed at my clothes. "I can feel them scratching through my pants."

"These saw-toothed fronds intertwine, creating impenetrable thickets where animals find shelter—to hide, rest or have their litters."

I was light-headed. "Mason-"

My body wanted to quit. My nerves were shot. I was drenched in sweat and covered with mosquitos.

"I need a break."

I wanted to radio Snake. I fantasized that I was home in the air conditioning, watching recorded episodes of RHOBH and House Hunters International.

Initially I had been cocky about moving here, like that cartoon city-mouse going to visit his country-bumpkin cousin. Turns out this place is not easily vanquished, and I'm at the point where I'm trying not to look people in the eye, because if I do, I'm afraid I'll cry.

Mason sat me on a log and pulled out the walkie talkie. I rummaged through my backpack for a snack and found an organic energy bar. I had offered one to Snake the other day. He'd replied, "We have round energy bars here. They're called doughnuts."

"Look!" I nudged Mason to turn around. A Great Egret stood in the grassy marsh, perfectly still in ninja attack mode staring at the surface of the water. There must have been some adorable little amphibian beneath the water's surface whose time was about to end.

"You know what? I'll be fine. I just needed a break. Let's keep going."

——

Later we came upon Desolate Marsh, a wide amber meadow full of Gulf Coast Spikerush and sawgrass. It was beautiful but something was amiss with the picture. In the center of the field was an antique Model A truck, half-sunk. We'd gone through a time warp.

Seventy years ago its crew had attempted to drive across the then-drought-stricken countryside when they'd hit a sinkhole. I imagined their fear. There was no AAA motor club or cellphones. They must have trekked miles to safety in deadly heat. Perhaps without water. Perhaps with vultures following overhead. It's more than likely that some of the vehicle's occupants never made it.

We skirted Desolate Marsh toward upland forest to an overgrown dirt-road intersection. We turned right on a pathway called Gillette Tram.

Mason said, "I've been here before. This part of Bear Island was once logged for Cypress, the best wood for lumber in the South. It's rot-resistant. That's why every cypress forest is gone."

"What does 'tram' mean? Why isn't it called Gillette 'road'?"

"A hundred years ago, this wasn't a road. There was a mobile, narrow-gauge rail track set down here for transporting the timber. They'd cut down the logs and send them by tram cars to a temporary mill, or to a log hauler waiting out by the main road who drove the lumber to a yard. Snake says that sometimes the Mud Monsters find old iron tram wheels in these parts. The rails were temporary wooden ones, so they've since rotted into oblivion. But here and there you still find pieces of the iron trams."

"Wow, a railway was here?"

"A light-rail. Designed to be portable. When the forest was cut down, they'd move all their equipment, including the trams, to a virgin forest and set it all up again."

Mason's radio crackled with static. It was the dog handler. The hounds had picked up scent.
Chapter Eleven

Darrell's voice crackled over the two-way. "We're heading toward their position, and-"

The line went silent.

"Sorry," he came on again, "we just stumbled upon someone's dinner. Looks like our panther was having himself some wild boar."

The panther was probably mid-feast when the dogs neared. Mason got their position and we started to run. When we caught up, the dogs had the panther tree'd in a spreading oak. Our girl was crouched on a horizontal branch festooned with clusters of orchids. The excited alpha dog repeatedly lunged for the panther, who responded with a hiss. The dogs were removed and the mobile lab was set up.

There was a buzz of excitement because we had tree'd a beautiful un-collared female. Whenever a new female joined the research framework, it was considered a coup because among all the members of an animal group, females in their reproduction phase provide the most data on that species.

The dart gun hit her hind leg and in minutes her eyes closed. Donning climbing spikes and a harness, our climber scooched up the tree, roped the cat, and lowered her. With bated breath we watched her descend. The only sounds were from Dr. Heather Benson, the feline veterinarian, who was ripping open packages of sterilized needles and medical equipment in preparation the medical work-up. The team let out a collective sigh when the cat landed on the crash pad. When the exam was complete the panther's ears received number tattoos and a radio collar was put around her neck. We retreated to a nearby blind to observe the cat safely waking up and departing. When it was over, it was late and we set out to camp.

The night before Darrell had plotted several possible sites on the map. Our convoy of swamp buggies headed for that closest to our location. It was north of Bear Island and near Okaloacoochee Slough State Forest.

On the way there, we crossed paths with another ATV party. As luck would have it, the occupants were friends of both Evelyn and Mason. Mr. Marshall McAdams and his son Andrew were out for an afternoon wildlife-viewing excursion.

McAdams owned a nearby 40,000-acre ranch bordering Big Cypress National Preserve to the north and Okaloacoochee Slough to the east. He was a retired cattle baron and longtime friend of Ev's.

Mason had a brief conversation with the McAdamses, returned to our vehicle and picked up the two-way.

"Folks, tonight we will be guests of the world-famous Double M Ranch." The team cheered, except for Snake who was disappointed not to be making camp under the stars.

We motored for a few minutes through pre-Columbian swaths of wild Florida. It was so remote that parts of this land might—even to this day—never have been crossed by human foot. It was exactly as the Indians had left it a thousand years ago.

The Double M ranch was the Garden of Eden reincarnated. It had prairies, dense hardwood hammocks, freshwater marshes and old-growth cypress, the combination of which made it a haven for deer, armadillos, cranes, ibises, wood storks, wild hogs, panthers and diamondbacks.

