Nature Girl

Twenty-one

Louis Piejack had deteriorated in all aspects during the long night in the cistern. Grime-borne infection had erupted beneath his cheek-to-shin stubble of cactus needles, promoting a startling dermatological resemblance to a puffer fish. Meanwhile his moldy surgical bandages had been fully colonized by fire ants, creating a live insect hive on the terminus of his left arm. Protruding from the putrid gauze were Piejack’s skewed finger nubs, which had plumped and ripened into a parody of Greek olives. A medley of extreme pain stimuli-stinging, searing, throbbing, burning, grinding-was being transmitted in hot static bursts to Piejack’s brain stem, yet he remained benumbed by the derangement of lust.

“Jackpot! Jackpot!” he chirped at Honey Santana as he exultantly led her across the island.

“Louis, you’re hurting me.”

“Then be good.”

“The rope’s cutting into my neck.”

“Don’t worry, angel. I’ll kiss it and make it better.”

“What is it you want?” Honey asked, as if she didn’t know. The man looked quite ill, and she aimed to overpower him at the earliest opportunity.

“What do you think I want?” Piejack waggled the pill bottle in his lips like the stub of a cigar.

“There are easier ways to get laid, Louis. Call an escort service, for heaven’s sake.”

He sneered. “Ever seen them girls? Oinky oink oink!”

“Really,” Honey said. “And when’s the last time you were mistaken for Sean Connery?”

“Who?”

“You know. The old James Bond.”

Piejack grunted. “So you’re makin’ a goddamn joke.”

“No, I’m making a point. Think about what you’re doing, Louis. You rape me, they’ll lock you up for twenty years.”

“Who says it’s gonna be a rape?”

“I do.” Honey yanked on the rope, halting him in his tracks.

Piejack spun around. “So, how come it’s gotta be that way? Why?” His eyes were twitching. “I know you want me-that’s how come you stopped over my house. So why don’tcha just roll with it?”

Honey longed to say: Because you’re a loathsome lump of shit, Louis, and I’d rather die than let you touch me…

But Piejack still toted the gumbo-limbo branch, so Honey’s reponse was: “Because I don’t sleep with men who treat me like this, that’s why.”

“Treat you how?”

“Like a dog, Louis. You’re dragging me along like a hound dog on a leash. Is this supposed to put me in a romantic mood?”

Piejack clicked his teeth. “You’re just tryin’ to con me into takin’ off the rope. Here”-he spit the pharmacy bottle at her feet-“Twist the cap off that sucker, would ya?”

Honey picked up the bottle, glanced at the label and opened it. “How many?” she asked.

“Three would be nice. Four would be scrumptious.”

She tapped the Vicodins into her palm. “Where you want ’em?”

Piejack opened his jaws and unfurled his tongue, which resembled a scabrous brown sea slug.

“Put that nasty thing away,” Honey told him. “Open wide.”

Predictably, he slurped at her fingers as she dropped the pills into his mouth. She was too quick for him.

He swallowed the painkillers dry. “How many do I got left?”

“Just one, Louis.”

“That’s okay. My man at the drugstore owes me a refill.”

“So we’re going home soon?” Honey asked.

“Yes, ma’am. The johnboat can’t be far.”

“Can we bring my kayaks?”

Not wishing to abandon her expensive purchases, Honey had no qualms about asking Piejack for a tow. She figured it was the least he could do after abducting her.

“Don’t see why not,” he said, resuming the march. “But ’member, one good deed deserves an even better one. That means you gotta give up the velvet, angel.”

Honey’s outlook on men was sinking to a point of abject revulsion. The day was new, yet already she’d been ridiculed by a soulless twit and kidnapped by a reeking pervert.

“You might even like it.” Louis Piejack winked over his shoulder. “I never had no complaints in the bedroom department.”

Honey no longer could stand it. “Know what? I need a potty break.”

Piejack stopped walking. “Well, hurry it up,” he said.

“Right here-in front of you? I can’t, Louis.”

“Okay, I won’t peek. But I ain’t undoin’ the damn rope.”

As soon as he turned away, Honey pretended to unzip her pants. After lowering herself into a credible squat she began searching the ground for something sharp, heavy or both.

“I don’t hear nuthin,” Piejack grumbled suspiciously.

Honey said, “It’s hard to do this while you’re standing there listening. Just give me a minute.”

