Randy White - Seduced

I got to my feet, heart pounding while my senses returned to a normal state of high alert. I had been digging around a python den! Where there were eggs, there would be a mother-a big one, judging from the eggs’ size. Had I not been so spooked, I would have destroyed them all. Maybe. It was a decision I didn’t have the time, or the courage, to make.

I grabbed my pack and backed away. Nearby, three larger juvenile citrus trees were now visible in the foliage. Another detail I hadn’t noticed.

I wished them well, as I had enough to carry and needed to move fast.

Once I found the first blaze mark, getting back to the water didn’t take long. To see my skiff waiting, floating high and secure with its gleaming white deck, was a wonderful image. I climbed aboard. The first thing I did, even before stowing the treelets, was look under the steering wheel at the ignition switch.

The key was there.

I checked under the console. The.45 caliber Beretta was where I’d left it.

The relief I felt was considerable. Out here alone, just the two of us, a man with sinister intentions would have taken both, given the opportunity. That’s why I’d told Martinez to linger before coming ashore. True, I carried a spare key in my pack. It was also true I’d pocketed the Beretta’s magazine, but a Lysol man, a true pro, would have an extra mag somewhere.

Sabin Martinez, it appeared, was who he claimed to be.

I plopped down for a moment to rest. A breeze off the water was icy, but the deck, gleaming white, was already hot to the touch.

A flat rock in the sun.

The phrase came back to me, a comment Sabin had made to illustrate the improbability of reptiles stirring on an island cloaked in shade.

I stowed the oranges and my treasured treelets, then grabbed the shovel.

Sabin wouldn’t need it to dig white stopper trees, but it might provide a segue to an explanation.

What would I say?

I hiked back through the mangroves, up the mound, and was still mulling it over when the man I owed an “apology” to stepped out, shotgun raised, his eyes framing me over the barrel. “I might not know anything about orange trees,” he said, “but guess who does?”

Larry Luckheim, in tattered clothes, and his face charred, stood beside him.

I said to the man with the Hemingway beard, “You better think twice before using that gun. Larry has reason to bend it over your head once it’s empty. Don’t you, Larry?”

It was tough to speak pleasantly to the former bass pro or even look at his face, but I did. “Sorry about your skiff; I know you were fond of that cat hull. What happened is, he shorted your voltage regulator and poked a hole in the fuel line.”

Larry looked at his boss, Raymond Caldwell-for that’s who the man had to be. “She’d better be lying.”

“Have a look in her bag, then search her.”

“ Say it- tell me she’s lying. Getting blowed out of my boat was enough without being hacked by a machete. How well you know this girl?”

“Use your head. How else would she know what caused the explosion? She’s still pissed about what we did to her boyfriend.”

I understood what that meant, but Larry wasn’t so sure. “What’s-his-name, the guy the bull tromped last night?” When it was confirmed, he turned to me. “You’re quite the sassy package, but, yeah, them cat hulls are a good ride. I’m gonna miss that boat more than I hate calling insurance agents. You ever”-he slapped a mosquito-“you ever have an engine blow when you were hard aground? When you land, there’s not as much water as you’d hoped. I’ll kill the joker who did it.”

The bass pro sounded crazed but was in much better shape than he looked. The left side of his face had been scorched black and half of his mustache with it… or was it mostly oil and soot? I didn’t want to get close enough to find out. Aside from a blistered left hand, he’d been strong enough to hike through a quarter mile of mangroves. That much was certain.

Larry whispered something to Caldwell, who nodded; said something else, then offered his boss a bawdy smile. “Seriously? Screwing that little dweeb? So that’s what this is about.” Again, he focused on me, having fun with the subject. “Kermit didn’t seem much of a man, staked-out, waiting for that bull to charge. Bet there was times you had him begging for mercy, too. But wasn’t he a married man? That’s what he claimed; he was married and had a kid who-”

“Shut up! Search her pack,” Caldwell told him.

“Not ’til she admits who she paid to futz with my engines.”

I couldn’t form words, my jaw was so tight, yet I heard myself say, “Wish I had done it, you bastard. You might not be so lucky if you keep talking like that.”

“A wildcat,” Larry said, and grinned. “I planned on the two of us taking a spin. You know… get us some naked time out there where”-he slapped another mosquito. “These goddamn bugs… shit. They’ll take some fun out of my dance card, but what the hell? I aim to get my money’s worth.”

He came toward me; Caldwell followed. I steadied my shoulder pack and moved to maintain distance, the machete in my left hand. The shovel was on the ground somewhere. No idea where. It seemed a long minute or two since I’d dropped it.

We’d been going back and forth for a while. This was after they’d surprised me, and after Caldwell, with sly insinuations, had also made his carnal intentions clear.

“If you don’t cooperate,” he’d said, “and try to relax a little, none of us will enjoy what happens next.”

Meaning he would shoot me.

Caldwell was determined to leave with a couple of citrus trees, too-another reason to tolerate my defiant attitude, which, under the circumstances, the ex-football star found puzzling. Instead of running, I’d stood my ground, backing a bit, or sliding away, when they tried to get too close or slip behind me.

Finally, the man with the Hemingway beard inquired, “What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours? I bet I know… You took my Beretta off the boat, didn’t you? Now you’re hoping this shotgun misfires, or maybe that you’ll surprise me somehow, get the gun out of your backpack, before I shoot. My dear Captain, that’s not much to hang your star on. You don’t seem to understand who you’re dealing with.”

“Beretta?” Larry asked. His silly grin vanished, and he retreated as if to use Caldwell as a partial screen. “Dude, for what you’re paying me, all you had to do was ask. Or do some reading. If this woman’s got a gun, she’ll use it. She’s freakin’ nuts.”

“What is the final tally, Raymond?” I asked, and for the first time stepped toward him. “I bet you got a pretty good laugh by asking me how many women you’ve assaulted. Know what the answer is to that? None- starting today.”

“See!” Larry said. “Stop screwing around and shoot her in the foot, or something, to put her down.”

Caldwell’s attitude: calm; amused by my temper; this mouthy female hick too pissed off to be afraid. In a way, he was right. Since thinking about Sarah, I’d been getting madder and madder. Anger was elevated to fury when he said to Larry, “She’s a fool. The Beretta won’t fire. I took out the slide spring before I came ashore. Here, watch.”

He looked at me. “Go ahead, open your pack and get my gun out. See what happens. When you’re convinced, drop the machete and humor us by explaining why you’ve been kneeling in dirt.” His eyes moved to the knees of my pants. “A woman so damn anxious to get to her boat, that tells me you found an orange tree. Where is it?”

I removed my right glove, stuffed it into my back pocket, then placed the shoulder pack at my feet. “The tree’s too big for one person to carry. That’s why I got the shovel and came to find you.”