The mansion was Southern colonial with caribbean plantation elements. It sat on a slight rise in the landscape. Florida was, of course, mostly flat except for the gently rolling hills that crop up along the state's central corridor.

The entire front span of the manse had porticos on both the first and second floors. Full-frontal double-decker porches is a popular feature of warm-climate architecture—they encourage air flow into the house.

Two rows of old live oaks flanked the driveway. We followed the white gravel drive around to the back of the house. Behind the mansion were three small guest cottages that McAdams used for shooting parties and family gatherings.

Mason disappeared into the house with McAdamses and I proceeded to a cottage with Heather, the only other female on the hunt.

The two-bedroom guest cottage majored in expensive dark wood furniture, beige-y fabrics and floor lamps with parchment-paper shades. In the shared bath, a Jacuzzi soaking tub sat next to a glass-enclosed shower. Heather called shotgun on the Jacuzzi and disappeared, so I kicked off my boots, sank into the sofa and clicked on the TV.

Possibly my favorite coming-of-age movie was on: Moonrise Kingdom. Awkward twelve-year-olds were conversing:

Sam: What do you want to be when you grow up?

Suzy: I don't know. I want to go on adventures, I think. Not get stuck in one place. How about you?

Sam: Go on adventures, too. Not get stuck, too. (Pause.) It's possible I may wet the bed, by the way. Later, I mean.

I dozed off and awoke just in time to see Heather exiting the cottage. She whispered over her shoulder, "Going to Darrell's."

"Is there a meeting?"

She shook her head.

"Oh," I said, knowingly.

While I had catnapped, Mr. McAdams had dinner delivered to the cottages. I peeked into the foil topped containers on the dining table: tomato soup, croque-monsieurs and homemade brownies. It beat the dehydrated beef stroganoff slated for dinner.

A half an hour later there was a knock on the door. I checked my watch. 9:45 p.m.

It was Mason, reeking of whiskey. He leaned on the door jamb, smoking a cuban cigar. "I don't mean to intrude. I just want to check in."

"It's fine. Come on in."

I handed him a coffee mug and told him to extinguish the cigar. I opened the fridge and peered inside. I took out two beers. "So, you look like you've been having fun with your friends," I said.

We sat down on the sofa. "Marshall is a family friend." Mason glanced at the uneaten food. "Are you okay here?"

"I'm fine."

"You seemed a little out of it today."

That was all the invitation needed for my floodgates to open. I started to cry, recounting the events—almost being buried alive in quicksand, inexplicable lights, being accosted in my vehicle, worrying about work/Cruz...

"I mean, what am I doing here? And who leaves a career behind? What's wrong with being, I don't know, merely McSatisfied?"

I was laughing now and crying, a messy, snot-coming-out-of-my-nose-crying.

"I used to be smart. I don't mean just in business or figuring percentages or your science stuff like measuring the water table, but with knowing which are the right risks to take. I know that excitement wears off; that some dreams should remain just that: dreams."

Mason nodded and pressed a handkerchief in my hand, "First of all, you're still acclimating, and you're doing great. I just gave you a hard time when we met because of my own stuff. Secondly, you said you couldn't stand being behind a desk anymore. Even though we all do some of that, don't you love that a couple days a week you get to be at the nature center or the parks?"

"What if this was the wrong decision? What if I don't belong here?"

"If you really want to find out, you have to get out of your comfort zone. Actually no, worse than that. You need to go past uncomfortable and enter the Terrifying Zone. I'm talking the frozen arctic zone of life, or the fiery pit of hell. Either way, when you finally get the crap kicked out of you and you're slumped on the floor in a crap-covered heap, then when you finally muster the courage to lift yourself up again and take your first step, you'll know, right then, what your purpose is."

Everything is illuminated, I thought.

Mason continued, "Everyone has a destiny, but we're not a society that bothers to ponder those great questions of life. We choose career paths based on easy money. We're not introspective enough to examine our natures, our qualities, and we don't spend time simply figuring out what we're good at. Most of the time people don't have the career they were meant for. The lucky few eventually find their purpose, and some even see signs. For example, my college roommate used to be a stockbroker until one day he woke up and out of the blue decided to be a pilot. Quit his job and went to flight school. Do you know what his last name is? Avion. That's French for airplane. And my sister, she's a CPA-"

"I didn't know you had a sister."

"Yes. She's a CPA. But she's also a high-speed typist—has this freaky ability with a keyboard. Anyway, she always had this supernatural connection to language. One day she tells me she's quitting her high-powered job to become a writer. Didn't even decide yet what to write about. It was just something she's going to start doing right now. So I told her, that you're so fired up about writing means that that's what you were put on earth to do; to tell us something we need to hear."

"Okay, Deepak Chopra, what's my sign? I packed up everything I own, kissed my family goodbye, left my life and still, I have no sign."

"Well, it could be that your purpose lies not in your next phase of life, or even the one after that. Rather it's in the having of phases—in the fact that you can muster the courage to attempt things. Attempt change. That's your purpose. You're the inspiration the rest of us need. You help people find the will to change. That's why you were a good career counselor."

"Wow. That was deep. You really aren't a redneck."

"Oh, no, I am a proud redneck. I've just had one too many drinks."

We spent the rest of the evening laughing about all the Southernisms I still had to learn, and I finally learned where "redneck" came from.

"A redneck is proud," he said, taking a swig of beer, his head leaning back on the sofa. "He doesn't mind being stereotyped. But," Mason pointed to the air with the beer bottle, "there's several types of rednecks."

"Oh really? There's a hierarchy?"

