In Tomlinson’s expression, I could see it: He knew. Understood the significance of that one word.
“So the alligator’s a good biological locator. What’s the farthest south it ranges? Mexico, maybe?”
I said, “It’s an excellent locator. There are many dozens of species of crocodilians worldwide. But there are only two species of alligator. There’s a species in China, and then there’s our species, the American alligator. You find them in all the Gulf Coast states, Texas, Mississippi, Louisiana, and a few others. But I doubt if they get into Mexico. That far south, I think it would be an anomaly.”
Tomlinson said, “So the question we need to answer is, did Lake use the word ‘alligator’ accurately and with intent?”
I replied softly, “I already know the answer to that. I think he used it correctly. I think he knew exactly what he was doing. There are a couple things in his e-mail that’ve convinced me. Listen-” I held up the paper and read directly from the letter. “ ‘I heard an alligator last night, a series of grunts.’ That’s important because crocodiles don’t bellow or bark. They’re quiet animals. So are caimans . Only male gators make the loud grunting sound that you and I’ve both heard. They make that display during mating season. This is May, Tomlinson. It’s mating season.”
I continued, “There’s something else that suggests to me that Lake wanted us to be sure we understood he meant alligator, nothing else. The way he signed the thing. Ciao, Pescado. Literally, it means ‘Goodbye, fish.’ But it’s also slang. Chilean slang. It means ‘See you later, alligator.’ It’s adolescent enough, it wouldn’t draw a second look from Lourdes. But very subtly, he’s stressing the point. Wherever it is they’re hiding, I think Lake actually heard an alligator. He wrote about it because it suited our purpose perfectly.”
Tomlinson said carefully, “Then you’re saying they’ve split. They are… they’re not in Central America anymore. The mountains, when he mentions the region, that’s a red herring to please Lourdes, make him think he’s leading us off the trail instead of to them. Or maybe Lourdes made him stick it in.”
I rubbed my forehead, thinking hard, going through the data methodically. “I think he’s telling us that he and Lourdes have crossed over the border into the United States.”
Whispering, as if he felt a little chill, his eyes slowly widening, Tomlinson said, “Oh my God… reddish egrets, and a place where coconut palms don’t grow. And the moonlight being so bright just before dawn. I know where they are, man, where they have to be. Approximately, I’m saying-”
Tomlinson has a knack for making brilliant, intuitive leaps in what would otherwise be a process of logical thought. Because I didn’t want to hear his conclusion now, though, I cut him off, offering a more obvious conclusion: “Yeah, they’re on water. Lake’s on or near water, with no mountains to the west.”
Trying to make him go slower, I added, “I know, I know, we’re probably thinking the same thing. But we need to do more research. I want our proofs to point to a conclusion, not the other way around. It’s a hell of a mistake to come up with a theory before you’re sure of the data. I don’t know the exact habits of the reddish egret, and I’m not even sure what a gray parakeet is. Where they’re even found. There’s a lot more we need to know before we risk bending facts to fit our conclusion.”
“There are feral parrots and parakeets all over Florida,” Tomlinson said. “I’d bet anything they’re here, Lake and the Masked Man. I’ll bet Lourdes is running a one-man show, and they’re in Florida.”
I had a Google search page on the screen. I typed in reddish egret northernmost range as I said, “It’s a possibility. Let’s see what we come up with,” before I turned to him and added, “Would you mind checking the library, bring my Peterson’s Field Guide to Eastern Birds, and the one on reptiles? And the Audubon guides, too. I think there’s one entirely about Florida.”
Tomlinson’s smirk said I was hopelessly backward, but he approved.
When it comes to research, I still prefer books.
TWENTY-THREE
Step by step, we eliminated all of the Gulf Coast states except for one, because only one met all the requirements detailed in Lake’s e-maiclass="underline" He was being kept on or near a body of freshwater, on a plateau of land or coastline that had an unimpeded view westward. The area had a population of alligators, gray parakeets, reddish egrets, but no coconut palms-which, to me, certainly implied that he was also near saltwater, and on a landmass where coconut palms grew somewhere.
Tomlinson was right. Florida.
That established, we tried to hammer down a more exact area in the state.
It wasn’t easy-but not impossible, either.
Many states have zones of varied flora and fauna-differences often linked to elevation-but few have lines of demarcation as abrupt as those of Florida, a delicate peninsula that is supersensitized to frost, salt, sea wind.
An example: Draw a line across the state. Draw it, roughly, from the northern tip of Key Largo on Florida’s east coast to the state’s southwestern horn, Cape Sable. The region south of that line includes the tip of the peninsula and all of the Florida Keys. This is the only true tropic zone in the United States. Tropical trees, shrubs, flowers, many mammals, mollusks, crustaceans, corals, insects, and birds otherwise found only in the West Indies, and deep in the Caribbean, flourish here.
Another example of Florida’s abrupt demarcations of floral diversity: Draw a second line from Cape Canaveral on the Atlantic Coast to an area south of Sarasota on the Gulf. It will not be a straight line. Because of the Gulf Stream, the line will move inland from Canaveral several dozen miles, then south to Lake Okeechobee and, finally, across the state to approximately fifteen miles or so south of Sarasota. All land and water below that line is considered a subtropical zone. As in the Florida Keys, many tropical plants, animals, birds, and insects thrive here, including key limes, papaya, mangoes, gumbo limbos-and the coconut palm, which is not considered an indigenous plant, but is emblematic of the tropics.
Twenty miles south of Sarasota, coconut palms grow beautifully-tall with slender dinosaur necks, heavy fronds feathering down, almost always leaning toward the strongest intersectings of sun and water. A few miles north of Sarasota, however, coconut palms seldom survive for long, if they grow at all.
Tampa seems to be the final transitional. The weather there is superb, but you don’t find mature coconut palms in Tampa.
The reddish egret is equally emblematic of the American tropics. It is an uncommon, medium-sized wading bird that looks a lot like its relative, the little blue heron. It’s easy to identify on the flats, however, because of its bizarre feeding techniques. Most herons stand motionless, like snipers, or stalk their prey with exaggerated slow giraffe-steps.
Not the reddish egret. It runs and lurches with wings held high, like some drunken kung fu expert, jabbing at fish and shrimp with its stiletto beak.
I wondered if that’s how Lake had identified the bird he saw. If he saw a reddish. Could be he just invented the sighting. Saw it in a book and realized that it was a far more exacting locator than the American alligator.
From the little I’d seen and heard, Prax Lourdes didn’t strike me as the Audubon Society type. He’d be oblivious of wildlife around him. Lake could probably make up any wildlife sighting and get away with it.
Tomlinson seemed pleased for both of us that the Internet was not nearly as informative as my excellent little library. I felt a sharp adrenal charge when I opened my Peterson’s Field Guide to the range map for the reddish egret, illustration 91, and saw that the bird lived and bred almost exclusively along the southwest coast of Florida.
Once again, Tampa was the final transitional. With rare, rare exceptions, the reddish egret did not venture north of there.
The gray parakeet reference was not as instructive. It is more commonly known as the monk parakeet because of its hood of green feathers. The hood is sharply contrasted by the bird’s gray face and golden breast. The rest of the bird, whether male or female, is chartreuse green except for its orange beak and a fringe of blue feathers on tail and wings. Monk parakeets are known for their complicated, chambered nests.