She found a gnarly chunk of coral the size of a mango; the weight was perfect. Clutching it in her right hand, she rose slowly and took aim at the back of Piejack’s crusty head.

“You lied,” he was saying. “You don’t really gotta go.”

“Louis, would you please shut up so I can concentrate?”

“Concentrate on what? It ain’t a chess match, angel, it’s just pissin’ in the woods.”

Honey Santana raised the piece of coral to strike him, but Piejack was already half-turned, swinging the gumbo-limbo like a boom. The blow landed flush on the left side of her face, and she heard a bone break. Then the sun exploded into a million flaming pink raindrops.

Like flamingos, Honey thought as she fell.

Flying home.

Fry had been confident he could locate the clearing where his father had told him to wait, but the lay of the island looked different in the morning light. After twenty minutes of circular meandering he admitted he was lost.

“Let’s take a time-out,” said Eugenie Fonda, whose own navigational skills were better suited to the city.

Fry put down the metal camera case and leaned against a buttonwood. “I don’t feel so great.”

When he told Eugenie about the skateboard accident, she said, “Your old man should’ve left you in the hospital.”

“We were worried about Mom.”

“I’ve seen her in action, bucko. She can take care of herself.”

“What’s that shiny thing in your mouth?” Fry asked.

Eugenie smiled self-consciously. She’d never been asked about it by a boy his age. “A pearl,” she said.

“Is it real?”

“Yessir.”

“Can I see?”

She extended her tongue in a prim and clinical way, so as not to give the kid any wild ideas. Fry adjusted the football helmet to get a better look.

“Sweet.” He leaned close. “Did that hurt when they made the hole?”

“Like a mother,” she said.

“There’s this girl in eighth grade, she’s got a gold safety pin in her nose and a platinum screw through one eyebrow and an I-bolt in her right ear. They call her ‘Toolbox.’”

Genie said, “Kids can be awful.”

“I like your pearl.”

“Thank you, Fry, but I believe I’ve outgrown it.” She unfastened the stud, wiped it on the front of her pullover and dropped it in the palm of his hand.

“Ma’am, I really can’t take this,” he protested. “No way.”

Genie closed his fingers over the pearl and said, “It’s for when you meet that certain girl. But first you gotta make me a blood promise.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t ever change. By that I mean don’t grow up to be a jerkoff like ninety percent of the men I meet.”

“Mom always tells me the same thing. Except she says it’s more like ninety-five.”

“Best advice you’ll ever get: Stay a gentleman, and you’ll never be alone. Don’t lie, don’t bullshit, don’t fuck around-Christ, I can’t believe I said ‘fuck around’ to a fourteen-year-old boy! I’m sorry.”

Fry laughed. “I’ll be thirteen in June.”

Genie made a gun with her fingers and cocked it to her temple.

“Don’t worry,” he told her. “I hear worse stuff every day at school.”

“Now you’re depressing me. Let’s get movin’.”

Fry pocketed the pearl. Eugenie said it was her turn to be the bellhop, and reached for the Halliburton. They’d walked for only a few minutes when the boy began to lag. Eugenie went back and entwined her free arm in one of his.

“My dad’s gonna be so pissed,” he said dejectedly.

“Tell him it was my fault you ran off. You were rushing to the aid of a damsel in distress-what’s wrong, sweetie?”

“I dunno, all of a sudden it’s like I’m in a cave.” Fry blinked and started to weave. “I’m getting really cold again,” he said.

Genie dropped the metal case and grabbed for him, but he was already falling. His head struck first, the helmet making a hollow tonk as it bounced off the trunk of a strangler fig.

“Oh God, no,” Eugenie murmured.

Kneeling at his side, she lifted his head onto her lap. His eyes had rolled back, and his skin was damp and ashen. The pulse at his neck felt fluttery, and a burgundy trickle ran from his bitten lower lip to his chin. Genie rocked the boy, softly pleading with him to wake up and cursing the day she’d met Boyd Shreave.

Gillian said, “Let’s talk about what happened. The sex, I mean.”

“We already talked,” said Sammy Tigertail, “the whole time it was happening.”

“But you never told me what you thought. Am I worth all the hassle or not?” She stepped into her flip-flops. “My sister goes through, like, twenty boyfriends a year. I don’t say a word.”

The Indian felt another impulse to kiss her, which was unnerving. He was supposed to be done with it; that was the plan. He picked a red bay twig out of her hair and said, “It was real nice.”