"First, you have your original redneck, from Appalachia. From back in the 1930's, when labor organizers fought the mining companies over wages. The companies were bribing local law to murder union organizers. To show their support, miners wore red bandana's around their necks. Despite the misconception that mining towns were poor and unkempt, it was the exact opposite. Mining communities were orderly, clean and close-knit. They helped each other, held social functions for the community, and spent free time doing wholesome stuff like playing baseball.

"Then you have your Deep South rednecks, who are perfect southern gentlemen and proper southern ladies but poor. They might have ketchup on a cracker for dinner but they'll stop to help you change your flat tire. Then you got the Texan redneck. They love to play this game called Chicken Shit Bingo."

"Okay, now you're just making stuff up."

"No, it's a real game, as real as dart boards in Boston bars. There's a wire cage with a grid of numbers painted on the bottom. The chickens walk around defecating on the numbered boxes in the grid and those numbers are called out. When you cross off all the numbers on your board, you win Chicken Shit Bingo. And finally, there's my favorite redneck, the Florida cracker."

In the sixteenth century, Spanish settlers imported a small, hardy breed of cattle which thrived in our relentless heat. Unlike Spanish and western cowboys with their lassos, Florida's cattlemen (a.k.a. cow hunters) herded cattle into line with long leather whips, which when snapped made a "crack" sound. Some people think cracker is a slur. It's not. Among Old Florida families, descending from glades settlers is a source of pride.

Mason drank his beer and looked at me. He had a certain presence and masculine self-assurance I found intriguing. I got up to get more beer. When I returned I sat further away.

"Do you still carry a torch for him?"

I spit out my beer. "What? Where did that come from?"

"I heard you have a boyfriend up north."

"Pshh. No. Not even." I stared at my beer.

"Are you sure? I wouldn't want to start liking you or anything. You're probably the type who acts like a bitch until the guy that likes you scares off."

"Is it working?"

I wasn't even mad that he was being mean again. Lord knows how much he'd drank with McAdams. And even though I'd never admit it, when it comes to love, if there's any potential for the speeding train to crash, I'd jump off before I got hurt.

"Even if what you say is true at least I'm trying to change. That's why I came down here," I said. "But, should I be interested in a guy that hates all women just because one cheated?" As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted it. But Mason hadn't pulled any punches. Why should I?

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

He leaned in and kissed my neck right below my ear.

"Ben-"

His lips trailed down my neck, following the curve of my shoulders. He pulled me up off the sofa, scooped me into his arms and tossed me onto the bed. He pinned my arms above my head, lifted up my shirt and wrangled it off. Finally he kissed me on the mouth.

_____

The phone rang and I awoke in the green-gray light of pre-dawn. It was Mason's cell so I nudged him. He bolted upright and fished around for the phone.

"Hello?"

I heard Darrell's voice on the other end.

I got back under the covers and smiled. I'd been acting like a teenager lately. I reminded myself that I was currently under a self-prescribed ban from impulsive decisions.

Mason whispered, "That was Darrell."

"Mmm-hmm." I was already falling back to sleep.

"We have to get up."

I groaned.

"Someone called Fish and Game at around three a.m. to report a panther injured on the highway. Darrell gave me a choice: go to the panther, take it to the hospital, or take Darrell's place in the field today. I offered to go get the cat."

We jumped out of bed and dressed hurriedly. As I closed the cottage door I got a whiff of Mason's cigar in the living room but now the smell reminded me only of Cruz's abduction.

Mason ran to the main house and waited at the carriage house until he re-appeared clutching car keys.

While we drove Mason liaised via cell with the responding game warden to ascertain the location. He drove at a white-knuckling one-twenty miles per hour.

When we arrived, we could tell the panther had been struck hard. He was twenty feet from the road, and fur was skinned off him at the point of contact with the vehicle, exposing a thin layer of bleeding skin. He must have had broken bones. Now I'm not the type to cry at Folger's-son-comes-home commercials but witnessing the suffering in this tawny juvenile's eyes choked me up.

Mason unzipped his pack and took out a medical kit. As he was priming a syringe of ketamine, the warden said that fish and game had authorized a medevac to Animal Specialty of Greater Miami. Police closed down the road in both directions with blazing sticks and the helicopter touched down in a cloud of dust. Beyond the barricades, weary-eyed drivers exited their vehicles, elbows leaning on open doors, to watch the dream-like scene play out. I assumed Mason would instruct me to drive the car back. Instead he pointed to the helicopter, "Get in." I gave him a look that said what gives, and he thumbed toward the troopers, "They all know McAdams. He'll have his car back." Mason and the game warden gingerly lifted the sedated cat into the chopper and we took off.

I was in a daze as we flew over sawgrass prairie at dawn. Abruptly the urban landscape crashed into view and we touched down in the veterinary hospital's parking lot. Inside, Mason and the vets disappeared. That was when delayed motion sickness hit me. I fell into a green vinyl chair in the waiting room—my blood pressure was on the floor and nausea roiled my stomach. Ten minutes later Mason came out. I had my eyes closed, head in my hands.

"You look green."

"I'm fine. How's the panther?"

"They found a fracture in his rear left leg and contusions. He's having surgery to set the break and remove necrotic tissue." He stared at me. "You don't look fine."

"I get car sick sometimes. I guess I got helicopter sick. I just need some coffee. I'll go get some in a minute."

"Maybe you should sit for a while. I'll be back soon."

When he returned, I was feeling better.

"What's going on with our cat?"

