Randy White - Seduced

There was other information I scanned through.

Pythons are the world’s third-largest snake, commonly growing more than twenty feet long, although a thirty-five-foot Burmese had been captured and killed in India. It weighed nearly three hundred pounds.

They were ambush hunters, equally at home on the ground or in trees. Excellent swimmers, too, which wasn’t news to me, but I was unaware they could lie submerged for thirty minutes or more while they awaited passing prey.

This caused me to think back. Had the snake that attacked Roberta been underwater, hunting, when it heard her wild splashing? The monster python we’d seen later might have been hiding on the bottom, too. If not thirty-five feet long, it was well over twenty. And two hundred pounds, at least, judging from its girth.

An image came into my head I did not want to linger. I continued reading.

Pythons were voracious feeders. They chose ambush spots based on the size of their preferred prey but were opportunistic. Hungry or not, they would strike and kill anything they could swallow. Proof of this was in a 2012 report done for the Department of the Interior regarding the Everglades. In areas where pythons were well established, foxes and rabbits had disappeared. Ninety-nine percent of raccoons and possums had been destroyed, and the white-tailed deer population was down by 91.4 percent.

According to the report, the problem began in 1992 after Hurricane Andrew destroyed a python breeding facility near Miami. Also to blame were pet owners who, after tiring of their snakes, had released them into the Glades.

The results were catastrophic. It was as if a nuclear bomb had been dropped, said one field scientist. Pythons-apex predators-were running out of food, so they were moving north, or seeking new varieties of prey.

The only reassuring certainty I found was that hunters-men who actually knew the woods-agreed the best time to find and kill pythons was during a cold snap. The snakes were sluggish and slow-moving. Their reptilian hearts required them to find a sunny spot in the open if they were to survive a drop in temperature.

Choking Creek. The name had stuck with me. I’d hoped never to go back. After reading what I’d just read, I definitely didn’t want to, but I had no choice. “The race is on,” Kermit had said. The Gentrys had implied the same thing, as had Lonnie.

I phoned Roberta and explained the situation. “I’m not asking you to get out of the plane, but can you land there and wait for me and another passenger? It has to be tomorrow, or, possibly, the day after. This could be the last cold front of the season.”

Roberta understood, but she had obligations at work. “It’s too bad you can’t get in there by boat.”

“That’s another option,” I said. “I think I can, if I carry a saw, and some heavy clippers. Or”-I had a chart in front of me-“we could hike in from the bay side, but that’s through a couple hundred yards of mangroves.”

“I don’t even want to think about it. As long as you don’t try it alone. Who’s going with you?”

I hadn’t made up my mind about that. My first choice was Marion Ford, if he’d returned from wherever it was he’d disappeared to. His pal Tomlinson was another possibility, although I doubted the man’s skill with firearms.

“I’ve got a friend who’s a deputy sheriff,” I said, referring to Birdy. “If not her-she usually works Mondays-there’s someone else. Do you remember me mentioning Kermit Bigalow? He’s offered to come along, but… I don’t know him that well.”

When I said this, part of me hoped Roberta would offer a glowing endorsement and thereby settle the matter.

Instead, she responded, “Take a shotgun no matter who you choose.”

Good idea.

In the attic of Loretta’s house, I found my uncle’s footlocker. I returned to my boat carrying a heavy pillowcase. Inside was a sawed-off double-barrel and a box of twelve-gauge shells I hoped weren’t too old to fire, if needed. I made another trip and came back with Jake’s ripsaw and the stout hedge clipper he’d used to cut the original tunnel. Behind a drawer was a lockbox containing another of Jake’s treasures. From it, I took an exotic-looking pistol, a rare 9mm Smith & Wesson that had been customized by Devel. It had clear Lexan grips and a chromium stainless finish. Since shooting the man who’d attacked me, I’d fired several hundred of rounds through it at gun ranges.

The pistol and holster went into my shoulder pack. The other stuff went into a canvas bag that could be stored aboard my skiff. As I packed, I made phone calls, and also kept an eye on the clock. I was nervous about Kermit’s visit and the decision I had to make.

The choice was quickly narrowed down. Birdy had to work. Tomlinson was en route to a Zen meditation retreat in Polk City. The biologist’s phone went instantly to voice mail. Seldom do I leave long messages, but, this time, I did. Lots of details.

It was a safety precaution that only a man like Marion Ford would understand.

That’s what I was thinking about-Ford’s unwavering eyes, his competence on the water, when another competent man came to mind.

I checked Previous Calls and pressed Redial .

Earlier in the day, Sabin Martinez had asked insightful, sometimes pointed questions about Larry Luckheim’s intimidation tactics. “I’ll look into it,” he’d said, which is the sort of help people often offer but seldom follow through on.

Not true of Martinez. This time when I called, he answered, saying, “Guess who I’m watching haul his boat out of the water? Yeah… your favorite stalker. At marinas, he goes by the name Buddy Luck. But his luck’s about to run out, according to a source I have at… Well, the less you know, the better.”

I was flabbergasted. “You found him already? You must be in Placida.”

“Harney told me to look after you and that’s what I intend to. You sound surprised… Captain Hannah.” It was playful, the way he added my name, and his operatic voice was pleasing to the ear.

“I’m… I’m flattered. But I hope you don’t think I called to pressure you. This has to do with a boat trip I’m taking. Tomorrow; early in the morning. It’s supposed to be freezing cold, and it’s not an easy place to get to. I’ll tell you that in advance, but I’d prefer not to go alone. The reason is… Well, maybe you heard about Reggie. If you didn’t, I’ve got some bad news.”

“He was a good little guy,” Martinez said. “I’d prefer to believe good men don’t take their own lives, but I know better. On the other hand, I’ve got my suspicions.”

“Me, too. That’s why I called. Is there a chance you’d be willing to go with me tomorrow? We don’t know each other well, but I’m good with a boat, and I know the area. I figure I can trust a man who was Mr. Chatham’s confidant.”

“Now I’m flattered,” Martinez said. “Unfortunately, I have meetings all day, one in Orlando, then I fly to Lauderdale. I could use a tough trip, though. And you’re right to think Reggie might have been murdered.” He paused to think. “Give me the details. I doubt it, but maybe I can shift things around.”

I summarized my plans, then mentioned Placida again. “Larry supposedly charters out of there.”

“Nope, we’re closer to Arcadia, some little waterfront dive. Don’t ask me why, but he’ll tell me soon enough. Same with whoever’s paying him to harass you. We’re meeting for drinks after his boat’s trailered. See, I’m a wealthy developer who’s interested in building a fishing resort on Andros. That was my pitch-I need an experienced pro like him to run the operation.”

I said, “I hate you having to spend so much time on this. How’d you find him? Arcadia… he must have run his boat up the Peace River.”