TOURIST SEASON by Carl Hiaasen

There was no dock—Hurricane Betsy had washed it away in 1965—but a shallow mooring big enough for one boat had been blasted out of the dead coral on the lee side. With some difficulty of navigation, and considerable paint loss to the outboard’s hull, Skip Wiley managed to locate the anchorage in pitch dark. He waded ashore with Kara Lynn deadweight in his arms. The trail to the campsite was fresh and Wiley had no trouble following it, although the sharp branches snagged his clothes and scratched his scalp. Every few steps came a new lashing insult and he bellowed appropriate curses to the firmament.

At the campsite, not far from the old cabin rubble, Wiley placed Kara Lynn on a bed of pine needles and covered her with a thin woolen blanket. Both of them were soaked from the crossing.

Wiley swatted no-see-’ems in the darkness for three hours until he heard the hum of a passing motorboat. Finally! he groused. The Marine Patrol on its nightly route. Wiley had been waiting for the bastard to go by; now it was safe.

When the police boat was gone he built a small fire from dry tinder he had stored under a sheet of industrial plastic. The wind was due east and unbelievably strong, scattering sparks from the campfire like swarms of tipsy fireflies. Wiley was grateful that the woods were wet.

He was fixing a mug of instant bouillon when Kara Lynn woke up, surprising him.

“Hello, there,” Skip Wiley said, thinking it was a good thing he’d tied her wrists and ankles—she looked like a strong girl.

“I know this is a dumb question—” Kara Lynn began.

“Osprey Island,” Wiley said.

“Where’s that?”

“Out in the bay. Care for some soup?”

Wiley helped her sit up and pulled the blanket around to cover her back and shoulders, which were bare in the parade gown. He held the cup while she drank.

“I know who you are,” Kara Lynn said. “I read the big story in the paper today—was it today?”

Wiley looked at his wristwatch. It was half-past three in the morning. “Yesterday,” he said. “So what did you think?”

“About the story?”

“No, the column.”

“You’ve done better,” Kara Lynn said.

“What do you mean?”

“Can I have another sip? Thanks.” She drank a little more and said: “You’re sharper when you don’t write in the first person.”

Wiley plucked at his beard.

“Now, don’t get mad,” Kara Lynn said. “It’s just that some of the transitions seemed contrived, like you were reaching.”

“It was a damn tough piece to write,” Wiley said thoughtfully.

“I’m sure it was.”

“I mean, I couldn’t see another way to do it. The first-person approach seemed inescapable.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Kara Lynn said. “I just don’t think it was as effective as the hurricane column.”

Wiley brightened. “You liked that one?”

“A real scorcher,” Kara Lynn said. “We talked about it in class.”

“No kidding!” Skip Wiley was delighted. Then his smile ebbed and he sat in silence for several minutes. The girl was not what he expected, and he felt a troubling ambivalence about what was to come. He wished the Seminole sleeping drink had lasted longer; now that Kara Lynn was awake, he sensed a formidable undercurrent. She was a composed and resourceful person—he’d have to watch himself.

“What’s the matter?” Kara Lynn asked.

“Why aren’t you crying or something?” Wiley grumbled.

Kara Lynn looked around the campsite. “What would be the point?”

Wiley spread more tinder on the fire and held his hands over the flame. The warmth was comforting. He thought: Actually, there’s nothing to stop me from leaving now. The job is done.

“Do you know Brian Keyes?”

“Sure,” Wiley said, “we worked together.”

“Was he a good reporter?”

“Brian’s a good man,” Wiley said, “but I’m not so sure if he was a good reporter. He wasn’t really suited for the business.”

“Apparently neither were you.”

“No comparison,” he scoffed. “Absolutely no comparison.”

“Oh, I’m not sure,” Kara Lynn said. “I think you’re two sides to the same coin, you and Brian.”

“And I think you read too much Cosmo.” Wiley wondered why she was so damned interested in Keyes.

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