Carl Hiaasen (27 page)

“Are you ailing?” Brother Manuel inquired.

“Freezin’ my
cojones
off,” the man said. “I’d kill for one of those bathrobes.”

“What’s your name, brother?”

“Boyd.”

“And how long have you been at sea, Brother Boyd?”

“Too damn long,” the man replied through chattering teeth.

“We’ve been waiting for you!” Sister Shirelle exclaimed.

“You have?”

“Tell him, Brother Manuel!”

The self-anointed pastor of the First Resurrectionist Maritime Assembly for God was skeptical. His sermonizing to the contrary, he’d never seriously expected to run across Christ the Almighty during a camping trip in the Everglades. However, not wishing to dampen Sister Shirelle’s spiritual fervor—which often overflowed rather lustily—Brother Manuel kept his doubts to himself.

“We’ve been faithfully awaiting a visitation,” he acknowledged to the stranger, “or any holy sign from the Father.”

“Know what? I just wanna go home. You folks got a boat?”

“The hands! Behold the man’s hands!” Sister Shirelle began to hop, her formidable and unbound breasts jouncing in tandem.

With impatience Brother Boyd directed the headlamp toward his own pudgy palms, which were raw and oozing as a result of his tumble from the tree. He failed to behold the stigmata resemblance.

“I had a fall,” he explained.

Brother Manuel nodded. “As have we all. Come.”

They led the stranger down the shore to the campfire, where the other moaners ceased their dancing and fell quietly into a half circle. The women were eyeing Brother Boyd’s bathing attire in a manner that made him uncomfortable.

“Can I borrow one of those robes?” he asked. “How about a beach towel?”

Brother Manuel steepled his long pink fingers and began: “Sister Shirelle and I were praying together in the woods, communing most strenuously, when we saw a mysterious light—like a star descending from the heavens—and then, lo, this weary mariner appeared on the water. Show them your hands, Brother Boyd.”

The moaners gasped at the sight. “It is He!” exulted one of the women.

“No, wait!” one of the others interjected. “He could be that poacher—the lawless heathen we were warned about by the visitor with the boy. He was said to have a damaged hand, remember?”

Brother Boyd looked stricken. “I’m not a poacher. I’m in telemarketing!”

Sister Shirelle hastened to his defense. “But there are wounds on
both
His hands, not just one. And He has arrived alone by sea, exactly as foretold by Brother Manuel, bearing a cargo of forgiveness and salvation for all worldly souls. His long, lonely crossing is over.”

Another female moaner raised an arm. “What’s up with the Speedos?”

Sensing that doubt was coiling like a serpent amid his flock, Brother Manuel sidled close to Brother Boyd and whispered, “I’ll take it from here, dog.”

“Hey, are those rib eyes on the fire?”

“Sisters, brothers, listen and be joyful!” Brother Manuel commanded. “Tonight He appears to us just as He departed this world more than two thousand years ago—nearly naked, wounded and pure of soul. Instead of thorns He is crowned with light, the symbol of hope and rebirth!”

Here Brother Manuel spread his arms to righteously welcome Brother Boyd, who appeared to the other moaners as somewhat lacking in serenity.

“What are you goony birds talkin’ about?” he demanded.

Sister Shirelle gently spun him by the shoulders, the beam of his headlamp falling upon the stark wooden cross that was planted on the dune.

Brother Boyd stared and said, “You’re shitting me.”

Sister Shirelle put her plump lips to his ear. “See? We’ve been expecting you.”

“Rejoice! It is Him!” a bearded moaner crowed.

“No,
He
!” corrected the woman who had earlier commented upon Brother Boyd’s swimwear.

Sister Shirelle pressed the case: “Can there be any doubt that He is our Savior? Is today not the Epiphany?”

The moaners murmured excitedly, and then one spoke up: “But wait, sister—the Epiphany was, like, last Thursday.”

“Close enough!” boomed Brother Manuel.

