all over the news. They had to ch-chase one reporter off this floor already today.”
The ranger who first arrived at the fish camp had surveyed the area after we’d been airlifted. He’d followed the mashed sawgrass trail we’d left leading back to the plane. He’d told reporters he wouldn’t have believed it possible if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes. The press was clamoring for a bedside interview. Billy, as my attorney, had issued a single, unstuttered “No.”
I knew how uncomfortable Billy would be in front of cameras and tape recorders. But his anxious pacing meant more than that.
When he’d gone to get his Jeep late Sunday afternoon after they stabilized me, he’d dismissed the taxi driver and gotten inside the truck. He was pulling out in reverse when he saw the message in his rearview mirror and stopped and got out to walk around back and read it. The words were drawn in a slight film of dust on the back window: “Don’t Fuck With Mother Nature.”
Somewhere back in my cobwebbed brain I plucked out the memory of the owl voice hooing from a stand of pines.
“I c-called Hammonds. He said his c-crime scene technicians would go over it.”
“And the plane?” I said.
“I know s-someone at the FAA.”
I had no doubt they’d find some sign of tampering when they went through the wreckage.
Billy was still pacing.
“Hammonds is outside,” he said. “They w-want to talk. I told him only w-with me p-present.”
I looked at Billy’s eyes and when they locked onto mine, I knew he’d found out about my stupid visit to Hammonds’ office without him. I nodded.
“B-Be careful. You’re not off the h-hook yet,” he said, going to get the detectives.
Hammonds came in first, followed by Diaz and Richards. Diaz nodded and I swear came close to winking. Richards took up a spot against the far wall, brushed a strand of blond hair from her face and crossed her arms.
Hammonds stood at the end of the bed. The model of professionalism. He was wearing a charcoal suit, his tie pulled tight. But there was a slump in his shoulders that I doubt was there three months ago.
“I’m a little dismayed that an ex-cop who took it upon himself to bail out of a law enforcement career comes down here and starts getting his fingers stuck in a serial killer investigation,” Hammonds started, pulling no punches despite the situation.
“We’re agreed,” I said, my voice still dry and barely audible.
“We served a warrant on your place Saturday morning,” he said.
“On a tip?”
Hammonds looked quickly at Diaz, who just shrugged.
“On an anonymous tip that we might find an important piece of electronics that could be vital to our investigation.”
“And?”
“Came up empty. And disappointed,” Hammonds said, holding my gaze.
“Maybe you’d find a better suspect by looking for somebody who knows about planes. At least enough to bring them down,” I said, feeling a flush of anger making its way through my medication.
“We’re already on that. In fact your friend Mr. Gunther was on our screen before you got there.”
“As a suspect?” I said, looking over at Billy.
“As a person with a wide circle of friends who know the Everglades, some of whom have strong views about it.”
“From what I understand that’s a big circle,” I said.
“Your involvement with him makes it a somewhat smaller circle.”
“Oh, I see,” I said, now feeling the blood rise in my chest. “I get involved with this guy in a series of child killings and then we decide on a suicide pact and crash our plane in your godforsaken Everglades. But then after we’re busted up and Gunther’s half dead, we change our minds and I drag his ass all night through the swamp and then roll over in the fucking middle of nowhere with the near zero chance of somebody finding us before we both shrivel up into fish bait.”
Hammonds’ eyes did not leave my face. His expression never changed.
“If that’s your best fucking
The ranger who first arrived at the fish camp had surveyed the area after we’d been airlifted. He’d followed the mashed sawgrass trail we’d left leading back to the plane. He’d told reporters he wouldn’t have believed it possible if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes. The press was clamoring for a bedside interview. Billy, as my attorney, had issued a single, unstuttered “No.”
I knew how uncomfortable Billy would be in front of cameras and tape recorders. But his anxious pacing meant more than that.
When he’d gone to get his Jeep late Sunday afternoon after they stabilized me, he’d dismissed the taxi driver and gotten inside the truck. He was pulling out in reverse when he saw the message in his rearview mirror and stopped and got out to walk around back and read it. The words were drawn in a slight film of dust on the back window: “Don’t Fuck With Mother Nature.”
Somewhere back in my cobwebbed brain I plucked out the memory of the owl voice hooing from a stand of pines.
“I c-called Hammonds. He said his c-crime scene technicians would go over it.”
“And the plane?” I said.
“I know s-someone at the FAA.”
I had no doubt they’d find some sign of tampering when they went through the wreckage.
Billy was still pacing.
“Hammonds is outside,” he said. “They w-want to talk. I told him only w-with me p-present.”
I looked at Billy’s eyes and when they locked onto mine, I knew he’d found out about my stupid visit to Hammonds’ office without him. I nodded.
“B-Be careful. You’re not off the h-hook yet,” he said, going to get the detectives.
Hammonds came in first, followed by Diaz and Richards. Diaz nodded and I swear came close to winking. Richards took up a spot against the far wall, brushed a strand of blond hair from her face and crossed her arms.
Hammonds stood at the end of the bed. The model of professionalism. He was wearing a charcoal suit, his tie pulled tight. But there was a slump in his shoulders that I doubt was there three months ago.
“I’m a little dismayed that an ex-cop who took it upon himself to bail out of a law enforcement career comes down here and starts getting his fingers stuck in a serial killer investigation,” Hammonds started, pulling no punches despite the situation.
“We’re agreed,” I said, my voice still dry and barely audible.
“We served a warrant on your place Saturday morning,” he said.
“On a tip?”
Hammonds looked quickly at Diaz, who just shrugged.
“On an anonymous tip that we might find an important piece of electronics that could be vital to our investigation.”
“And?”
“Came up empty. And disappointed,” Hammonds said, holding my gaze.
“Maybe you’d find a better suspect by looking for somebody who knows about planes. At least enough to bring them down,” I said, feeling a flush of anger making its way through my medication.
“We’re already on that. In fact your friend Mr. Gunther was on our screen before you got there.”
“As a suspect?” I said, looking over at Billy.
“As a person with a wide circle of friends who know the Everglades, some of whom have strong views about it.”
“From what I understand that’s a big circle,” I said.
“Your involvement with him makes it a somewhat smaller circle.”
“Oh, I see,” I said, now feeling the blood rise in my chest. “I get involved with this guy in a series of child killings and then we decide on a suicide pact and crash our plane in your godforsaken Everglades. But then after we’re busted up and Gunther’s half dead, we change our minds and I drag his ass all night through the swamp and then roll over in the fucking middle of nowhere with the near zero chance of somebody finding us before we both shrivel up into fish bait.”
Hammonds’ eyes did not leave my face. His expression never changed.
“If that’s your best fucking
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