"He'll be okay. I hope he gets back to the wild."

The cat's injuries were light. The problem was that being in captivity—even for a short time—does crazy things to panthers. Due to their complex evolution, captivity is anathema to these predators, and it simply messes with their heads. A couple years ago there was another panther in prolonged recovery. Confinement proved too much to bear. So desperate was she to escape she gnawed at the concrete cell until her razor-sharp incisors were ground to nubs. But without her killing teeth, she could not be released back into the wild. She would have suffered from malnutrition and died.

I checked my phone messages. There was the usual one from Mom but nothing from Agent Perez. I was still worried about my tall drink of coconut water. I scrolled through my contacts and hovered my thumb over Perez's name, but didn't press down. I hit the home button.

Mason grabbed my arm. "Let's go."

"Where?"

"It's a surprise."

A half an hour later we were standing in the middle of arguably the most up-and-coming, avant-garde neighborhood in the world: Wynwood Walls.

It started in the 1980's when high rents drove the South Florida Arts Center out of Coconut Grove. SFAC relocated to a defunct bread factory in the Wynwood District, a once-middle-class neighborhood of the 1940's that by the 70's had become slightly seedy. SFAC's revitalization of the bread factory into artists' spaces drew the attention of Richard Anthony "Tony" Goldman, a real estate mogul and the legendary force behind the famous revivals of SoHo in New York City and South Beach in Miami. Goldman, having had early exposure to the arts by wealthy intellectual Jewish parents, had a knack for envisioning thriving artsy neighborhoods where others saw urban plight.

Goldman purchased a chunk of the Wynwood neighborhood and created an open-air gallery using building facades as canvases. In short order, world-class artists descended upon the Wynwood. Today these giant murals comprise the most prestigious collection of street art amassed in one place. Every building's facade is incorporated into the neighborhood/gallery, including their windows, garage doors, fences and light posts.

We started our walk at an industrial-chic coffee bar called Panther Coffee, which was Mason-Approved for their efforts to minimize their carbon footprint.

Sun shining and coffee in hand, we strolled past murals, mesmerized by their color, enormity and sense of boundlessness. After a pleasant afternoon with Mason, we drove back to Naples, that is, after a pit stop in Little Havana where Mason picked up some cigars for McAdams.
Chapter Twelve

When Mason dropped me off that evening, I invited him in for pizza.

"There's nothing I'd like better but I have to get that injury report to Darrell."

"More pizza for me."

"Wait."

He leaned in and kissed the spot in front of my ear.

I said, "Ciao," and exited the vehicle.

Out of his view, I thunked myself on the forehead. When "ciao" is used by anyone not from Italy, it actually means I am a doofus.

——-

I woke up on Saturday morning tattered and battered from the previous week. The gray and drizzly weather matched my mood. I turned on the TV and put on Tom. A tropical storm was sweeping up from the Florida Straits, crossing the Everglades, heading toward Miami and onwards toward the Bahamas, producing gale force winds, thunder and localized flooding.

"Localized flooding?" I said aloud to myself and got back under the covers.

When I finally heaved out of bed, I took a scalding shower that turned my skin red, dried myself, and put on jeans and a henley shirt from the top of my laundry basket.

I straightened up my abode, threw a load of clothes into the washer, stored the camping equipment in the third bedroom, and cleaned out my purse. I dumped the handbag's contents onto the kitchen table and organized: receipts, makeup essentials, loose M&M's and Mason's box of cigars. Yesterday, I had offered to stash them in my tote bag while we briefly explored the cuban neighborhood surrounding the cigar shop. I made a mental note to drop them off at his house.

I did a few more chores but found that I kept glancing at the phone, hoping Agent Perez would call.

I left a voicemail for Evelyn—maybe her contact had news. I sat on the sofa and flipped through some catalogues, but my mind was stuck on replay. Cruz kissing me; Mason tossing me onto the bed.

I knew had feelings for both of them. That was bad. I don't like having two men from which to choose. I need the simplicity of one. People say that in modern society, romantic freedom and inclusivity should be the new norm. Because times have changed. No thanks. I want an exclusive relationship with the perfect (or not so perfect) guy. I want the perfect, romantic ideal.

I wouldn't be able to choose between the two unless I somehow sorted out my feelings. But I couldn't think amidst all this chaos. I could end this chaos if I found out what happened to Cruz and I had an idea how to do that. I called Snake.

"Hey there. You mentioned that you know Swindell's oldest friends and family. That you go way back."

"Sure. 'Round here, people know each other."

"So, could Swindell be getting help?"

"You mean like holing up at a friend's cabin?"

"Yes. Somewhere secluded, off the beaten track—it seems a lot of people here tend to have hunting cabins or fish camps. Swindell knows better than to be hiding with a family member or at one of his own properties."

Snake made some calls and half an hour later picked me up in the same FJ Cruiser that I told the mechanic to return to Jimbo's lot.

"I had to have it," Snake said sheepishly. "Ms. Evelyn helped."

I shook my head. "I knew you wanted this," I said, fishing into my purse for loose change. "Congratulations." I threw a handful of coins into his backseat. Snake looked back into the back seat then back at me.

Where I'm from there's a legend that says if you throw coins onto the floor of a newly purchased car it will bring good luck. Other people throw change under their bed to bring luck to a new home, or into a fountain like in the famous movie Three Coins in the Fountain. I'd always wondered whether the car custom originated because change is known worldwide as a good luck charm or simply because we have so many toll roads in New York that one is always looking for spare change to throw into the toll basket. With the latter in mind and given inflation, I threw some crumpled up bills as well.

