Randy White - Seduced

“Someone like you,” I said, “I figured you always carried a gun.”

He sensed this was another test. Maybe it was.

“Never admit you’re carrying,” he said, but patted his hip to confirm he was. “I brought that Glock along for you. We should both be armed. I don’t care how cold it is-and it’s pretty blessed damn cold-your story about those pythons scares me.”

At the boat ramp, we’d sat talking in my SUV for half an hour, the heater on high. Some of what he’d shared I’d found truly shocking, but Sabin Martinez had yet to give me a reason to doubt his good intentions. Even so, I was reluctant to answer honestly about the pistol holstered at the small of my back. I’m not sure why-particularly after ruining my chance to trust Kermit, a man who actually believed me to be beautiful.

“In there”-I pointed to the duffel bag stowed forward-“I’ve got an old sawed-off double-barrel, probably too short to be legal. I don’t know if the shells are any good or not.”

“Twelve-gauge? That’s what I should’ve brought. We can test-fire the thing, if you want. There’s no one around.”

That was certainly true. I asked, “What time is it?” Behind us, Marco Island was a bluff of lighted condos. To the southwest, a navigation marker flashed off Cape Romano, a lonely intersection of sand and space. “I don’t see any boats-none that’re on fire anyway. Did Larry say where he was putting in?”

“I never said anything about his boat catching fire.”

No, he hadn’t. But Martinez had described how he had shorted out a voltage regulator on one of Luckheim’s motors. He’d also caused a pinhole leak in a hose that fed the carburetors.

“You knew what would happen or you wouldn’t have done it,” I said.

“Don’t expect an answer to that one,” the man replied, taking off his gloves. “So what? Caldwell, why do you think he agreed to be here? Just you and him, that’s what he expects. It’s because he plans to kill you. That wasn’t clear? Not kill you right away, of course. He’ll want to have some fun first. You researched the man. You should know.” His head turned to face me; eyes so dark, they reflected light. “Lonnie might enjoy that sort of sick, kinky business. In fact, I’m quite sure she does. But not you.”

I asked again for the time, then looked for myself. It was a little after seven.

“Hannah… don’t tell me you’re feeling remorse. What happens to the guy is all on me. Your only mistake was asking questions I shouldn’t have answered. I know better. Not that the cops will find anything. I’m good at what I do.”

Harney Chatham’s “Lysol man” took out his phone and formulated a test of his own. “Tell you what, I still have one bar showing. I can call. Tell him to shut down his engines; that I think someone’s trying to kill him. Or make up some cockamamie story that’s convincing. You know… a warning shot. We talked about warning shots. Say the word, I’ll do it.” He gave me time to think before asking, “How many women did Caldwell assault before he disappeared? I bet you have the number in a file somewhere.”

I turned away from the man’s hard stare. “Sun’s up,” I said. “Get your gloves on. I don’t see the point in waiting around here until it’s warmer.”

Martinez said what sounded like I thought as much as I jammed the throttle forward.

Off Camp Key, we flew across a tendril of sand. The bottom fell away, and I turned my skiff in the direction of Choking Creek.

In a labyrinth of oyster bars and islands, a GPS is no more useful than a compass. My eyes, my hands, did the steering while my mind reviewed something else I’d learned in the warmth of my SUV.

What happened that New Year’s Eve, more than twenty years ago, was a sordid story that diminished my respect for the late Harney Chatham. As Martinez had reminded me, however, most of the “facts” had been provided by a drunken (or drugged) college cheerleader.

Long before midnight, Lonnie, in hysterics, had taken Chatham aside, desperately in need of help. She’d been assaulted by a drifter, she said, who followed the college holiday crowd, selling drugs. His specialty was a date rape powder known as Devil’s Breath. Lonnie claimed she would’ve been raped if her boyfriend-who was already in trouble with the law-hadn’t come along and beaten the man to death.

The drifter’s body went into the gator pool where Reggie and I had seen crocs. A confession, written by Lonnie, went into a cement capstone atop the concrete weir. The next day, her boyfriend, Raymond Caldwell, fled the country. This required the assistance of a powerful man who could pull strings and owned a boat that could make the crossing to Mexico.

When I asked, “Why would Mr. Chatham willingly participate in such a crime?” I received the answer I expected. He didn’t. Not willingly.

Martinez offered two explanations, the first provided by Lonnie.

While a junior in high school, she had volunteered to spend the summer working for Chatham’s election campaign. He’d tried to seduce her. After weeks of being charmed and pressured, Lonnie finally gave in. By the time their affair ended, she had photographs to prove that the soon-to-be lieutenant governor was guilty of statutory rape.

Martinez didn’t believe it. He knew that photographs of some type were involved but had a different theory. Lonnie had done the seducing. Either that or, during the campaign, she had photographed Chatham with another eager volunteer who, as some suspected, often slept in the great man’s bed.

Chatham had never confided the truth about which version to believe. Not even to Martinez, a man who claimed to be Chatham’s only confidant.

This oddity troubled me, but I let it go. Nor did I ask for names or dates. There was no need. That summer, I’d spent my tenth birthday helping my uncle hack a tunnel to a secret spot-the very place to which I was returning on this dismal winter morning.

Loretta, the eager volunteer, had been generous about granting me free time during my childhood years. Now I understood why.

Martinez, of course, knew all about my mother. He’d asked, point-blank, if Chatham had died in her arms. This gave me an opportunity, once again, to invest my trust in a man I barely knew.

I answered him honestly. Yes, Chatham had died in Loretta’s bed. Lonnie wasn’t the only one who had breached the fidelity clause in their marriage contract.

How smoothly I shared a truth that was not mine to share. Sometimes, trust must be awarded before it can be granted. Angst and self-recriminations regarding Kermit had also played a role.

You are a beautiful woman.

As I was speeding inland toward the sun, the married man’s words chided me from a world I had seldom dared stray. Only once, in fact. Yet, over and over, they hammered at a wounded reality within.

Finally, I conceded, I’m a fool. Yes, a goddamn fool… but I am my own goddamn fool!

After that, I refocused on the task, which was avoiding oyster bars, and shielding my eyes from the glare. Martinez hunkered down beside me, a man who was as wide as a bulldozer yet nimble for his age and size. Articulate, too. He was using a pencil to mark our course on a chart he’d brought along. Occasionally, he made remarks or asked questions that confirmed his experience as a navigator. Watermen don’t travel as passengers. They pay attention, aware they might have to find their own way home.

Smart. Few would have bothered to obtain the correct chart on such short notice. I would’ve done the same. To believe otherwise would have redoubled my doubts about the man beside me.

My hand moved to the small of my back. The Devel pistol was there beneath a jacket and layers of clothing. Not easy to get to, but still a comforting weight.