Gillian slugged him in the arm. “Nice?”

“Wonderful,” he said. “I meant wonderful.”

“Right. Vundebar, as Ethan used to say.” She was steamed. “You’re quite the fucking poet, Thlocko.”

Sammy Tigertail tried to put his arms around her but she spun away. He opened his carry bag to look for some warm clothes. Nearby, the white man with the gunshot wound was making an odd flutish sound through his nose.

Gillian fumbled with the strings of her bikini top. “Know what my problem is? I want everything perfect, see, like at the end of a movie. I always want the damn dolphins to swim free. I always want to sing like Jewel when I’m playin’ the six-string. And I always want guys to fall totally in love with me after one night.”

The Indian handed her a sweatshirt and fleece pants. “It’s getting colder,” he said.

“No staring at the ta-ta’s allowed.”

“You’d be bored to death out here with me. Plus, you’re allergic to mosquitoes-that’s what you told me.”

Gillian said, “I’m not high-maintenance, okay? My sister, she’s high-maintenance. My mom, big-time. Compared to those two, I’m easy.” She plopped down beside him and rolled up the cuffs of the pants. “Hey, I know I talk when I shouldn’t. I’m workin’ on it.”

Sammy Tigertail wasn’t sure what steps to take if she refused to leave the island the next day. He wasn’t even sure he still wanted her to go.

He kissed her lightly and said, “Truth is, it was better than wonderful.”

“I thought so, too. Wanna do it again?”

“Mr. Skinner and his boy will be here soon.”

Gillian faked a pout. “Mean old man,” she said.

“Anyway, your buddy Lester’s gonna wake up any minute.”

She clucked and affected the proper accent of a British headmistress. “Well, goodness, we most definitely don’t wish to offend Lord Lester.”

As if on cue, the sleeping man snuffled and quaked.

Sammy Tigertail said, “There’s something I didn’t tell you. I’m only half Seminole.”

Gillian smiled devilishly. “Bet I know which half.”

“Seriously. My father was white.”

She pretended to look him over. “Wild guess-did he have fantastic blue eyes?”

Sammy Tigertail found himself talking about his childhood in the suburbs of Broward County; about how he’d moved to the Big Cypress and started his life over.

“That,” Gillian said, “is insanely cool.”

“Some days it was a bitch.”

“But you hung in!”

“So far,” he said.

She reached for his hand. “Thlocko, I’ve got a little confession, too. I lied about not being high-maintenance.”

The Indian broke into laughter. He couldn’t stop.

Then all of a sudden he was kissing her again.

Until she took a deep breath and said, “You’re probably right. I wouldn’t last very long out here in the boonies.”

“Do you want to try?” He was stupefied to hear himself ask the question.

She said, “God, I’m already jonesing for a Starbucks. Is that pathetic or what? And Krispy Kremes.”

“My dad’s favorite,” said Sammy Tigertail. “Every Sunday morning we’d eat a dozen, just the two of us.”

“Stop, you! I could inhale a whole box of those bad boys.”

He said, “Look, Gillian-you want to stay and give it a shot, I don’t mind.”

She lifted his hand to her lips. “That’s, like, the most romantic thing anybody’s ever said to me-least in English. But I gotta think about it, ’kay?”

“Take your time.”

“Meanwhile, Big Chief Thlocko, let me show you what my people call a ‘quickie.’”

Sammy Tigertail rose to a crouch. “Ssshhh. Somebody’s comin’.”

Perry Skinner wasn’t inclined to panic-not after the many close calls he’d survived in his dope-running days. He had trained himself to keep calm because those who got rattled usually made poor and life-altering decisions.

Fry was gone but there was no reason to think something terrible had occurred, which would have been his mother’s automatic assumption. The kid had his shit together; he wouldn’t do anything stupid. He’d probably started feeling better and decided he could catch up to Skinner on his own.

After searching the woods around the clearing, Skinner jogged to Sammy Tigertail’s camp, hoping to find Fry waiting for him. The Seminole and his girlfriend had heard Skinner’s footsteps and hidden behind some bay trees.

When they saw who it was, they came out waving. Fry wasn’t with them.

Sammy Tigertail said, “I’ll help you look, Mr. Skinner. The island’s not that big.”

“Maybe he went and found his mom,” said Gillian.

The thought had occurred to Perry Skinner, too. It was something to hope for.