"Where are we going?"

"Well, me and Ma did some thinking and Swindell had a best friend back in the day. This mudder we all know."

"Mudder as in fucker?"

"No! Jesus! Watch that mouth, Miss Daisy Dirty Mouth. Mudder as in mud, you know, the sport? To drive in and get dirty? Geez."

I looked at him. There's usually some mud at the polo grounds near my family's summer cottage but no legitimate sporting endeavor I knew of includes mud as an integral component.

Snake said, "With a truck? You know, for sport?"

I slapped his arm. "Get outta here! That's ridiculous." Tennis is a sport. Baseball is a sport. Driving through mud intentionally cannot be a "sport."

"I'm serious."

"I guess. I know you're in that club, what do you call it? Mud Monsters?"

Apparently, people flock to mud parks with 4x4's and ATV's and pay a small admission for the privilege of off-roading through five-foot-deep mud holes and bouncing over spine-punishing trails. People bring RV's and stay for week-long vacations. Swindell's pal worked at such a park—Devil's Garden Mudventures.

"This one's a little more than an hour away (Snake pronounced 'hour' ahr), but there's one by us if you want to go sometime: the Redneck Yacht Club Mud Park."

I said, "Are you joking?"

"No."

"Muddin'" flew to the top of my phone's search history, which was already weird:

muddin

best mosquito repellant

Manolos near Naples?

fried pickles

We hitched on over to Immokalee Road, passing Oil Well Road and several farms. When we hit Okaloacoochee Slough, Snake said we're getting close. I asked how Devil's Garden got its name. He was not sure but thought it had something to do with The Demon Hog.

"Years ago the surrounding area was cypress forest. When the logging company came to raze it, they noticed a lot of wild boar."

"I did my assigned research on native fauna dating back ten thousand years and boar wasn't mentioned."

"That's because they're non-native. When the Spanish explorer deSoto came in 1539, he brought thirteen pigs for food, and they were the first swine to ever set foot on this continent. The pigs found Florida to be ideal breeding ground and in a few years the small team multiplied to hundreds. You know the rest: over the centuries, pigs were domesticated and bred by the billions to feed our insatiable appetites. But, unfailingly and until the end of time, a few farm pigs always escape back to the wild, perpetually restocking America's feral population's numbers. In fact, from the time they arrived with deSoto, there has never not been passels of feral pigs rooting the backwoods of America."

"At first, the loggers were happy to have the food source around. But soon, strange things began to happen. At night, men saw beady red eyes watching them at from the forest, and some saw the shadow of an enormous hog, as big as a bison and with two-foot-long tusks.

"One night, they awoke to bloodcurdling screams and all hell broke loose in camp. When the dust settled, a logger was missing. The search party scoured the woods but found no trace of him, nor even any traces of animal—no hoof tracks or any footprints of any kind. It was as though the man vanished into thin air. They became convinced the demon hog dragged the man off to a supernatural underworld lair.

"Eventually, the entire forest was razed, the company left and the rumors died down. Today all that's left is a small town nearby, and some nights, they say you can hear the growl of the demon hog searching for his next victim. Graieee!"

"Wow. That is super scary."

Thirty minutes later we pulled into Devil's Garden Mudventures. We parked on a packed-sand parking lot and headed to the office—a small tan cinderblock building with a flat roof and one window. The door was propped open with a cinderblock and inside two middle-aged women were working at metal desks. One woman had a blond bob and reading glasses perched on her nose. The other had a lady-mullet and sported a prominent turquoise necklace. Snake greeted the pair and inquired where one could find Harris "Woody" Wainwright, Swindell's pal. Turquoise necklace handed Snake an envelope and simply said, "Address on front. You can bring him his last paycheck."

"What happened?"

"He was selling 'shine out of his trunk again. He's a liability."

Woody was the mechanic at Mudventures. He maintained the fleet of trucks and ATV's with which management patrolled and maintained the 1100-acre all-terrain park. For many years, the owner looked the other way as Woody used the park as a personal storefront, because the folks who like muddin' are the same folks who love moonshine. Woody's white lightning was a draw.

Moonshine used to be prevalent in Florida. People think corn liquor is Appalachian in origin but it's not. It's a tradition in every southern state. In 1920s Florida, there was a village called Pinecrest in what is now Big Cypress National Preserve. It had bars, brothels and bootleggers to serve both the loggers working the forests and outlaws from Miami. Al Capone ran an illegal distillery operation and gambling den in Pinecrest prior to his 1931 prison sentence. A modern-day newspaper once quoted an old-time frog hunter who'd said that while night-hunting, sometimes he'd accidentally come across Capone's stills: "When I saw them in my frog lights, you better know I made a fast U-turn and headed the other way."

The problem for Woody and the park owner was Dram Shop law. Centuries ago, a dram shop was a tavern where spirits were sold by the dram), a small unit of liquid. In Florida, it's a law holding businesses liable when they serve alcohol to someone who harms another person or himself, and it's an insurance headache. Intoxicated drivers void the park's coverage.

We took the envelope and left. Snake punched the coordinates into his phone while I checked mine for messages. There were none.

Twenty minutes later we turned onto Woody's street.

We passed some ugly houses and pulled up to the last house on the dead end.

"This it it," Snake said.

"Let's go."

Snake hesitated. "Uh, I think you should stay here."

"Why?"

"Well, for one it would be safer."