Whereupon a spontaneous frolic broke out, the moaners twirling and gyrating euphorically around the fire. Bottles of cabernet were passed around, and before long Brother Boyd worked up the nerve to ask Sister Shirelle if they intended to nail him to their homemade cross. She laughed volcanically and tweaked his chin and said he was an extremely cute Messiah.

“I’m in sales,” he whispered confidentially.

“And a carpenter, too, don’t forget.”

“C’mon, sis, tell me—where’s your boat?”

“As if you needed one,” she said with a wink.

His headlamp illuminated the blue stenciling on the front of her white robe. “Four Seasons, huh? Not bad,” Brother Boyd remarked. “That’s
my
kinda religion.”

“Are those goose pimples on your arms?”

“Duh, yeah. It’s cold as a well digger’s ass out here.”

“Well, we definitely can’t have our Savior catching pneumonia. Here—” With an operatic flourish, Sister Shirelle shed the plush hotel garment and presented it to him.

“God bless you,” said Brother Boyd, liking very much the way it sounded. “God bless all of you.”

Honey Santana said, “Don’t die on me, you big bonehead.”

“Slow it down.” Perry was laid out and breathing hard in the bottom of the skiff. She’d given him Louis Piejack’s last Vicodin but he was still in monstrous pain.

He said, “You’re gonna hit an oyster bar, and this ain’t my boat.”

“Is Fry asleep?”

“Can’t you hear him? He snores worse than you.”

“Not nice.”

“Slower, Honey. I promise I’m not gonna die.”

She eased off the throttle. “Me and my two sick boys,” she said. “You with your hip shot away, and him with a concussion. Knuckleheads!”

“See the channel markers?” Perry asked.

“Sure do.”

“Remember, stay left of the red ones and right of the greens.”

“I heard you the first time, Captain Ahab. You’re still bleeding, aren’t you?”

“I got a pint or two left. Is your jaw broke?”

“It looks worse than it feels.”

“I doubt that. Was it Piejack?”

Honey nodded. “My own dumb fault. I tried to be Wonder Woman.”

“Tell me what the hell you were doin’ out here—and no more bullshit about an ‘ecotour.’”

So she told him everything, beginning with Boyd Shreave’s sales call from Texas. He didn’t interrupt her once.

After finishing, she said, “Perry, this is all my fault and I’m sorry.”

“It ain’t exactly normal. You know that.”

“I’ll go back to the doctor. I’ll try the pills again.”

“Won’t work, Honey. This is how you are. It’s how you’ll always be.”

“Please don’t talk like that.” But she knew he was right. “Can I ask you something—was that the first time you ever killed somebody?”

“It’s been a week or two, at least.”

“I’m serious, Perry! I never saw a man die before—have you?”

“Not like that,” Skinner said. “Not killed by a damn guitar.”

“But Fry didn’t see it, right? The Indian was on top of him.”

“I’m pretty sure he didn’t see a thing.”

Honey said, “You’ve got no idea how sorry I am—”

“Just watch where you’re goin’.”

The pass opened into a broad expanse of water, and she spotted a twinkle of lights—Everglades City. It had to be.

Perry lifted his head. “Good work, babe. We’re almost home.”

Chokoloskee Bay. She remembered the first time she’d been there at night. Perry had brought her out in a crab boat to see the sunset. They drank some champagne, made love—the water glassy at dusk and the sky like grenadine. He’d asked if she was sure about staying with him. Said he’d understand completely if she changed her mind and went home to Miami.

This was two days before they got married.

It’s the middle of nowhere, not everybody can handle it, Perry had said. Especially the skeeters.

Honey had told him she’d never seen anyplace so peaceful, which remained a true statement nearly twenty-two years later. When she’d told him that she wanted to visit all ten thousand islands, he’d promised to show her every one. Build a fire and make out on the beach. What woman could have said no?

Fry stirred in his father’s arms. Honey was chilled to think that she’d almost gotten both of them killed.

