Between insect frenzies, Danny Pogue struggled to follow the conversation. “You got shot?” he said to Skink. “So did me and Bud!”
Sharply, Molly cut in: “It wasn’t the same.”
“Like hell,” mumbled Bud Schwartz miserably. The humidity made him dizzy, and his arms bled from scratching the bugs. In addition, he wasn’t thrilled about the lunch menu, which included fox, opossum and rabbit—Skink’s road-kill bounty from the night before.
Joe Winder was in a lousy mood, too. The sight of Carrie’s burned-out trailer haunted him. The fax machine, the Amazing Kingdom stationery, his stereo—all lost. Neil Young, melting in the flames. Helpless, helpless, helpless, helpless.
Skink said, “It’s time to get organized. Those damn John Deeres are back.” He looked at Winder. “Now they’ve got cops on the site.”
“What can we blow up next?” Molly asked. Skink shook his head. “Let’s try to be more imaginative.”
“All the building permits are in Kingsbury’s name,” Winder noted. “If he goes down, the project goes under.”
Carrie wondered what Joe meant by “goes down.”
“You mean, if he dies?”
“Or gets bankrupt,” Winder said.
“Or lost,” added Skink, glancing up from his mosquito census.
Danny Pogue elbowed Bud Schwartz, who kept his silence. He had spoken again to the butcher in Queens, who had relayed an offer from unnamed friends of the Zubonis: fifty thousand for the whereabouts of Frankie King. Naturally Bud Schwartz had agreed to the deal; now, sitting in the wilderness among these idealistic crusaders, he felt slightly guilty. Maybe he should’ve ratted on Kingsbury for free.
“Mr. X had a terrible run of luck the last few days,” Carrie was saying, “thanks to Joe.”
Skink got up to check the campfire. He said, “It’s time for a full-court press.”
“Each day is precious,” agreed Molly McNamara. She dabbed her forehead with a linen handkerchief. “I think we should move against Mr. Kingsbury as soon as possible.”
Bud Schwartz crumpled a soda can. “Why don’t we hold off a week or so?”
“No.” Skink offered him a shank of opossum on a long-handled fork. He said, “Every hour that passes, we lose more of the island.”
“Kingsbury’s got worse problems than all of us put together,” said Bud Schwartz. “If we can just lay back a few days.”
Joe Winder urged him to elaborate.
“Tell him, Bud, go on!” Danny Pogue was nearly bursting.
“I wish I could.”
Skink fingered the silvery tendrils of his beard. Towering over the burglar, he said, “Son, I’m not fond of surprises.”
“This is serious shit.” Bud Schwartz was pleading. “You gotta understand—heavy people from up North.”
Wiping the condensation from her eyeglasses, Molly said, “Bud, what on earth are you talking about?”
Winder leaned toward Carrie and whispered: “This is getting interesting.”
“No damn surprises,” Skink repeated balefully. “We act in confluence, you understand?”
Reluctantly Bud Schwartz took a bite of fried opossum. He scowled as the warm juices dripped down his chin.
“Is that blood?” asked Danny Pogue.
Skink nodded and said, “Nature’s gravy.”
Suddenly he turned his face to the sky, peered toward the lemon sun and cursed vehemently. Then he was gone, running barefoot into the bright tangles of the hammock.
The others looked at one another in utter puzzlement.
Joe Winder was the first to stand. “When in Rome,” he said, reaching for Carrie’s hand.
Humanity’s encroachment had obliterated the Florida panther so thoroughly that numerals were assigned to each of the few surviving specimens. In a desperate attempt to save the species, the Game and Fresh Water Commission had embarked on a program of monitoring the far-roaming panthers and tracking their movements by radio telemetry. Over a period of years most of the cats were treed, tranquilized and fitted with durable plastic collars that emitted a regular electronic signal on a frequency of 150 megahertz. The signals could be followed by rangers on the ground or, when the animal was deep in the swamp, by air. Using this system, biologists were able to map the territories traveled by individual cats, chart their mating habits and even locate new litters of kittens. Because the battery-operated collars were activated by motion, it was also possible for rangers to know when a numbered panther was sick or even dead; if a radio collar was inert for more than a few hours, it automatically began sending a distress signal.