"That's silly." I got out and went down the driveway. Snake ran up behind me and put a hand on my arm.

"A door-to-door salesman was shot dead last month just for stepping on someone's lawn."

"You first," I said.

Snake climbed up the porch stairs. "Mr. Wainwright? Hello, Mr. Wainwright? It's Snake Tucker."

There was a pungent odor in the air, a combination of solvent and paranoia.

"Who?"

"Mr. Wainwright? Can I talk to you, sir? It's Clifford Tucker, Caroline and Will Tucker's son."

"Rooster Tucker's boy?"

"That's right."

An angular face with black eyes and bushy black eyebrows peered through the door's sidelight. It was a visage marked by years of alcohol abuse.

"I need to talk to you, Woody."

He opened the door. He was unshaven and bleary-eyed and holding an ancient shotgun.

"You best be off my property, now," he said, slurring.

"Please. We need your help. We're looking for a pal of yours, Bob Swindell. He's in a bit of straits. Have you seen him lately?"

"Bobby? I haven't seen him in at years. He come to purchase my product a while back. Now, best you depart, son." Woody shifted square into the doorway, lifting the shotgun. I took a step back.

Snake pressed on. "Do you know anyone from the old gang he might've gone to for help?"

"Snake," I whimpered.

Woody raised his arms. Snake grabbed my shirt collar, Woody fired, and we leapt off the porch, rolling onto the packed-sand ground.

As we ran down the driveway, Woody shouted, "Regards to your mother."

In the car I said, "What the hell was that? Is he deranged?"

"He was actually pretty civil."

We had no way of knowing that later that evening, after Woody had sobered, he'd picked up the telephone.

——

That evening, I was camped out on my sofa poring over the gala files, taking care of last minutes preparations. I was heartsick to think Cruz would not be at the gala. But Evelyn had insisted that he would be found and that life must go on. I looked up when I heard the handle of my front door jiggle. Geez, I thought, what now? An intruder? And I was the only resident of Florida without a gun. Normally I'd run out the back door and call 911, but given everything I'd been though I was tired and fed up. At this point, a stampede of bulls knocking down my house wouldn't faze me.

The door opened a crack and I spied lime green neon.

"That key is for emergencies, Lanay."

She was wearing a neon tank top and white short-shorts that punctuated her long tan legs. Her body was disgusting. She could eat anything and stay bones.

"This is an emergency. I heard you had a crazy couple days! Snake filled me in. I heard you was attacked, bit by a snake, shot at—I forgot what-all he said. I brought a coconut layer cake to cheer you up."

While we ate, I told her about my crazy week and she updated me on the Swindell case. Evelyn found out that a search of Swindell's properties had come up short. There was no trace of either man. None of Swindell's friends or associates knew anything and Cruz's camp was stuck in a state of disbelief. There was speculation that David Cruz had been murdered, his body dumped in the Gulf, and that Swindell had fled to a non-extradition country.

I felt sick. I prayed.

"Would be a real shame if something happened to so fine a man," she said.

I raised one eyebrow. She leaned forward to cut another slice of cake.

"He's a real man, you know? Gor. Geous! I'd been trying to get that man to notice me for years. But whenever he comes to the office, he's politer than your grampa and goes straight to Evelyn's office." She pointed to the manila folder on the table. "You done with that gala stuff? I'm the one has to place the final orders, you know."

"Mmm-hmm. Hey, Lanay, can I ask you a question? Who did Cruz take to the gala last year?"

"He took that ex-girlfriend of his, what's her name. Lucinda?"

"Lucilla."

"That's it."

"You think there's still something between them?"

"Don't know."

"I wonder if he still has feelings for her," I mused.

"I think they were just friends."

For the rest of the evening, we watched back-to-back episodes of Real Housewives. Lanay was likely crazy, but I had felt alone and she came and made me feel safe. Her presence was stabilizing. She made my home feel like home again. She just made my Saturday night.

In the short time I have been a Floridian, I realize that there are really two Floridas. One is the artificial Florida: over-priced hotels, theme parks, two-hour waits for a table, golf, and condos full of northerners who want to experience all this. They've suffered frigid northern winters for fifty years and wasted half their lives shoveling snow. They came to their senses, retired and came here to be young again.

The second Florida is what Snake calls "the Real Florida." It's a world I was thrown into. It's filled with jungles, swarms of bloodsuckers, fire ants, swamp stink, snakes and sink holes. It's night after night of silent lightning shows against a pitch black sky, folklore, rednecks with guns, and peeking out your blinds before you go to sleep, wondering if the demon hog is out there. Fortunately, it's also people eager befriend you and bring you cake.

——

The next morning, I did something different. I did not turn on the news or my iPad. I put on a sweater, grabbed a mug of coffee and went out to the patio. Today, I'd get my weather from the source. Plus sometimes you gotta take a moment to let everything that's bad in your life be bad.

I turned on the garden fountain by its switch on the wall and settled into a wicker chair. The house was new but the property was old. The yard had an ancient brick wall around the perimeter. Dense foliage blocked out the views of neighboring homes. The bricks in the wall were faded, chipped, and falling down in some spots. On the back wall the house builder had installed a half-moon fountain. A spout fed its basin, which overflowed artfully into a stone semicircle pond on the ground. I closed my eyes, listened to the bubbles, and hit my soul's reboot button.

I willed myself to relax. Today would be positive, I thought.

