Shadow Men (17 page)

When we were done eating, they gathered up the leftovers and I went outside to get my bag out of the truck. I shut off the overhead light in the cab as I went through the bag, unwrapped my Glock and snapped a loaded clip into place. I checked the safety and slipped the gun back in under a fold of clean clothes. I closed and locked the truck and then stood in the darkness, listening, checking both ends of the street. Everyone in this house had seen people at their worst under stress. No one knew what McCrary might do if he felt his back was up against it, if his career and his future were threatened. A lot less can kick a guy over the edge. I was thinking worst-case scenario again. It was a bad habit I wished I could kick.

Back inside, Richards slid a videotape in and the three of us watched a movie called
Meet Joe Black.
Harris fell asleep on the couch at about the point where Anthony Hopkins’s millionaire was explaining life to Brad Pitt, who was playing the role of Death, and Richards punched the TV off. We went outside onto the patio and sat in the hammock. There was no breeze, and the smell of night- blooming flowers hung in the thick humidity. I could hear traffic moving along the streets in the general stillness, but chose to ignore it. Richards’s warm skin was against my own, and she was staring up into the night sky.

“You think I should have had him arrested, don’t you?” she said.

“I suspect it wasn’t just your decision.”

“But you know what the brass will do.”

“They’ll make him go to counseling, if they’re smart. Let the shrinks at him awhile, see if he can admit his control problem or whether he denies it.”

“That’s it?” she said, and I was surprised by the snap of anger in her voice.

“I said that’s if they’re smart. They could just fire his ass and put an angry guy with weapons training out on the street.”

There was a sigh of concession from her.

“What if he threatens her, or comes back at her again?”

“Have him arrested, just like anyone else. He got his chance.”

This time her long silence worried me. I lay back into the ropes and closed my eyes. Soon I felt her move and do the same. She curled against me, her hair smelling of shampoo.

“Have you ever hit a woman in anger? I mean your ex-wife or a girlfriend?”

I could tell the recent revelations about my father were still tumbling in her head.

“The children of abusers becoming abusers themselves is not a blanket sociological axiom,” I said. “Sometimes it works the other way. The act is so repugnant that the witnesses to abuse grow up to loathe the very idea.”

I felt her wiggle herself back tighter into me, and even without seeing her face I could tell she was grinning.

“OK, Professor Freeman,” she said. “But you still haven’t answered the question.”

I put my arm over her waist and rested my wrist on her chest, the backs of my fingers against the soft skin of her neck.

“No,” I said. “The answer is no, I never have.”

We did not fall asleep for at least another hour.

CHAPTER

18

I
t would be two days before I heard from Nate Brown. The bartender from the Frontier Hotel called at noon.

“Mr. Brown says meet him at Dawkins’s dock at eight tomorrow mornin’. You know that’s over on Chokoloskee? Right?”

“Yeah, I know. And thanks.”

“How much do y’all owe me now, Mr. Freeman?” she said with humor in her voice.

“I’ll talk to you soon,” I said, disappointed that she now had my cell number. I wasn’t sure which I was concerned about more, the guys from PalmCo tracking my calls or the Loop Road barmaid getting friendly.

There was no trace yet of dawn in my rearview the next morning as I drove west. This time I used Alligator Alley, a straight concrete shot from the suburbs of far west Fort Lauderdale to their identical twins in Naples on the other side of the state. The Alley was the second gouge across the gut of the Everglades. It was constructed in the 1960s with better machinery, better technology, and supposedly better working conditions. It was the thirty-year span of intermittent carnage that gave the alley its reputation. Originally two lanes with nothing to break the hypnotic monotony of endless acres of sawgrass, head-on collisions were frequent and almost always fatal out here, where the sound of wrenching metal and screaming passengers was quickly lost in the silence. In the 1990s the state expanded the road. They doubled and separated the lanes, and acquiesced to the environmentalists by tunneling under the roadway to allow water and animals to pass through. Imagine the bonanza for the predators that would quickly figure out the migration flow of untold numbers of species forced to funnel through a ten-foot-wide passageway.

I kept myself on a constant flow of caffeine from my oversized thermos, and went over the search possibilities or impossibilities that I was asking Brown to undertake. I’d gone to an army/navy supply store two days ago. In the back of the truck I had a high-end metal detector similar to the kind used by anthropological investigators and emergency rescue teams; a new generation handheld GPS; an expandable trenching tool with a knife-sharp spade and a chisel-head pickax. I also brought a variety of evidence bags— optimistic—as well as Billy’s digital camera and a new satellite cell phone with a different number and carrier from any of the others.