“Perry, I’m gonna dock at the Rod and Gun, okay?” She was in a hurry because of all the blood.

“Hey, Perry?”

The channel was well marked, so she goosed the engine and planed off the skiff.

“Perry, you awake?”

She sped up the mouth of the Barron River, eased back the throttle and—as if she’d done it a thousand times—kissed the bow against the pilings of the old Rod and Gun Club.

“Perry!”

Nothing.

Fry sat up, rubbing his neck. He said, “I got the worst headache in the history of the human race.”

“Can you run?”

“What for, Mom?”

“Just answer me. Are you good to run?”

“Sure. I guess.”

“Then go get help.” Honey boosted him to the dock.

Fry looked down at his father lying in the boat. “Dad? Hey, man, wake up!”

“Just go,” his mother told him. “Fast as you can.”

One day not long after Fry was born, Perry Skinner had brought home a CD by the Eagles, a group that he claimed was more country than rock. He’d told Honey there was a song on the record that reminded him of her, and she’d picked it out immediately: “Learn to Be Still.”

At first her feelings were hurt because it was the story of a restless woman who heard voices; a woman who wouldn’t slow down long enough to let happiness find her. But the more Honey had listened to the lyrics, the better she’d understood that Perry wasn’t being mean; he was trying to let her know that he was afraid of what was happening.

But if I hit the brakes now,
she remembered thinking,
I’ll skid for ten years.

The funny thing was, Honey secretly liked the song. It made her feel that she wasn’t the only one struggling with that particular demon. One afternoon, Perry had come home early from the docks and caught her playing the CD, but she’d insisted it was only because she had the hots for Don Henley.

Although Honey couldn’t carry a tune—Fry forbade her from singing in the car; said she sounded like a wildcat riding a jackhammer—she knelt down, gathered Perry Skinner close and sang to him. As always she switched the words to first person.

“Just another day in paradise…”

Listening to his choppy breaths.

Squeezing one of his wrists, counting the heartbeats.

“As I stumble to my bed…”

Feeling the sticky warmth of his blood on her bare leg.

Thinking that he’d promised her he wouldn’t die, and he’d always kept his word, for better or worse.

“Give anything to silence…”

She shifted him slightly in her arms so that she could watch his face in the lights from the dock.

“These voices ringin’ in my head…”

“Have mercy,” Perry said weakly.

Honey giggled with relief. “Ha! You want me to stop?”

“No offense.”

“’Member those letters I wrote you in prison? Did you read ’em all?”

“Except for the ones that started ‘Dear Shithead.’ Where’s Fry?”

Honey said, “It’s so perfect out here. Look at the sky.”

“Better than church.”

“Oh, so much better.”

Perry coughed. “Damn. I’m all run-down.”

“How come you filed first? Don’t you dare go to sleep on me! Let’s discuss this stupid divorce.”

He said, “The stars are burnin’ out one by one. I’m tired, babe.”

Honey shook him. “Nuh-ughh, buster. We’re not done yet.”

She heard a siren. She prayed it was real.

“Oh no you don’t,” she said. “Wake up, Skinner.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“You are too.”

He said, “Hush now. Doesn’t it hurt to talk?”

“Wake up or I’ll start singin’ again. Honest to God.”

He smiled but didn’t open his eyes.

“You hear that?” she asked. “That’s the ambulance.”

“I don’t hear a damn thing.”

“Yes you do!” she said.
Please tell me you do.

Twenty-six

On the thirteenth day of January, overcast and crisp, Lily Shreave sat before the bedroom television and replayed for the fourth time a VHS cassette that had arrived that morning by courier.

The tape was only six minutes long, and after it ended she made a phone call.

“You lied to me,” she told the man on the other end.

“Not completely. I said I got penetration, which is true.”

“But it’s not Boyd!” Lily snapped.

“Obviously. Nothing was happening between him and the girlfriend, so I had to wing it.”