In order to reset, you have to ask yourself a few questions. What are you grateful for? What is right in your life? How can you make today great? My self-actualization book says that you just have to ask these questions; you don't even need to formulate answers. The more you ask, the more the answers simply develop inside your subconscious, and from them, awareness of blessings and general positivity will abound. I liken doing this exercise to drinking vitamin water. Is there anyone who cannot say I could use some of that?

By the time I drained my coffee cup, I still wasn't a zen master. I was still stressed. But, the air, the birds and the scent of honeysuckle all reminded me of one critical point: I get to wake up in paradise. Plus I'd come up with a plan for today. I was going to visit Ybor City.

——

Twenty minutes later I was in the car. I knew agents had searched Swindell's real estate holdings but maybe, just maybe, he'd used his knowledge of commercial real estate to find a vacant property. Since he knew Lucilla owned exactly that, I thought there was a chance he'd hide there. It was a crazy theory but I'd wanted to see Ybor City anyway.

At a stoplight, I googled Gran Cuban factory and found an address. Then I texted Agent Perez: any update? I did not realize that I had also inadvertently shared my location with her. On the recent swamp safari, to let team members know where you are, we all turned on our cell phones' Location Sharing service.

I was filled with anxiety about Cruz. Where was he? I thought about Mason, too.

When I stopped for gas, I texted Jen: I am a horrible person.

She responded: Who did you sleep with now.

I responded: No one of course. But I like two guys and I can't decide who I like more. Either way I want them both to like me. Im selfish right?

I jumped on I-75 north and entered Tampa city limits within two hours. I skirted Tampa Bay counter-clockwise until Siri located a municipal parking lot in the historic district. I'd have to walk a little which I didn't mind.

My first stop was El Molino for breakfast. I ordered cuban donuts (these beignets that Cubans call buñuelos) and a cortadito. I sat outside and gorged on the hot, homemade gooeyness while perusing the brochure on the table left behind by a previous customer. Ybor City Ghost Tours. "Hitting the highlights of Tampa's bloody past." It sounded like fun, but if you've seen one ghost you've seen 'em all.

I proceeded to the old cigar factory. Once I located it I walked around it until I came to a narrow alleyway which led straight to a back door. I walked up a steel ramp and peered through the door's cloudy glass panes. I picked up a short length of two-by-four from a pile of debris on the ground and rammed it into the windowpane nearest the handle. Then I froze for a beat and listened. No alarm sounded. I let out a sigh; unthinkingly, I had held my breath.

I used the chunk of two-by-four to scrape clean the jagged glass, reached in, and turned the deadbolt's button. The lock assembly was original to the door and the heavy ancient dead bolt slid back smooth as pie. Probably made in England, I thought, not like the cheap stuff today. I stepped inside a hallway and listened. Hearing nothing, I walked down the corridor and into what must have been a shipping/packing room. I walked back out and up a stairwell into a massive high-ceilinged room. I looked it up later and found out it was called la galeria, the main cigar-making floor. In cigar factories, the basement would have been storage; the first floor shipping and sorting; upper floors cigar making.

Lining the walls were faded posters depicting the anatomy of the tobacco plant, with arrows identifying its usable parts. The lector's chair was perched high on a platform—la tribuna—in the room's center. Lector means "reader" in Spanish. I tried to imagine the hustle and bustle in the room back in the day. One hundred chavetas—rounded knives—tapping on cutting boards while the reader entertained workers with Spanish newspapers or by translating the Tampa Daily Times or with novels like The Count of Monte Cristo. The workers revered their reader. Generally, the factory workforce elected a three-person panel—a lector committee—to audition and select the reader based on an excellent reading voice and some acting ability to act out roles from novels read. The entire workforce contributed to the reader's pay—approximately $75 per week at the height the industry, while workers earned approximately $20 per week.

If the workforce enjoyed the day's reading, they would loudly tap their chavetas in unison by way of applause. If not, they would shout their disapproval. The factory owners saw the readers as sowing the seeds of socialist sentiment among workers (and blamed them for strikes), but it was the lector committee not the lector, who if influenced by the unions, chose left-wing reading material. The practice of using a lector continues today in Cuba.

I exited the gallery into an anteroom and felt heat on the base of my skull. When I woke up, on the floor, a woman I recognized from the online newspaper as Lucilla was bent over me, eyes filled with concern.

"Oh my god. Are you okay?"

Weakly, I said, "Yes, I think. I- I think Swindell hit me."

She looked perplexed. "Swindell? Who is Swindell? Why are you breaking into my property?" With her Castilian Spanish accent she pronounced "breaking" bre-keen.

I struggled to sit up. My head was throbbing. Confused, I put my head in my hands.

"I'm sorry. I thought Swindell could be here. Cruz had said he was after your building. Can you please help me up?"

Her eyes were cold.

"No."

Then I saw the gun.

"Get up," she barked. "I try to warn you stay away from David. That night, in your car. You don't get the hint."

"I don't understand."

"Yes, you do. I saw you at David's house. You should not have been there."

"Lucilla, please."

"I have David. He didn't want to go with me, but soon he will change his mind. I'm sorry, but you will have to die."

What?

A man appeared behind her.

"Alejandro," she said, "this one thinks she is David's new girlfriend." He must have been the brother David mentioned.

Alejandro yanked me to my feet, grabbed my arms behind me and zip-tied them. We moved into another room down the hallway where Cruz was bound hand and foot to a chair. I was relieved to see him.

A dirty bandana was tied around his mouth. He had a gash on his temple and dried blood on his face. When he saw me, he said no through his gag. Alejandro pushed me down roughly into a chair and set to work binding me to it.

