Sergeant Mark Dyerson introduced himself and asked to see some identification. Joe Winder and Carrie Lanier showed him their driver’s licenses. The ranger was copying down their names when a gaunt old cracker, pulled by three lean hounds, came out of the woods.
“Any luck?” Sergeant Dyerson asked.
“Nope,” said the tracker. “And I lost me a dog.”
“Maybe the panther got him.”
“They ain’t no panther out there.”
“Hell, Jackson, the radio don’t lie.” The ranger turned back to Joe Winder and Carrie Lanier. “And I suppose you’re bird-watchers, too. Just like Mrs. McNamara and her friends.”
Beautiful, thought Winder. We’re bird-watchers now. Playing along, Carrie informed the ranger they were following a pair of nesting kestrels.
“No kidding?” Sergeant Dyerson said. “I’ve never met a birder who didn’t carry binoculars—and here I get five of ’em, all at one time.”
“We’re thinking of forming a club,” said Carrie. Joe Winder bit his lip and looked away. Molly’s Cadillac took off, eastbound—a crown of white hair behind the wheel, the burglars slouched in the back seat.
“I’ll give you this much,” the ranger said, “you sure don’t look like poachers.” A Florida Highway Patrol car pulled up and parked beside Sergeant Dyerson’s Jeep. A muscular black trooper got out and tipped his Stetson at the ranger.
“Whatcha know?” the trooper said affably.
“Tracking a panther. These folks got in the way.”
“A panther? You got to be kidding.”
The trooper’s laughter boomed. “I’ve been driving this stretch for three years and never saw a bobcat, much less a panther.”
“They’re very secretive,” Sergeant Dyerson said. “You wouldn’t necessarily spot them.” He wasn’t in the mood for a nature lesson. He turned to the old tracker and told him to run the frigging dogs one more time.
“Ain’t no point.”
“Humor me,” said Sergeant Dyerson. “Come on, let’s go find your other hound.”
Once the wildlife officers were gone, the trooper’s easygoing smile dissolved. “You folks need a lift.”
“No, thanks,” Joe Winder said.
“It wasn’t a question, friend.” The trooper opened the back door of the cruiser, and motioned them inside.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The trooper took them to lunch at the Ocean Reef Club. The clientele seemed ruffled by the sight of a tall black man with a sidearm.
“You’re making the folks nervous,” Joe Winder observed.
“Must be the uniform.”
Carrie popped a shrimp into her mouth. “Are we under arrest?”
“I’d be doing all three of us a favor,” Jim Tile said, “but no, unfortunately, you’re not under arrest.”
Winder was working on a grouper sandwich. Jim Tile had ordered the fried dolphin and conch fritters. The dining room was populated by rich Republican golfers with florid cheeks and candy-colored Izod shirts. The men shot anxious squinty-eyed glances toward the black trooper’s table.
Jim Tile motioned for iced tea. “I can’t imagine why I’ve never gotten a membership application. Maybe it got lost in the mail.”
“What’s the point of all this?” Winder asked.
“To have a friendly chat.”
“About what?”
Jim Tile shrugged. “Flaming bulldozers. Dead whales. One-eyed woodsmen. You pick the subject.”
“So we’ve got a mutual friend.”
“Yes, we do.” The trooper was enjoying the fish platter immensely; despite the stares, he seemed in no hurry to finish. He said, “The plane scared him off, right?”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Winder said. “They’re not after him, they’re after a cat. Why does he run?”
Jim Tile put down the fork and wiped his mouth. “My own opinion—he feels a duty to hide because that’s what the panther would’ve done. He wears that damn collar like a sacred obligation.”
“To the extreme.”
“Yeah,” the trooper said. “I don’t expect they’ll find that missing dog. You understand?”
Carrie said, “He’s a very interesting person.”
“A man to be admired but not imitated.” Jim Tile paused. “I say that with no disrespect.”
Winder chose not to acknowledge the warning. “Where do you think he went?” he asked the trooper.
“I’m not sure, but it’s a matter of concern.”
The manager of the restaurant appeared at the table. He was a slender young man with bleached hair and pointy shoulders and brand new teeth. In a chilly tone he asked Jim Tile if he were a member of the club, and the trooper said no, not yet. The manager started to say something else but changed his mind. Jim Tile requested a membership application, and the manager said he’d be back in a jiffy.