By the time I hit Route 29 I had to flip my mirror up to keep the rising sun from blinding me. The top few feet of the sawgrass had gone a fiery orange in the early rays, and for a mile I watched a trio of swallow-tailed kites swooping down into the grass. The sharp forks of their black tails and pointed wings showed hard against the clear sky, and one came up with a wriggling snake in its beak, the ribbon of flesh outlined against the birds pure-white belly. I made the exit and turned south and rode along a canal that drained the water and gave high ground to the tiny communities of Jerome and Copeland. I passed the old road prison where convicts were held after long days of clearing the roadsides of overgrowth with their bush-axes and machetes while guards stood by with their rifles at port arms. Would even a desperate man try to run out here?

Farther south the road hit a blinking-light intersection at the Tamiami Trail and then continued all the way into Chokoloskee. When I pulled into the shell-lot of Dawkins’s dock, both of his boats were gone. Nate Brown was sitting out on the end of the wood- plank dock. I knew he was dangling a hand-line into the water, just as I knew he had heard me and marked my arrival. I parked out of the way of the forklift’s worn path and walked out to meet him.

“Anything biting?”

“They’s always somethin’ bitin’, Mr. Freeman.”

He looked up at me and then back into the water, waiting. The early sun was dancing off the surface, the southeast wind rippling up the surface. I sat down next to the old Gladesman and unfolded one of Billy’s computer-generated maps.

“This is what we figure, or what we think is possible so far,” I started. Brown first looked down at the map and then up at me.

“Anythin’ is possible, son.”

I nodded and began.

“Let’s assume that Mayes and his sons go to work for Noren somewhere about here,” I said, putting my finger on the map. “The letter indicates they’re some distance out of Everglades City. It’s early summer and you know the heat and mosquitoes are just starting to get unbearable, making the crew more miserable by the day.

“We know through some reports and writings in local newspapers that the dredge is making about two miles of road a month when things are going well. We figure these X’s here coincide with Mayes’s letter of June third, when the two workers slipped out at night to make their way back and his son heard the gunshots.”

Brown touched the spot with the rough tips of his fingers. It was a delicate gesture that made me pause and look up at the side of his face, wondering what he was dunking.

“These trees here an’ the elevation mark means they’s high ground, right?” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Curlew Hammock,” he said. “An’ then this one here’s got to be Marquez Ridge.”

His fingers slid over to the spot where the three X’s were marked.

“Where’d y’all get this here map?”

Now he was looking directly into my face but his own was blank.

“William Jefferson,” I said. “John William’s grandson.”

He did not let any recognition or surprise show, but he did not take his
eyes
off mine, waiting, expecting more. I told him about using his information on the grandson’s cleric possibilities to run down a list and then about the discovery and evasiveness of the reverend up in Placid City. I told him William Jefferson’s recounting of his grandfather, his strange silence and the perception at least by the reverend, and obviously his own mother, that John William had an evil aura about him.

“They ain’t nothin’ you’re tellin’ that don’t fit,” Brown finally said. “I recall the boy being awful close to his religion. The girl brought him to that and a lot of folks thought of it as savin’ him from what his grandfather done.”

Nate waited again, not saying more, just looking out on the water, maybe remembering a small boy running a bit too scared into the trees of the island, talking a little less than any other kid, and turning away when adults and then other children began whispering his grandfather’s name.

“So that’s where you got these here coordinates and such?” he said.

I told him about the crate and its contents. His face only changed when I mentioned the rifle, the infamous gun that outshot his own father and gave the community a solid tiling to tie all the rumors to.

“You think John William Jefferson was capable of killing these men for three hundred dollars?” I finally asked him.

“Men out here in them days done a lot of things for that kind of money,” Brown said, and I knew that included him. In my encounter with the old Gladesman three years ago, Billy had run what background there was on him and found that he had done time in prison on a manslaughter charge. In the late sixties an Everglades National Park ranger had been chasing Brown through the islands, trying to arrest him for poaching gators. Snaking his boat through the dizzying waterways just as he had done with the helicopter, Brown had led the pursuing ranger into a submerged sandbar. The government boat slammed into the unforgiving sand. The ranger pitched forward out of
the
cockpit and broke his neck. Brown turned himself in three days later when word spread that he was being sought for killing the man.

“I s’pose I know why ya’ll asked me to help you, Mr. Freeman. If you’re askin’ if these here X’s are the graves of them boys and their father, they is only one way to know,” he said, standing up and rewinding the fishing line around his palm. “So let’s go.”’

Brown’s boat was cleated at the dock and this time he had his homemade Glades skiff tied off on the back. I loaded my supplies and then locked up my truck. Within minutes we were moving north, the skiff slapping behind us on the end of a line. We headed into the sun, its early brightness burning white-hot. Brown pulled his billed cap low, shading his eyes so they were difficult to read, and I thought of the similar description of John William. They were men who worked and lived in water-reflected sunlight all their lives. They chose to exist in a desolate place where sociability was not a part of their everyday existence. The reasons they came may have been different, but why they stayed was not: they didn’t like anyone else’s rules or some other leader’s vision or expectation. Eighty years of that independent blood had not yet been washed out by the generations.

