Soon she found herself standing in a field of scrub and palmetto, a full mile from Otter Creek. The sandspurs stuck to her slacks, and she cried out when a fat coppery ant chomped on her big toe.
“Skeeter darling,” Ida Kimmelman cried, the great voice fading, “come home to Momma! Momma loves you!”
Suddenly she heard a commotion and turned to see two men waist-deep in the scrub; one black and ominous, the other small and dark. Nothing frightened Ida Kimmelman so much as the fact that the small man wore an undershirt, the mark of a true desperado.
“Have you seen my doggie?” Ida asked nervously.
The black man nodded. “Skeeter had an accident,” he said. “You’d better come quick.”
“What kind of accident?” Ida Kimmelman cried, forgetting her own safety and clumping after the men. “I said, what kind of accident?”
“An eagle,” the black man said. “A fish eagle, ma’am.”
And when Ida Kimmelman saw what was left of poor Skeeter, presented in a shoebox by the man in the undershirt, she fainted dead away. The next time she opened her eyes was in the airboat.
Standing before Brian Keyes was a plainly terrified woman in her late sixties, slightly overweight, lacquered with rouge and mascara. Her mouth was covered with two-inch hurricane tape, and her hands were tied with rope. Her shiny wine-colored hair was piled in a tangled nest on one side of her head. She was doing plenty’ of talking with her eyes.
Jesus Bernal cut Keyes loose and stood him up.
Skip Wiley said, “Brian, this is Mrs. Kimmelman.”
“Skip, are you nuts?” Keyes said. “This is kidnapping! You and your merry men are gonna wind up at Raiford.”
“Mrs. Kimmelman and her late husband discovered South Florida in 1962,” Wiley said, “when they spent two weeks on gorgeous sundrenched Miami Beach. Stayed at the Beau Rivage, shopped at Lincoln Road. Went to see a Jackie Gleason show live, right, Mrs. Kimmelman?”
Ida Kimmelman nodded.
“Had such a good time, they came back again and again,” Wiley said, “and when Mr. Kimmelman, rest his soul, retired, they moved down here for good. Bought a unit out at Otter Creek Village, forty-two-five at twelve percent. A very tasteful place, Mrs. Kimmelman, I must say.”
“Mmmmmm,” Ida Kimmelman protested through the tape.
“Skip, let her go.”
“Can’t do that, Brian.”
Viceroy Wilson held one of Ida Kimmelman’s pale arms, and Tommy Tigertail the other. Wiley jerked his head and they led her out of the clearing into the darkness.
“Skip, I don’t need to see any more. Let her go and I’ll do what you want. I’ll go back and tell the cops you mean business.”
“No, I think you need to be convinced,” Wiley said. “I know I would. Skeptics, you and I both, Brian. Take nobody’s word for anything. First law of good journalism: if your mom says she loves you, check it out first.”
Jesus Bernal handed Brian Keyes his trousers and said something sternly in Spanish.
“Put your pants on,” Wiley translated, “and follow me.”
In great strides Wiley crashed through the brush while Keyes struggled to keep up. Saw-grass and grape-sized pine burs bit into his bare feet, but Jesus Bernal stayed close enough to prod him with his beloved knife whenever Keyes faltered.
Ahead Wiley broke from the shelter of the hammock and took a ragged trail through an open, flat expanse of swamp. A juggernaut of noise, he was just as easy to track by sight, the cream-colored smock fluttering in the gray night.
Keyes found himself trotting faster to escape the insects, but dreading what awaited him. Jesus Bernal gave no clues, grunting with each step.
After ten minutes the sprint ended abruptly at water’s edge. Keyes caught his breath and studied the scene by yellow lantern light: Mrs. Kimmelman, whimpering on the ground where they had laid her; Wiley, looking haunted but anticipatory; Viceroy Wilson, cool, unexerted, and bored; Tommy Tigertail, up to his knees in the water, his back to the light; and Jesus Bernal, swatting bugs off his sweaty arms.
“Tommy,” Wiley said, panting, “do the honors, please.”
Tommy Tigertail splashed the water with both hands and began to clap.