“I’ll stay here with Lester, in case they show up. You guys go,” Gillian urged. “And take some food-if you find ’em, they’ll be hungry.”

Skinner and the Indian didn’t get far before they heard the helicopter. It was working a search grid, back and forth. Sammy Tigertail said it must be the Everglades park rangers.

“We’re not in the park,” Skinner said. “We’re on Dismal Key.” From the pitch of the turbines he could tell it was the Coast Guard.

The Seminole looked distraught as he ducked into the bushes. “It’s me they’re after, Mr. Skinner.”

“Why? What’d you do?”

“A white man died on my airboat and I sunk the body.”

“Did you kill him, Sammy?”

“No, but they’ll never believe me,” he said, shaking his head. “Just like they won’t believe I didn’t mean to shoot Lester.”

Skinner had a feeling that the Indian might be right about the cops arresting him.

“I can’t go to prison, Mr. Skinner. That’s what they did to Tiger Tail and the other chiefs.”

“All right, Sammy.”

They hurried back to the campsite and found Gillian preparing to flag the chopper with an Allman Brothers Eat a Peach T-shirt that had once belonged to Sammy Tigertail’s father. The Seminole snatched the cherished relic from the girl’s hands and ordered her to stay low. Although they couldn’t yet see the helicopter, it sounded close.

“But that’s Lester’s ride!” Gillian exclaimed. “Remember? He phoned somebody to come get him.”

The engine noise roused Dealey, and he struggled to sit. “Finally,” he said thickly. “Somebody help me up.”

Sammy Tigertail told him to forget it. “There’s nowhere to land that thing on this island.”

Perry Skinner was impatient to search for Fry and Honey, but he knew what had to be done first: The man with the bullet wound needed a doctor. It would be bad for everybody if Lester got worse and died on Dismal Key.

“Grab his legs,” Skinner told the Indian. “I’ll get the other end.”

“Go easy,” said Gillian.

Skinner pointed to an expensive Halliburton valise. It was the same brand he’d used for hauling cash in the old days; durable and waterproof. “That yours?” he asked Dealey.

“Yeah, but where’s my other one?”

Gillian picked up the travel case. The Seminole took hold of Dealey’s ankles while Skinner hoisted the private investigator from behind, clutching him Heimlich-style around his bare chest.

“Goddamn, that hurts!” Dealey blurted.

Skinner said, “Suck it up. You’re goin’ home.”

They carried him to the notch along the creek where the kayaks were tethered, and with great effort they positioned him in the red one. Gillian propped the Halliburton between his knees.

Dealey was unable to paddle because of the shotgun hole in his shoulder. Skinner hastily devised an anchor from an old cinder block and attached the rope that had been used to secure Honey’s kayaks. He instructed Dealey to push the hunk of concrete overboard in the middle of the creek; that would hold the lightweight craft in the current and make it easier to spot from the air.

Skinner spun the red kayak and aimed the bow toward the open water. Gillian waved and sang out, “Bye, Lester,” but her words drowned in the roar of the approaching chopper. On a count of three, Skinner and Sammy Tigertail gave a firm shove and sent Dealey gliding out of the mangroves.

The tide took the kayak and tugged it toward the Gulf. Dealey clumsily kicked the cinder block over the side, the line came tight and the boat swung to a halt halfway across the creek. From the shore, Gillian clapped and whistled.

A large shadow appeared, skittering like a water bug over the waves. Perry Skinner looked up to see a flash of blaze orange, the official striping of the Coast Guard air-search fleet. He herded Gillian and the Seminole into the shelter of the tree line as the helicopter circled and dipped. They watched with consternation as Dealey endeavored to stand in the kayak, undoubtedly with a mind to signal for help. He was every bit as graceful as a walrus on a boogie board.

The juggle of Dealey’s ample heft caused the boat to list ominously, and the nose began to tunnel in the current.

“Look at that fool,” Sammy Tigertail said.

Skinner was furious. “Sit your fat ass down!” he yelled at the man called Lester, who paid no heed.

Gillian gasped. “Holy shit, he’s sinking!”

The Indian pulled off his shoes. “I’ll go,” he said.

Skinner said no. “They might lock you up, Sammy. Let me do it.”

Thinking: I don’t have time for this nonsense.