“Oh please, Mr. Dealey.”

“This was the best I could do.”

“Lizards? Two lizards humping?”

“I was on an island, Mrs. Shreave. Lost in the goddamn Everglades.”

“And you’d still be stranded there if it weren’t for me,” Lily said. She clicked the remote to rewind the tape. “I hope you’re not expecting twenty-five thousand dollars for
this
spectacle.”

Dealey chuckled. “No, ma’am. But remember I took a bullet for the cause.”

Lily hit the play button. “I do like the music,” she remarked.

“Ravel’s
Bolero.
It’s pretty standard.” He’d dubbed it himself, to erase the conversation between Eugenie Fonda and the boy in the football helmet.

Lily went on: “I’m not fond of creepy critters, but these slinky little rascals are cute, I’ve gotta admit. And definitely hot for each other.”

“I’m told they’re chameleons,” Dealey said. “Green is their happy color.”

Lily was impressed by the male’s lithe piggybacking. It couldn’t have been easy maneuvering around his mate’s tail to achieve the glandular docking.

“You still there?” Dealey asked.

“I’ll give you ten grand, but that’s it.”

“Sounds fair.”

“To help with your out-of-pocket medical.”

“Much appreciated,” said the private investigator. He could hear
Bolero
rising in the background, along with Mrs. Shreave’s breathing.

She said, “FYI, I’m filing the divorce papers next week.”

“Should be a breeze.” Dealey figured that she’d finally closed the deal on her pizza joints.

“Just out of curiosity, where exactly is my husband?” she asked.

“I have no earthly idea.”

“Then I’ll assume he ran off with his six-foot bimbo.”

Dealey didn’t say a word.

Lily wasn’t finished. “By the way, the Coast Guard said they rescued two women from the same island.”

“Campers,” he said. “They were lost, too.”

“Serves ’em right. It sounds like a perfectly awful place.”

“Good-bye, Mrs. Shreave.”

Dealey hung up smiling. When Eugenie Fonda asked him what was so funny, he told her about the ten grand.

She whistled and said, “What’d I tell ya? The woman’s seriously gettin’ off on those reptiles.”

“Nice job with the camera. Helluva job, actually.” Dealey’s shoulder, bolted together with three titanium pins, was throbbing. He hunted through the desk for some Advils.

“You got any normal clients?” Eugenie asked.

“A few. You’ll see.”

“So, what’s the dress code around here?”

“Surprise me,” Dealey said.

Eugenie had strolled into his office two days earlier offering a deal: She would return the two Halliburton cases containing the costly surveillance equipment if he promised to deliver the chameleon sex tape to Boyd Shreave’s wife. During that conversation it had occurred to Dealey that Eugenie, with her vast and intimate knowledge of human frailty, could be a valuable addition to his staff.

“Does this mean you’re taking the job?” he asked.

“Just don’t try to get in my pants. You’ve got no chance whatsoever.”

“Understood,” Dealey said.

“And if you set me up with any of your loser buddies, I’ll personally break your other arm. Think compound fracture.”

“Right.” He was almost certain that she could, and would, do it.

“One other thing—those tapes and pictures you took of me and Boyd. Did you make copies?”

Dealey frowned and shifted in the chair.

“Burn ’em,” Eugenie said.

He thought ruefully of his masterpiece, the delicatessen blow job. “They’re in a safe box at the bank. Nobody but me has a key.”

“I said burn ’em.” Eugenie leaned forward, tapping her fingernails on the desk. “Did I or did I not just make you ten thousand ridiculous dollars?”

The investigator slouched in resignation. “But I thought you wanted to see ’em—the videos and prints.”

Eugenie said no, she’d changed her mind. “It’s ancient history.”

“You looked pretty damn fine, for what it’s worth.”

“Don’t make me tell you what it’s worth, Mr. Dealey.”

He uncapped a pen to write down her Social. “When can you start?”