“Yonder is where my daddy run a still in the twenties,” Brown said, interrupting the drone of the motor and the slap of water against the hull. “Him and a half-dozen others had their fixin’s on the smaller shell mounds. First they was in by Loop Road. Then the law started crackin’ ’em an’ they had to come further out. Daddy and them weren’t too acceptin’ of others comin’ into their territory.”

I’d learned to let Brown talk on the few occasions that he cared to. He was making his own point, under his own logic.

“Same thing happened to the gator hunters. You could take a dozen gators in a three-night trip. Sell the hides for a dollar fifty apiece for the six- to eight-footers.

“Then in ’47, Harry Truman hisself come down and they drew up the boundaries for the Park and one day the best gator-huntin’ spots was now illegal, and to hell with you if you and your daddy before you been livin’ off that for forty years.”

While he talked I unfolded Billy’s map and tried to gauge our progress. But even with the detailed, satellite-aided photos, the myriad water trails and green islands were an impossible puzzle. I was lost when we suddenly came around a bend onto open water that was Chevalier Bay.

“They call it progress, Nate,” I said, my tone flat and nonjudgmental.

“I know what they call it, son,” he said. “That don’t mean I got to like it.”

The morning heat was building. A high sheet of cirrus cloud was not going to offer any respite from the blurred sun. The air was beginning to thicken with that warm, moist layer that rises up from the Glades like an invisible steam. It was as if the earth herself was sweating, and it carried the not unpleasant odor of both wet and drying plants and soil and living things. As we approached the northern boundary of the bay, I checked the map again and saw no obvious place to go. But Brown kept a steady course to a spot in the mangrove wall that only he could see. It wasn’t until we were thirty feet from the green barrier that he pulled back on the throttle and I picked up the eight-foot-wide opening that he’d been heading for all along. We slid through the tunnel of mangroves for thirty minutes, the motor tilted up, the propellers burbling through the dark water. When we got to a broad opening to the outside again, Brown stopped the boat before moving out into the sun. I was checking the coordinates with the handheld GPS. If I was matching them up correctly, we were not too far, maybe two miles, south of the point where John William had marked the three X’s on his crude map. Brown cut the engine and stood upright and silent, listening. He seemed to be holding his breath. I could hear nothing.

“Airboat,” he said, not looking back me. “This ain’t no place airboats usually come.”

I waited for an explanation, which also didn’t come.

“Check that skiff line if you would, Mr. Freeman. We gon’ try to put some speed to ’er.”

I went back and tightened down the cleated line; then Brown restarted the motor, moved out onto the wide channel and inched up the throttles. Each second he seemed to get a better feel for the depth and the rhythm of the curves and put more gas to it. I stood up and tried to check above the grass line, looking for the distinctive rounded cage of an airboat engine and the usually high-riding driver. The contraptions are designed to let the operator sit above the sawgrass so he can watch the landscape and curves of the canals instead of just guessing and navigating by pure instinct as Brown was doing. It also makes them more visible. I could see nothing behind and only another dark hammock of trees ahead in the distance. We were carving through the water trail now like a slalom skier, and Brown backed off the throttles only on the tightest turns—the skiff behind us was swinging on the rope and actually fishtailed into the grass several times. A small gator, maybe a four- footer, raised its head in the middle of the canal as we came roaring up. Brown never flinched or slowed and the gator flicked its tail and dived deep just before the bow clipped him. Our destination was clearly the hammock, so I concentrated on the horizon behind us. After a few minutes I turned and was surprised at how fast we’d moved up on it.

“Git your stuff, Freeman, ’cause we gon’ grab up the skiff and hightail it north as soon as she stops. Hear?” Brown steered one long curve around a jutting piece of semi-land and then plowed headlong into the greenness, pulling the same slide and crash he’d done when the helicopter had followed us.

This time I was prepared and rode the lurch. I was out into the knee-deep water as soon as he cut the motor. I snatched up the skiff line and then he was beside me, both of us dragging the flat-bottom boat across the shallows. We were deep in the cover of tree shadow when I finally picked up the sound of a burring airplane engine, the noise growing from the direction we’d come. We stayed shoulder to shoulder. It was easier moving through the dense undergrowth this time. We were following a low path, almost like a riverbed with only inches of water in it. Maybe when the rains fell, the path actually ran like a river, because it seemed to cut directly south to north across the elongated hammock.

“Them boys cain’t bring that airboat through here an’ it’s gon’ take ’em plenty of time to go all the way round to git to the other side,” Brown said, his breathing under control despite the exertion of pulling the skiff and stomping through the roots and muck of the path.

“How do you know they’re following us?” I said, dodging a dripping curtain of air-plant roots that hung gray and mossy like the wet hair of an old woman.