"Alejandro, shoot the girl," Lucilla said.

Cruz shouted a muffled protest and the fear in his hollow, bloodshot eyes deepened. Alejandro stepped behind me, put the Glock directly to the back of my head and clicked off the safety. Cruz was now shouting incoherently through the rag and practically crying and I couldn't see Lucilla. She was somewhere behind me.

I struggled against my wrists restraints, Alejandro pulled the trigger and I felt a kaboom against my back. I thought I was dead until a searing heat stung my neck. I opened my eyes and turned around.

Alejandro's Glock had blown up. The pistol was destroyed, the barrel peeled like a banana right into Alejandro's bloody hand, and a partially-fingered hand at that. He was on the floor, holding his bleeding right hand at the wrist and writhing in agony.

Much later Perez would inform me that the lucky accident was due to catastrophic pistol case failure. Alejandro had been careless: there were excessive pressure levels in the cartridge or he had not used original Glock-manufactured ammunition. She had seen this before with this gun. The exact details of the ballistics report was above my pay grade but I got the general idea.

From the doorway, we heard someone bark, "Drop the gun. Put your hands up! Let me see those hands! Drop the gun now!"

Lucilla cursed and dropped her own hand gun.

I could see Agent Perez and her partner, Agent Hiatt, guns drawn. Behind them, a SWAT team invaded the periphery like two lines of black ants.

——

I sat on the back ledge of the ambulance. I had surface wounds on my back and neck as well as a bump from the butt of Lucilla's pistol to add to my head wound collection. Cruz was sitting up on a gurney.

"You saved me."

"No, Agent Perez figured it out first. By the time she received my location she was already on the way."

"Thank you, anyway."

I gave his arm a gentle squeeze. "Get some rest. I'll be at the hospital tomorrow. Don't forget, we have lots to do now, you hear?"

Cruz nodded and the ambulance departed.

Turns out Perez and Hiatt had been suspicious of Lucilla all along. She had a prior arrest for stalking Cruz but he had dropped the charges.

Agent Perez came over.

"I can't believe Lucilla and Alejandro," I said.

Perez gave a little whistle and said, "Si, loco."

When Agent Hiatt brought Lucilla out in handcuffs, I stopped him.

I had to ask, "Lucilla, why did you do this?"

"I love him. I try to get a commitment out of him long time, make me insane."

Perez and I exchanged a knowing look.
Epilogue

That crazy Woody had located Swindell in just three telephone calls. Woody had set a trap by pretending to put out word that Swindell could hide at Woody's cabin if needed.

Swindell had indeed been at his hunting lodge when Snake and I had come sniffing around, but moved on to the fish camp another childhood friend, Theo LaGrange. Swindell was waiting for the heat to die down before making an airport run from where he'd fly to Central America on a fake passport.

But somehow word seems to get around in this community. Woody and LaGrange secretly conferred and decided to turn Swindell in. I'd like to think it was because people here want to do the right thing but it may have been the threat of an Aiding and Abetting conviction for LaGrange who was already out on parole, and for Woody, he couldn't take the chance that the Feds would come back and discover his still. He still had a productive moonshine operation and needed to get the heat as far away from him as possible. With regards to their mothers nonetheless.

With Bob Swindell's life effectively over and Cruz safe I was happy, although recuperating from shock.

People say that Florida is profoundly flawed. There's high murder and theft rates, constant land schemes for literally centuries, corrupt politicians, incessant heat and an excess of deranged gun-toting folk. It's hurricane and lightning central, and no where else will your house fall into a massive sinkhole in the middle of the night, suffocating you. It's a hot mess here.

To worsen matters we are not politically correct: we flew the Confederate flag as recently as 2001. Florida's KKK has murdered thousands of blacks over the years and today, the children of those white supremacists still run many local governments.

Florida's moral compass has spun out of control. Just look at that presidential election. After that, Fidel Castro offered to loan us his democracy experts.

Financially, our people run the gamut from trailer parks to insane wealth. But the bulk of our people are in a middle place. A place where average people work hard, take care of their children and watch out for their neighbors. So I tried not to be surprised that Swindell's own people turned on him.

I will always believe it was because people are mostly good. At the end of the day, we all want the same thing, to be able to sleep at night.

——

After things returned to normal, the town council revoked all building permits until further review and assured Naples residents that they would double down on efforts to preserve the quiet "community" flavor for which our town was famous. I would eventually throw my name into the hat to replace Chip on the town council and win.

_____

A couple days after the mess ended, I was paying bills at the kitchen table when I realized I had just survived my first month in Florida and two weeks of a brand new career. I went to the freezer to grab a celebratory pint of ice cream and was reaching for a spoon when the doorbell rang.

When I opened the door my eyes beheld the sight of one of the two bachelors Naples' ladies had voted Most Fine in Naples Life magazine. I started to laugh. He looked at my ice cream and said, "Do I get a spoon?"
About the Author

E.J. Bell, a native New Yorker, lived in Naples, Florida for several years before returning to the Northeast. She can be reached at ECG17@yahoo.com.
  1. Prologue
  2. Chapter One
  3. Chapter Two
  4. Chapter Three
  5. Chapter Four
  6. Chapter Five
  7. Chapter Six
  8. Chapter Seven
  9. Chapter Eight
  10. Chapter Nine
  11. Chapter Ten
  12. Chapter Eleven
  13. Chapter Twelve
  14. Epilogue
  15. About the Author