“Hang on. I’m not done,” she said. “Did you make those calls for our friend?”

She was talking about Gillian, the spacey college kid with whom Dealey had been forced to share a sleeping bag. It was not an entirely unpleasant memory.

He said, “Nobody at the Indian reservation would tell me a damn thing. They acted like they’d never heard of Mr. Tigertooth.”

“Tigertail.”

“Whatever. Guy could be anywheres by now.”

“Gillian’s determined to find him.”

“I don’t get the attraction.”

“If you’ve gotta ask,” Eugenie said, “then you definitely need my help around here.”

Dealey’s inquiries to Collier County had not been altogether fruitless. From a newspaper reporter he’d learned that Louis Piejack, the freak who had kidnapped him, was missing in the Ten Thousand Islands. Having no wish to be subpoenaed to that dreadful part of the planet, Dealey had elected not to enlighten the authorities about Piejack’s many crimes.

“What about Boyd?” Eugenie Fonda asked.

Dealey flexed his hands and shrugged. “No John Does at the local morgue. He probably got off the island and hauled ass. Were you expecting him to call?”

“Oh, I’d be very surprised,” Eugenie said. She had changed her phone number the day after arriving back in Fort Worth. It was the first call she’d made after quitting her job at Relentless.

“Now let’s talk salary,” she said to Dealey.

“Fire away.”

With the exception of Sister Shirelle, the moaners had become disillusioned with the one who called himself Boyd. For a savior he seemed whiny and graceless.

One afternoon, Brother Manuel took him aside and said, “You blew it, dog.”

Boyd Shreave bridled. “Bite your heathen tongue!”

“They took a vote. Gimme the damn robe.”

“No way.” Shreave locked his arms across the sash.

“You had a sweet gig here,” said Brother Manuel. “Why couldn’t you just smile and look wise and keep your trap shut?”

“But I read somewhere that Jesus was like a rock idol.”

“
Charismatic
is the word, but that ain’t you, man. You’re just another loudmouthed schmuck.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll tone it down.”

“Too late,” the chief moaner said curtly.

The moment reminded Shreave of his many past failures in sales. Over the phone he could be a master of persuasion; in person he seemed doomed to rankle. This he blamed not on multiple character defects but rather on miscalculating his target demographic. From now on he would upwardly skew his efforts toward a more cosmopolitan market, with needs yet unrevealed.

Brother Manuel went on: “Fact is, you’re way too obnoxious to be the Son of God. I can’t cover for you anymore.”

“Was it unanimous?”

“Everybody except Shirelle, and she’d go down on Judas Iscariot if he was a hottie. Now hand over the robe.”

“I don’t think so,” Shreave said.

Brother Manuel calmly punched him in the gut and he doubled over. The glorious Four Seasons vestment was peeled off his shoulders like a snakeskin.

“We’re headin’ back to the mainland tomorrow,” said Brother Manuel. “The girls are gonna leave you two loaves of sourdough and a jug of Tang. If you’re ever passin’ through Zolfo Springs, stop by the AAMCO and I’ll cut you a break on a pan gasket.”

Shreave was wheezing. “This is a joke, right?”

“No, friend, this is adieu.”

“You can’t leave me out here! Even on
Survivor
the losers get to go home.”

Brother Manuel said, “We’ll call the Park Service on our way out of town.”

“But you don’t even know the name of this friggin’ island! How’re they supposed to find me?”

“Worse comes to worst, you’ve always got the canoe.”

“But I’ll die out here! I’ve got a heavy-duty disease and I need my medicine,” Shreave said. “Aphenphosmphobia!”

Brother Manuel snorted. “That’s not a disease, it’s a disorder. And if you were truly afflicted,
brother,
you wouldn’t have asked Sister Shirelle to rub your feet last night.”

Boyd Shreave wilted.

“My cousin’s an aphenphosmphobic,” Brother Manuel added in a frosty tone. “That’s how I know.”

