Randy White - Seduced

Jib?

I ignored that by settling into myself. Kermit’s dead, I thought, and this man might have killed him. Or helped.

There was something else, if I was right: once we had the boat loaded with oranges, and a tree or two, I would no longer be of use. Martinez-if that was his name-might kill me, too.

“Something bothering you, Captain?” The smirk had vanished and, with it, possibly, the identity of whoever lived inside the man’s head.

I started away. “Keep looking, if you want. I’ve got a bag full of oranges to take to the boat.”

“That’s the problem, obviously. I can’t tell the difference between oaks and citrus; you can. Give it another half hour and let’s do this right. Come on… don’t worry”-he gestured with the shotgun-“I won’t let anything happen to you.”

I watched his reaction when I replied, “Sabin, I’m not the only one you need to worry about.”

That didn’t faze the man, either.

I was wondering: Who’s the fool? Him, for thinking I’m harmless? Or me, for pretending it’s true?

The most likely place to find seedlings, I reasoned, was to the northeast, or southwest of the mother tree, for they were opposites of the prevailing winds.

My theory produced results. I found a fruiting tree too big for a truck, let alone my boat. Possibly, the same one I’d picked oranges from as a girl. It provided more DNA samples, which I stored in separate Ziploc bags. Hopefully, it was a clone, a pure descendant of seeds planted many hundreds of years ago. By then, my shoulder bag was overloaded, including the whelk shell, which I didn’t need but kept anyway.

Martinez stuck close by and offered encouragement if he noticed me checking my watch or pausing to listen. I often did both, aware the island was beginning to stir. Occasionally, something big crushed a branch too far away to pinpoint. Maybe the wind or tide. If not, it was an animal that moved slowly, very slowly… or it was intelligent enough to be cautious.

We’d been ashore nearly an hour. Shadows retained an icy chill while the sun drifted higher and warmed the forest canopy.

I snapped off a leafy orange branch and handed it to him. “This is what you’re looking for. Let’s split up. I’m leaving at ten, no later, and I mean it. Do you have a watch?”

He tugged at the sleeve of his red sweater. “That’s less than fifteen minutes.”

For a moment, I thought he might offer a test of his own, ask if I’d pull anchor without him, but he was as uncertain about me as I was about him. Whether my suspicions were valid or not, it was better to maintain an illusion of trust. He was doing the same.

“Not that I’d go off and leave you,” I added, “but you have to understand something. You only saw a picture of that snake. It’s different seeing the real thing, being there in the water, and knowing how it feels. That’s why I’m anxious.”

“Leave a person here ?” he chuckled. “It would take one coldhearted bastard. Gives me chills to even think about it.” He paused, then nodded as if he’d made up his mind about something. “Tell you what”-another glance at his watch-“let’s keep looking. And if you don’t find a tree by quarter after ten, I’ll race you to the boat.”

That wasn’t going to happen. I didn’t want him around when I got to the boat. There was something I’d left behind that might alleviate or confirm my concerns.

“Deal,” I said.

With Martinez walking several lengths behind, I angled away from the mother tree, hacking vines and briars. The gloves I wore were elastic mesh and leather, made for fishing, not a machete. My right hand was beginning to blister. I switched to the left and looped the lanyard over my wrist. Gradually, I worked my way toward the water until we intersected with the trail I’d marked. My boat was to the left, screened from view. I continued onward.

The mound sloped into a valley, created by a second, much higher mound, where the bark of gumbo-limbo trees filtered amber light. The air was musky with the odor of white stopper trees, too. Near some saplings about as high as my waist, I waited for Martinez to catch up.

“Will these do?”

Luckily, he had dropped the orange branch I’d given him. “Perfect size. Nice job. Aren’t you glad we stuck around? All I need now is a shovel and some kind of bucket. Yes… this looks like a good area. A perfect place to camp because”-an amused look brightened his dark eyes-“no one would ever find us. Say… what’s that smell? Smells like a skunk.”

No, it was the scent of white stopper saplings, so named because, in Old Florida, tea made from their leaves was used to stop diarrhea.

I opened my pack, intending to give him the trowel but pulled out a bottle of water instead. “You said you were thirsty, take this. I won’t be long. Do you know which way the boat is?”

“Over there.” He pointed in the wrong direction, which surprised me. Or did it? This was an articulate man with an orderly mind.

“That’s what I thought,” I said, and set off on the course he had indicated until I was out of sight. Soon I looped back toward the mother tree. The blaze marks I’d cut weren’t as obvious as I’d hoped. It took a while to get my bearings. My concerns faded when, atop a vacant tortoise mound, I stumbled past three little trees clumped together, all about a foot tall. Treelets , more accurately. The easiest way to identify young citrus is to tear a leaf and sniff. I did. Tangy; a hint of lime and orange.

After chopping some vines away-a nearby ficus was in the process of strangling the treelets-I joined them atop the mound. Viewed from above, their leaves formed another triad. They sprouted in groups of three, not unlike a certain crest worn by Conquistadors. Each tree was a mirror image of the other; delicate, on trunks no thicker than my thumb.

Three identical trees.

Kermit had applied that phrase, or something similar, to his theory about citrus trees in isolation. After an unknown period times-“hundreds of years,” he’d guessed-each seed might produce three , not two, clone sprouts.

The strangest feeling came over me. Kermit might be dead and here I was marveling at something he should have been a part of. I didn’t know the man, had no right to and probably never would beyond what I had imagined. With Sarah, however, I shared a bond. In myriad ways, all daughters are kindred, linked by a parent they worship-imaginary or not.

My sense of sadness faded with the reality of what the girl might have lost. I became furious on her behalf. If Larry had actually died in the explosion, his fate was out of my hands. That left Martinez, if he’d played a role. When I got to the boat, I might finally discover the truth about him. An apology is what I hoped he deserved. If not, I would turn him in to the police.

It was nearly ten a.m. My focus returned to securing the treelets. I dumped some oranges from my pack to make room, and, with great care, used the trowel. I trenched a circle, then lifted them out, their roots systems mingled in a clump of sandy loam about the size of my hands.

To keep the roots covered, I needed something more stable than Ziploc bags. The ancient whelk finally had a use. The roots slipped easily into its columned chamber as if by design. Then I filled the shell with loam; didn’t pack it but instead opened my last bottle of water and soaked it good so the roots would settle.

Strange how awareness blurs when focused on a task. Only when I was finishing up did I notice a pile of fist-sized rocks lying inside the tortoise hole. Using the machete like a hook, I fished one out. It was brownish white, as leathery as a turtle egg but much larger. I held the thing in my hand. It was dense with embryonic weight. I turned it… then yanked my hand away as if it were a hot coal.