The kayak capsized with hardly a ripple. Dealey didn’t fall so much as he rolled. Invigorated by terror and a torrent of cold water, he thrashed until his good arm caught hold of the upturned hull, which had remained anchored in the channel.

“Poor old Lester,” Gillian said, and began stripping off the clothes that Sammy Tigertail had given her.

The Seminole watched, dumbstruck.

“Don’t worry,” she told him when she was down to her mesh panties. “I was on the crew team, ’member? Plus I did the whole Baywatch thing one summer in Destin. It was, like, eight-fifty an hour and you had to buy your own sunblock.”

She stuffed the clothes in Sammy Tigertail’s arms and kissed him wildly on the mouth and said, “Bye, Thlocko. You’re the fucking best.”

“Don’t do this!”

“Write a song about me later,” she said, “when you’re a rock star.”

Then she was gone, splashing out of the mangroves and into the swift creek.

The Indian started to chase her but Perry Skinner caught him by the belt. Skinner pointed up at the helicopter, which already had begun lowering a rescue basket over the flipped kayak. A full-suited Coast Guard diver was poised on one of the aircraft’s skids.

“You think those guys’re gonna let that pretty girl drown?” Skinner said. “Lester’s the one who ought to be worried. He’ll be lucky if they save him a towel.”

Sammy Tigertail watched Gillian scissor through the rotor-blown chop and latch onto the wallowing white man. “She’s a good swimmer, for sure,” the Seminole said. “And pretty, like you say.”

“Save it for a valentine, Sammy. Right now I need you to help me find my son and my wife.”

“You mean your ex.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Sure, Mr. Skinner.” Sammy Tigertail stooped to put on his shoes.

When Fry awoke, he was weak but no longer dizzy. His lower lip stung where he’d chomped it when he fell.

Eugenie Fonda was elated that the boy hadn’t croaked in her arms. She pecked him on the forehead and said, “You got a concussion, bucko. We’re stayin’ right here until your old man tracks us down.”

Fry didn’t argue. He had no strength for another hike. The sun on his legs felt good; so did lying on Eugenie’s lap. Were it not for the football helmet, he would have been basking in the warmth of her outstanding breasts. He tried not to dwell on that.

“Hey, check out the chameleons,” he said.

There were two of them, as bright as emeralds, sharing a bough in the strangler fig. One of the lizards inflated its wine-red dewlap and began pumping its featherweight body, as if it was doing push-ups.

“That’s the male,” Fry explained. “He’s showin’ off.”

“Go figure,” said Eugenie.

She opened the Halliburton and removed the video camera. After rewinding the tape, she touched the play button. The young Seminole’s girlfriend appeared on the display screen, auditioning with the shotgun as a prop.

Good morning, this is Gillian St. Croix bringing you the weather! A winter storm rumbled through the Rockies last night, dumping snow from Montana to New Mexico. The ski resorts in Vail are reporting three feet of fresh powder, and it’s even deeper in Aspen and Telluride. Meanwhile, waaaaaaay down in sunny southern Florida, daytime temps are expected to reach the low seventies by noon. It’s ideal conditions for being held hostage by a stud-hunk Native American on a deserted tropical isle. We’re talkin’ about a serious blue-eyed Bone Machine-

Eugenie Fonda hastily shut off the tape.

“Who was that?” Fry asked.

“Just a girl gone wild.” Eugenie rewound the cassette and activated the record button.

“Where are those lizards?” She pointed the camera toward the fig tree.

“Little higher.” Fry twisted around to show her.

“They’re cute little buggers, aren’t they?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The boy’s neck ached, so he turned back the other way.

“And real fond of each other.” Genie toggled the zoom.

“Do you have any kids?” Fry asked.

She thought: One of the few mistakes I haven’t made. “I never grew up enough to be a mom. That’s a serious gig,” she said.

“Nah, you could do it.”

“I was wondering-do lizards make noise?”

“Geckos, yeah. Not chameleons,” he said.

“Too bad.” Genie fiddled with the focus control.

“What kind of job do you have?” the boy asked.

She chuckled dryly. “I sell an incredible amount of crap to people over the phone. But once upon a time I had a book published.”

“Sweet.”

“The phony true-life story of a doomed romance,” she said, “but don’t be too impressed. I didn’t write a damn word of it.”

“What’s the book called?”

Genie said, “Never mind. It’s not in your school library, I promise. Aren’t chameleons the ones with the big buggy eyes and the superlong tongues? Like that guy in Kiss.”

