"I saw you prowling around outside yesterday," Mrs. Shulman said, "hunting for more tasty little dogs."
"Nellie, have you been mixing your medications again?"
She poked him in the belt buckle. "Just because you're a cop, you think you can get away with anything. Well, you're wrong, mister. We're going to evict your heathen butt just like we evicted Neville- and he was a deacon in his church!"
Gordon Neville, a retired highway engineer, had been forced to leave Sawgrass Grove after a bawdy after-hours shuffleboard match with two women he'd met during outpatient physical therapy at Imperial Point.
"We nailed him, and we'll nail you, too," vowed Mrs. Shulman.
Rolvaag closed the door firmly in her face. He was halfway to the bedroom when he heard a rustle behind him. He hoped it was one of the missing pythons, but it turned out to be Nellie, sliding another flyer into his apartment. The detective picked it up and morosely looked at the photograph.
MISSING!!!
Our beloved darling Pandora
Blue point Siamese kitten, rhinestone collar
Easy to Identify: Seven toes on her right front paw!
Please return her to the Mankiewiczs at Sawgrass Grove 17-G
Reward: Our eternal gratitude!
What else can I do? Rolvaag wondered. Snakes can't be baited and trapped like bears.
His shrub-to-shrub search having failed, all that remained was to wait for the pythons to reveal themselves. The detective had already decided not to take his pets to Minnesota, the climate there being hostile to tropical reptiles. Leaving them at large in Sawgrass Grove, however, would be perilous not only for the domestic fauna but for the snakes themselves. Many of Rolvaag's elderly neighbors shared Mrs.
Shulman's harsh sentiments, and had no interest in seeing the pythons captured alive. A garden rake or the business end of an orthopedic cane would do the job nicely.
Rolvaag ate a light breakfast, showered and packed an overnight bag, including a map of the Everglades Agricultural Area. The map had been provided by Marta, Charles Perrone's supervisor at the water-management district. She had helpfully marked in red ink the dirt roads and levees upon which Dr. Perrone normally traveled to collect his water samples. Although the map didn't provide the names of the deed holders whose property abutted the wetlands, Rolvaag had shaded with a no. 2 pencil the approximate boundary of Hammernut Farms.
The detective wasn't surprised by what the red lines seemed to show, but he needed to see for himself.
Before leaving the apartment he opened the window overlooking the courtyard, on the wildly improbable chance that his snakes might find their way home.
"You've been awfully quiet today," Joey said, "not that you're ever a chatterbox."
Through the bay window they could see Rose flailing in the kayak. Twice already she had flipped it, although she'd gamely declined assistance.
Stranahan said, "I whacked your husband with a paddle last night. I should've told you but I didn't."
"Don't sweat it. He gets on everybody's nerves."
"I even thought about killing him," Stranahan said.
"So? I think about it constantly."
"There's a slight difference."
"I know," Joey said. "I'm only fantasizing. You've actually done it before."
"Right."
"And it messed you up."
"I've finally gotten to where I sleep through the night."
"We're not going to kill Chaz or any such thing. You said so yourself."
Joey kissed Mick on the mouth, leaving him gloriously dizzy. She said, "Thanks for putting up with all this. You deserve a medal."
"It's not too late to bail. Go to the cops and tell them what he did."
"Not yet."
Rose had tipped over again, and Strom had leapt in to help. The gulls and terns were pitching a fit, but Rose was laughing uproariously as she helped the clumsy dog get to shore.
"This whole thing could blow up on us," Stranahan said, half to himself.
Joey squeezed his arm. "Everything's under control."
Stranahan wasn't so sure. The cast of characters-himself included-was undisciplined and, in varying degrees, unstable. Falling for Joey was a prime example: It wasn't part of the plan, but Stranahan was doing it anyway. And the harder he fell, the more powerful was his urge to beat the everlasting shit (and, ideally, a confession) out of Dr. Charles Perrone. Stranahan told himself to get a grip.
Joey said, "You're thinking about us, too. I can tell. The big picture."
"Unfortunately, my resume speaks for itself."
"Well, it's true I've never been with anyone like you," she said, "but I'll bet you've never been with anyone like me, either."
"That's a fact."
Last night he'd challenged her and Rose to write down the names of all the Beatles, a screening protocol for younger women that in past times had saved Stranahan from certain doom. Rose had gotten only three out of four correct, but Joey Perrone had passed with flying colors, crediting a BBC special that she'd watched one night on the History Channel while Chaz was out with his buddies at a titty bar.
Stranahan had to smile, for there was no point in pretending he could walk away now. In Joey's presence he was helpless and driven and probably happy. Someday she would leave, as they all did, and he'd return to his slow-motion existence, revolving peaceably as it did around a dog, a boat and some corroded fishing gear. This was the embedded cycle of his life, as predictable as the tides.
Joey nudged him and said, "Mick, stop already. I can hear the gears grinding."
"Sorry."
"Relax, okay?" She peeled out of her swimsuit and led him toward the bedroom. "And that's an order," she said.
Chaz Perrone dreamed he was being mauled by a fifteen-foot alligator with two hungry heads, one chewing on his left leg and the other chewing on his right-a mad contest to see which gobbling maw would reach his crotch first. He woke up wailing, and saw Tool standing expressionless at the foot of the bed.
"Just a nightmare," Chaz said, trying to compose himself. He was soaked with perspiration, which he hoped was a result of the dream and not the feverish onset of West Nile virus. The night before he had counted thirty-four mosquito bites on his face, and at the moment every one of them itched like poison ivy.
Tool said, "Your mother's on the phone."
"Jesus, what time is it? Tell her I'll call back."
"Tell her yourself, dipshit. It's your ma, for God's sake."
Chaz had detected a menacing chill in Tool's attitude since they'd left LaBelle. In retrospect, he wondered if it had been unwise to bad-mouth the man in front of Red Hammernut.
As soon as Tool left the room, Chaz picked up the telephone and heard a familiar question from Panama City: "Any news, son?"
"No, Mom."
"How are you holding up?"
"Some days are better than others," Chaz answered sorrowfully. It was still important to appear needful of sympathy.
"Don't give up hope yet."
"Mom, it's been, like, nine days. Nobody can survive that long in the ocean without food or water."
"Think positive thoughts," she said.
"Mom, please."
"Didn't you see Cast Away?"
Chaz Perrone sucked his teeth. His relationship with his mother had delaminated during his late teens and early twenties, though not because of her marriage to Roger, the wiggy RAF pilot. Rather, Chaz's mother had come to notice (and comment often upon) the fact that her son was failing to outgrow the more obnoxious traits of his adolescence. Her list included laziness, habitual self-gratification, a deep-rooted lack of ambition and a reflex aversion to truthfulness. Chaz refused to address the merits of these charges, instead bitingly informing his mother that it would be folly to take career advice from a senior cashier at Target. Once he'd received his doctorate at Duke, Chaz's mother apologized tearfully for having doubted him. He made a fuss about forgiving her, but in fact her opinion had never mattered enough to either wound him or warm him. He indulged her with a phone call every so often, but it was purely an act of charity. His mother would ramble on about how proud she was; how marvelous that her only son was using his brilliant scientific knowledge to save the Everglades from human destruction. She was such a liberal drip, it was pathetic. She had adored Joey, too, another reason that Chaz wasn't eager to chat.