Carl Hiaasen - Nature Girl

“A man took her!” he shouted down hoarsely. “Took Honey!”

“What’d he look like?” the gunman demanded.

“Sick,” Shreave replied. “All fucked-up-his hand, his face…”

“Where’d they go?” the Indian asked.

Shreave pointed feverishly. “That way! He had her on a leash.”

“A leash?” The older man slowly lowered the gun.

“Yeah! Can you guys help me down?”

“What for?” The Indian crumpled the foil from Shreave’s snack bar and shoved it into his pocket. He spat in the cactus patch and said, “Damn litterbug. I hope you rot up there.”

Then he followed the gunman out of the camp.

For diversion, Honey composed in her head another letter to the newspapers. Inspired by her predicament, the topic was sexual harassment.

To the Editor:

Recently I had an altercation with an employer, Mr. Louis Piejack, who groped me in the workplace. I fought back to defend myself, and then immediately quit my job.

In retrospect I should have reported what happened to the authorities and contacted a lawyer, to deter Mr. Piejack from future misbehavior. Unfortunately, he has persisted with his unwanted advances and is presently holding me captive at gunpoint on a deserted island in the western Everglades.

The lesson to be learned from my experience is that women must aggressively discourage mental and physical intimidation at the job site-not just with a crab mallet, but with the force of law.

Most sincerely,

Honey Santana

She thought it was a darn good letter; succinct and low-key, the way the newspapers preferred them. If she’d had a pencil and paper, she would have written it down.

“You ready, angel?” Piejack asked woozily. The pain pills were working their magic.

“Ready for what, Louis?”

“A ride in my boat.”

He was sprawled beside her, befouling an otherwise-splendid morning. He hadn’t stirred in so long that the fire ants had quietly returned to their dank hideaway inside his surgical swathing. Piejack had found another bottle of water in a duffel bag but, after laboring to open it, had lost interest. Listlessly he’d watched Honey drink the whole thing. She was grateful to be free of the ropes but mindful of the sawed-off shotgun, which Piejack had wedged erect between his legs.

“Look here, I don’t need no hands!” He moved his hips to make the barrel sway.

“Adorable,” Honey said.

“You think this is a monster, wait’ll you see ol’ John Henry.”

“That’s what you named your cock?” Honey laughed. “Sorry, Louis, but that’s lame.”

He lifted his head. “You got somethin’ better? I’ll call him whatever you want.”

Honey said, “Okay. How about Charlemagne?”

Piejack snorted. “Sounds like a girl.”

“He was a king, Louis.”

“King a what?”

Now that Piejack was half-stoned, Honey had decided to make a grab for the stubby shotgun.

She said, “He was king of the Franks.”

“Then why don’t I just call my dick Frank? It’s easier to say.”

“Because Charlemagne sounds better,” Honey said. “Hotter.”

Piejack smiled. “You like that, huh?”

He pumped his pelvis twice, bobbing the gun. The weapon was small enough that Honey believed she could handle it.

“He was the master of Western Europe, Louis. Emperor of the Romans,” she said. “How about another pill?”

With his good hand, Piejack picked up the rope. His eyelids drooped and his head began to loll. “Charlie Main,” he murmured. “That ain’t so hard.”

“You want the last Vicodin or not?”

“Sure. Bottle’s in my pants,” he said. “But first I need you to take care a somethin’ else down there. See, I got this special itch I can’t scratch ’cause my fingers are messed up.”

Honey said, “Don’t even ask.”

“It’s Charlie Main’s boys.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

“Aw, come on. They got a rash that won’t quit,” he said.

Honey scooted close and nearly gagged on his smell. “Be a good boy and take your medicine. Here, let me help with the bottle.”

She leaned over as if reaching toward his pockets, then locked both hands around the sawed-off. She yanked, but the barrel wouldn’t budge-Piejack had clamped his thighs on the grip. Honey was shocked by his strength, and the quickness of his reflexes.

He cursed and rolled to his right, dragging her body across his torso. The shotgun’s muzzle stuck hard in the ground, causing both of them to lose hold. As Honey tumbled she heard a muted concussion, and then a cry.

Her ears were ringing when she sat up. Piejack’s face was spattered with sand and leaf fragments blown back from the point-blank blast. He moaned dolefully and pinched his knees together, the heavy recoil having replaced his private itch with a stupendous bruising.

Honey couldn’t believe that the man was still conscious. Wobbling to his feet, Piejack retrieved the wisping gun, which looked as if it had been used to dig a grave.

“Don’t you fuckin’ move!” he rasped at Honey.

She didn’t. Her jaw was pounding again, and a sharp pain in her belly made her wince-one of Piejack’s slimy cactus needles, poking through her shirt. Honey wondered if any infection could be worse than his company.

Desolately, she asked, “What now, Louis?”

He hunched forward. “Louder!”

“I said, what now?”

In frustration he screeched, “You think this is funny? Huh, bitch?”

Honey realized that his ear holes were plugged with dirt. As a test, she said, “Louis, you’re nothing but a rancid bucket of scum.”

He squinted quizzically yet gave no indication of registering the insult.

Swell, Honey thought. Now I get to play charades with a sex fiend. She tugged at her earlobes and shook her head.

“You can’t hear nuthin neither?” Piejack asked loudly.

Honey made a rowing motion and shouted, “Where’s your boat, Louis? Let’s go find the boat!”

“The boat?”

“Bravo!” she said, clapping.

Piejack smiled crookedly.

“Mom! Dad!” A voice from the woods.

Honey went white-it sounded like Fry, but that was impossible. Fry was far away, safe at home with his father, and neither of them would’ve known where to find her. Honey told herself that she was imagining what she heard; cracking under the stress.

“Hey, Mom?”

The voice was closer now-too close. Honey didn’t answer. With all her heart she wanted to shout back, but she knew better. If it was really Fry, he’d come running. No matter what she told him to do, he’d come running to save her.

And he couldn’t possibly save her, not all by himself. He was twelve and a half years old, for heaven’s sake.

“Mom, Dad, it’s me!”

Honey already knew.

Run away, kiddo, she thought. Please, God, make him go the other way.

There was still hope, because Piejack couldn’t hear him.

“Where are you?” the boy hollered.

He was dangerously close now. Tragically close.

Honey couldn’t stop herself.

“Fry, go away!” she blurted. “Go get help!”

Piejack was momentarily preoccupied, pawing at a string of fire ants that had greedily attached themselves to his neck.

“Fry, do what I say!” Honey cried out. “Go away-”

But there he was, sprinting out of the trees as fast as he could, which was fast indeed…and wearing, of all things, a football helmet.

Honey held out her arms and blinked away hot tears. Fry practically knocked her down with a flying hug.

“You okay?” he asked breathlessly. “God, what happened to your face?”

“I’m fine. Just fine.”

The boy stared at Louis Piejack and the stubby shotgun.

“He’s nearly deaf,” Honey said.