There was nothing left for Shreave to do but beg. “Christ, please take me with you.”

“If He were here, perhaps He would. However, it’s my boat and it’s my call.” Brother Manuel slung the white robe over one arm and turned away.

“Gimme another chance!” Shreave called out, but the preacher kept walking.

That night Shreave built a feeble fire on the dune, using a book of matches that Sister Shirelle had tucked in his Speedos shortly before the moaners cast off. For tinder he sacrificed his ragged copy of
Storm Ghoul,
rendering to ashes the only keepsake of his fizzled affair with Eugenie Fonda.

Slumped against the wooden cross, Shreave stared out across the Gulf of Mexico and assayed his prospects, which were not as gloomy as he’d initially believed. The running lights of several large vessels were visible offshore, so he knew it was only a matter of time before somebody spotted him. At that point a major life decision would be required. Shreave ruled out a return to Texas, having no desire to face Lily’s wrath and his mother’s scalding denigrations. It never occurred to him that neither woman was interested in his whereabouts or his intentions.

Florida might be worth a shot, Shreave mused. Boca Raton supposedly had more telephone boiler rooms than Calcutta.

He gnawed on a hunk of sourdough but nearly gagged on the lukewarm Tang. The waves whispered him to sleep, and he awoke at daybreak sucking on his NASCAR toothbrush. Glancing up, he was alarmed to see—preening on the crossbeam of the bogus cross—a large white-capped bird that he recognized from countless documentaries on the Discovery Channel as an American bald eagle.

“Boo!” Shreave yelled hoarsely. “Beat it!”

The eagle was old and hunched, yet its amber gaze was penetrating. The flexed talons were larger than Shreave’s hands, and he didn’t doubt for a second that the predator was capable of removing his face with one swipe.

“Go away!” he brayed twice, whereupon the great bird hitched its chalky tail feathers, uncorked a prodigious bowel movement and flew away.

With a woeful moan, Shreave rolled himself down the dune, over the cold fire pit and into the water. There he threshed in hysterics, trying to slosh off the pungent stickum of feathers, bones, fur, mullet scales, cartilage and less identifiable ingredients of the jumbo eagle dropping.

It was in this frothing state of aggrievement that he was found by a passing park ranger, drawn to the scene by Shreave’s howls. After being hauled aboard the patrol boat, he was transported in his befouled Speedos to the public landing at Everglades City. There he was hosed off vigorously and examined by a paramedic wearing full biohazard gear.

Later, sporting ghastly tartan shorts and a double-knit golf shirt donated by the local Red Cross, Boyd Shreave wandered alone to the Rod and Gun Club, where he slapped his wife’s MasterCard on the old mahogany bar. The bartender was the same one who’d provided directions on the night that he and Genie had arrived, but the man didn’t recognize him. Shreave’s bearing had been considerably diminished on Dismal Key by a deleterious combination of sun poisoning, wind chafing and general character abasement.

After five Coronas, Shreave felt not nearly so adrift and out of sorts. A couple in their sixties, plainly from the Midwest, settled a few bar stools away and began rhapsodizing about their vacation to southwest Florida.

“It was twelve degrees at O’Hare this morning!” the wife chortled.

“Three below with the windchill,” said her husband.

“I don’t want to go home, Ben. It’s so incredible here.”

“McMullan called from the club—the lake on the seventeenth hole is froze solid. The kids are out there playing ice hockey with dog turds.”

“Ben, did you hear what I said? I really do
not
wish to go back.”

“You mean it?”

Boyd Shreave picked up his beer bottle and moved closer.

“We could get a place in Naples,” the wife was suggesting.

“Or right here on the river,” said the husband. “Buy a boat and dock it behind the house.”

The bartender had heard the same conversation maybe a thousand times, but to a defrocked telemarketer from Texas it was revelatory; a thunderbolt of inspiration.

“It’s paradise here,” Shreave heard himself say. “Heaven on earth.”