“Those are old-world chameleons. The species here in the Everglades is called the American anole.”

Eugenie was enjoying herself; the kid was an encyclopedia. She said, “Maybe I can sell this tape to the National Geographic. You could help me with the script.”

Fry cocked his head and listened. “You might want to wrap it up,” he said.

“In a minute.”

He sat up. “Hear that? It’s a chopper!”

“How can you tell from so far off?”

The boy raised one arm to block out the sun. “They’re headin’ our way.”

Eugenie switched off the camera. Honey’s kid was right-it sounded like a helicopter, not a plane. She remembered the man called Lester bragging of secret arrangements to leave the island; possibly she’d underestimated him. Although Gillian’s young Seminole had promised to provide a boat and a map for returning to the mainland, air travel was much more appealing to Genie.

“I need to ask you somethin’ important,” she said to Fry. “Say I caught a ride outta here-would you be all right until your old man shows up?”

With a whoosh the helicopter passed over the treetops.

“Coast Guard. They’re circling.” Fry craned for a better view. “You get going. I’ll be okay,” he said.

Genie helped the boy to his feet. “Or how about you and me leave together? They’ll send somebody back to find your folks, for sure.”

“No, ma’am, you go.”

Hurriedly she packed the video gear. “Promise you’ll wait right here for your dad? Don’t be a typical dumbass male and get yourself lost in the woods.”

“Promise.”

“Hey, I know you’re quite the jock. I saw all those track trophies at your mom’s place.”

Fry said, “I’m not goin’ anywhere. I feel like crap.”

Genie shielded her eyes and pivoted on one heel, following the hum of the chopper. “How they gonna land with all these damn trees?”

“They’re not. You’ve gotta get in the creek or they won’t see you.” Fry pointed. “Try that way-the kayaks are stashed in the mangroves. Dad and I found ’em last night.”

She squeezed the boy and thumped the side of his helmet. “If you were ten years older, bucko, you’d be in serious trouble.”

Fry squirmed and said, “Better hurry.”

Eugenie Fonda snatched up the camera case and took off. She laughed when she heard him call out: “Wait! Are you sure you don’t want your pearl?”

Priceless, she thought. One in a million.

Shortly before sunrise, the U.S. Coast Guard station in Fort Myers Beach had received a call from Fort Worth, Texas. A woman who gave her name as Lily Shreave reported that a cousin named Dealey had contacted her by cellular phone to say he was stranded without provisions on an unknown island near the town of Everglades City. The woman said her cousin was a well-known nature photographer working on a documentary about orphaned pelicans. She said he suffered from a rare condition known as aphenphosmphobia, of which the petty officer taking the report had never heard and didn’t even attempt to spell. Ms. Shreave went on to say that her cousin was in dire need of his anti-aphenphosmphobia medication, which he’d forgotten on the front seat of a rental car parked at his motel.

When the petty officer inquired how Mr. Dealey had come to be marooned, his cousin said he’d blacked out in a small boat while photographing a rookery. She said the battery in her cousin’s phone had gone dead during his call, so she had no other information to help pinpoint the location. She provided a thorough description of the missing man-fifty-seven years old, brown eyes, balding, five ten, 215 pounds. Ms. Shreave also said he was wearing a slate-gray Brooks Brothers suit. When the Coast Guard officer remarked that such attire seemed strange for a field trip to the Ten Thousand Islands, Ms. Shreave explained that her cousin, like many artistic types, was an eccentric.

At 0700 hours, an HH60 Jayhawk helicopter carrying a search-and-rescue crew lifted off and headed south along the coast, passing directly over Naples, Marco Island and then Cape Romano Shoals. The chopper angled slightly toward the mainland and dropped altitude before looping around the fishing village of Chokoloskee. The pilot then banked westward to place the rising sun behind the spotters who would be searching the green tapestry of mangroves and hammocks for Mr. Dealey. It was a limpid morning, and visibility was superb.

Lily Shreave was rolling up her yoga mat when a Coast Guard ensign called with good news. Her “cousin” had been pulled alive from a creek near an uninhabited island called Dismal Key, a few nautical miles outside the boundary of Everglades National Park. Also rescued were two women, who gave their names as Gillian St. Croix and Jean Leigh Hill and stated their respective occupations as a TV weather personality and a freelance videographer.

Ms. Shreave said she had no idea who they were.