The things on the ground shifted to the left.
"That's really strange for froghopper larvae," Nora informed them. "They're not predatory at all, and they don't have the necessary sensory organs to detect other living things in proximity."
"They're sensing something now," Trent said, still irked by his own experience. "When you move, they move."
Nora stepped out, confused. "Right, and another strange thing is the size. Froghopper larvae are about the size of BBs, but this genus is significantly larger."
Annabelle fingered wet hair off her brow. "Who gives a shit? Would somebody please kill those things?"
Nora pursed her lips. "Annabelle, we already told you, they're harmless."
"How do you know?" Annabelle challenged with a scowl. She turned in a huff and stalked back toward the camp.
Nora was leaning farther; several of the things weren't but a few inches from her face as she inspected them. "Maybe I…"
"Maybe what?" Trent said. He seemed aggravated.
"Maybe I was wrong about this-"
Before Trent could respond, Loren reappeared with some collection tubes and forceps. "A spumaria this size? You know what I'm thinking, right?"
"That it's-"
"That we've discovered a new species."
Nora shook her head. "Loren, what I'm thinking is that maybe these things aren't froghopper larvae at all."
Loren stalled with the poised forceps. "All right. Why do you say that?"
"The dorsal region. Look how they're moving. I'm not seeing any parapodic structure. It almost looks like cilia."
Loren maintained his stalled poise. Then he winked at her. "Can't be. It's too big." Now he redirected his attention to the slowly moving things on the curtain. "Come to Papa, you ugly little buggers." And then he plucked several up with the forceps.
Nora didn't know what she was thinking. "Come on, let's get them under the scope for a good look."
"Wait a minute," Trent said as they were about to go back to the row of head shacks. "I was going to take a shower."
"Go ahead," Nora told him.
"Just get a broom," Loren added, "and sweep the things out. They won't bite."
Loren and Nora walked away with their specimens.
Trent looked back at the shower curtain and grimaced. "Maybe I'll skip the shower for now," he muttered.
CHAPTER SIX
(I)
Banks of gray-black murk chased the sun behind the horizon. Slydes nodded his approval as the weatherworn cabin cruiser churned ahead. The darker, the better, he thought at the wheel. Clear nights were so much riskier.
Ruth sat hunched at the bow, her feet dangling off the side as she watched for other boats. Not much traffic this far off Clearwater, but they always had to sweat the local police marine patrols and the Natural Resources boats.
Everything looked nice and clear.
Jonas could be heard clattering belowdecks, making room for what they'd be bringing back: several pounds of high-grade hydroponic marijuana.
They'd only started growing it at the island a few years ago, and since then, Slydes was secretly jealous. His brother's product dwarfed his gator poaching profits. But we're family, he reminded himself. Share and share alike. Jonas took care of the brainy horticulture stuff, while Slydes took care of details, like getting them on and off the island quickly, gauging the tides and the weather. Ruth was just squeeze, but she helped in her ways too-Mainly in bed, he thought, but she had lots of street contacts and helped out immeasurably in their sideline jobs, like pawning stolen goods, jacking ATMs with cards they ripped off, and helping the brothers bury the occasional body.
It was a system that worked.
"Is it high tide yet?" Ruth called back from the railed prow.
Slydes swigged more beer, burped, then nodded. "And there's the island."
A mile ahead, the island's bulk began to form in the murk.
It was a great gig. Before they'd found out about it, Jonas truly was a pissant pot grower. They rented rooms in some of the bum motels, and that's where Jonas set up his hydroponic gear, but these days the narcs were wise to everything, eyeballing erratic and nontypical electricity bills. Fuckers think of everything, Slydes bemoaned. He didn't smoke weed himself (beer and women were all he needed), but the market couldn't be better. And the stuff Jonas was growing was so topdrawer he was getting a rep as the man with the best. All the punks and college kids in these beach towns? They couldn't buy enough of the stuff. Hydro was the New Deal, and Jonas was cornering the market.
Because of the island.
The way it worked was like this: The bigger the plants grew, the more potent the THC, but you needed a place big enough to grow them past ten feet. Solution: the island. And you needed square footage, too. The average dupe could grow a plant or two in his apartment without anyone getting wise, which didn't amount to anything but small-time dealing. But what if you had a place where you could grow hundreds of plants? And keep twenty-four hours of light on them without having to worry about the narcs getting wind of your sky-high power bill?
Again, the solution was the island.
All the space we need, free electricity, free running water, and twenty foot ceilings, Slydes thought. A pot grower's dream.
"Got my stows all ready," Jonas said when he came up from the cabin. They'd rigged some panels to pop out just behind the head. "But look what I found." Jonas giggled.
He held up a -severed foot.
Slydes stared with alarm, then remembered. "Oh yeah, that ritzy business-looking chick we carjacked last week." They'd pinched a chunk of change off her, all right. Fancy laptop, big-ass wedding ring, not to mention her Mercedes, which they'd sold to the chop shop. They'd brought her back to the boat for a little party, but as they'd been dragging her clothes off, she'd kicked Slydes a swift one in the nuts. Hadn't planned to kill the bitch, he thought, but, shit, she asked for it. He figured the best way to teach her a lesson was to cut off the foot that had kicked him. They'd had a good goround with her and then rolled her off the deck. In these waters? The sharks took care of them quick.
"We gotta be more careful, brother. Can't be leaving shit like that sittin' around in the boat."
Jonas laughed. "Hey, you're the one who cut off her foot." He threw it over the side with a paltry splash.
"What was that?" Ruth asked, jerking around.
"Beer can. Shut up and watch for boats."
Jonas leaned over to whisper, "How long we keeping her around?"
"I thought you liked her."
"Sure, for a hose bag, and she does the mouth thang mighty fine, but you know, after a while they all get an attitude. Start to think they have power 'cause they know your whole operation."
Slydes knew this but… She sucks a mean one… "Shit, let's keep her a bit longer. She's a good gofer, and she don't mind jacking the ATMs and that shit." Slydes chuckled under his breath. "Besides, she's crazy in love with both of us, so let's ride that awhile. When some better trim comes along, we'll put her in the drink like we always do."
"Cool." Jonas peered out into the night. "There's the island."
"Yep. Be there in a few. Just remember, no fuckin' around. We're in and out."
Jonas pushed long strings of greasy hair out of his face, which the gulf wind immediately replaced. "Photographers, you say."
"Underwater photographers or some shit, takin' pictures of fish or something for a big magazine. Won't be here long. Just grab a couple pounds. We'll get more when they're gone."
Jonas nodded. It would have to do. "Just so I can get me something. Sure as shit don't want to depend on what you make selling gator. I have college, brother. I'm too smart for that rinky-dink stuff."
"Here's your gator," Slydes said, pointing to his groin. He hated it when Jonas implied he was smarter, even though he knew it was true.
Jonas laughed and slapped his brother on the back. "Think I'll grab some quick tail off our hose bag. Have fun steerin' the boat, Captain Tug."