Nature Girl

Twenty-two

As soon as Boyd Shreave heard the helicopter, he began scrambling up the old poinciana. Without Honey’s assistance he couldn’t reach the top, but he got high enough to consider it a lifetime achievement.

As a boy, Shreave had avoided tree play, impaired as he was by flabby musculature and a loathing for exertion. Now, wedged snugly into a crook of three branches, he felt like he belonged in an episode of Survivor, his favorite TV reality show. Every season a crop of youthful competitors was deposited on some remote tropical location and put through a delightfully pointless series of physical challenges resulting in the elimination of the weak and unreliable. While the program usually featured one or two contestants who were as desultory and unathletic as Shreave himself, he never rooted for them. It was the sunburned babes in their frayed cutoffs and ill-fitting halters whom he avidly tuned in to watch.

From the tree, Shreave flagged his arms and hollered for help. The crew of the hovering helicopter never glanced his way, and Shreave realized that he needed to go higher. However, he was intimidated by the prospect of scaling to a more visible position above the canopy-the breezy conditions, the slipperiness of the branches and his own lack of agility argued for caution.

From a pocket of his windbreaker he extracted what he falsely believed to be a portable marine radio, which along with two granola bars he’d pilfered from Honey’s belongings after she was snatched by the club-handed lunatic. Shreave started pressing buttons on the compact gadget and barking, “Mayday! Mayday!”

There was no response from the Coast Guard pilot or any other human, and for good reason. Except for its LED screen, the instrument in Shreave’s possession was electronically dissimilar to a radio in all significant respects. Most crucial was the absence of either an audio receiver or a transmitter.

“SOS! SOS!” he persisted. “Help!”

The device was in fact a mobile GPS unit, as technologically impenetrable to Shreave as the Taser gun he’d found beneath Honey’s bed. Commonly carried by boaters, campers and hunters, a GPS enables users to precisely track and then retrace their movements anywhere on the planet. Satellites record intermediate points in longitude and latitude in the instrument’s memory, which displays the information in a mapping format so elementary that even a drooling moron can read it.

Not Boyd Shreave. The singular result of his frantic button pushing was to engage the satellite signal and successfully identify his location as approximately 81°33' west of the prime meridian and 25°53' north of the equator. However, the flashing numerals were a meaningless jumble to Shreave.

“Mayday! SOS! Nine one one!” he screamed at the mute GPS as he watched the orange-and-white helicopter repositioning above the creek. From his bushy perch, Shreave couldn’t see what the Coast Guard spotters saw, so he was unable to appreciate their gallantry and resourcefulness. A routine search mission for an ailing middle-aged photographer had been complicated by the unexpected appearance of not one but two extremely attractive female evacuees.

The first woman had dived nearly naked into the chilly water to assist the wayward photographer as he clung to a small overturned vessel. Minutes later the second woman had emerged in a yellow kayak from the mangroves, waving what appeared to be a festively colored undergarment at the chopper. Swiftly the crew members took action to expand the retrieval operation, proceeding with an unbreakable focus and esprit de corps that reduced to zero the chances of them noticing a lone pale figure halfway up a distant tree and obscured by heavy foliage.

Bitterness engulfed Boyd Shreave as three times an empty basket unspooled from a cable in the belly of the aircraft, and three times the basket ascended holding a blanketed human form. Shreave was too far away to see who was being rescued; he knew only that it wasn’t he. When the helicopter buzzed away, he thought: Screwed again.

A silken quiet fell briefly over the island, but soon the seabirds began to pipe and the trees began to stir. From his lonely roost, Shreave watched a zebra-striped butterfly alight on a nearby poinciana leaf. With a sour cackle he hurled the GPS at it.

He missed by three feet, and the butterfly flitted away.

In the four years following her divorce, Honey Santana had gone out with five men. Only three of them got a second date, and only two of them got to see her bedroom.

The first was Dale Rozelle, who had advertised himself as a professional bowler from Boca Grande. He was thin and handsome and eleven years younger than Perry Skinner. During sex he slapped his own ass and grunted like a constipated hog, which distracted Honey and on at least two occasions awakened Fry down the hall. Honey might have overlooked the barnyard sound effects had Dale Rozelle distinguished himself in other ways, but he had not. An Internet troll by Fry revealed that Dale Rozelle was lying not only about his bowling career but also about his lifetime membership in the Sierra Club, a fictitious credential that he’d correctly surmised would boost his standing with Honey. Disgusted by her own gullibility, she had (against Fry’s counsel) stormed into the bowling alley on Mixed-League Night and confronted the duplicitous shithead in the ninth frame of his last game. The one-sided encounter had ended with Honey dropping a sixteen-pound Brunswick on Dale Rozelle’s left instep. Eventually he agreed not to prosecute, but only after Perry Skinner had promised to pay the medical bills.

The other man with whom Honey had slept was Fry’s orthodontist, Dr. Tyler Teehorn, whose wife had sold their Volvo sedan and run off to Montserrat with her husband’s star hygienist. It had happened on the same day that Tyler Teehorn was fitting Fry for a retainer, and the man was a mess. That night Honey had dropped her son at Skinner’s house, driven back to Naples and dragged Tyler Teehorn out to Ruby Tuesday’s for a drink. Never had she seen anyone so bereft, and in a moment of rum-soaked pity she’d invited him to go home with her. The sex, while slightly better than Honey had anticipated, was quite obviously the most spectacular in Dr. Tyler Teehorn’s sheltered experience. No sooner had he pulled on his socks than he proclaimed his eternal love for Honey. Not wishing to be the second woman-or possibly the third, considering how hard it was to find a top-flight hygienist-to break Tyler Teehorn’s heart in a twelve-hour span, Honey had murmured an endearment that she’d hoped was adequately tender yet vague. For the next four weeks the man had clung to her like a mollusk. In contrast to Dale Rozelle, Dr. Teehorn’s integrity and devotion were unassailable. Unfortunately, he was a suffocating bore. Ignorant of politics, world affairs and even sports, his personality sparked only when he steered the conversation to the topic of teeth. Honey had finally dumped him during a candlelit dinner when he’d offered to fix her overbite for free.

“Wake up!” she heard Louis Piejack say, yet she didn’t move. She intended to fake unconsciousness as long as possible. In addition to fracturing her jaw, the gumbo-limbo bludgeon had knocked all the songs out of her head. Inexplicably, the void had filled with that dispiritingly detailed recap of her post-divorce sex life. It made her long for a dual blast of Ethel Merman and the Foo Fighters.

“Giddup right now!” Piejack snapped.

The toe of a shoe poked Honey in the ribs, and a fog of fish stink confirmed that Piejack was looming over her. She hoped that her face was so pulped that he would lose interest in raping her.

“C’mon, goddammit, I didn’t hit you that hard,” he said.

She noticed a new sound-not a tune, but rather a single distant note, rising in volume. Soon it grew to a sustained chord, complete with percussion. Honey was relieved that Piejack could hear it, too.

“What the hell?” he cried with alarm.

Honey recognized the noise and smiled. She peeked up just in time to see an orange-and-white shape streak overhead. Impulsively she tried to shout, but only a bubble of blood came out; the left side of her face was numb, and her tongue felt like she’d been licking broken glass.

“You be still!” Louis Piejack was ducking and bobbing as he watched for the return of the Coast Guard helicopter. His level of alertness was impressive, considering the gorilla dosage of Vicodin that he’d consumed.

“Don’t get no ideas,” he warned her.

Honey was brimming with ideas. Unfortunately, she was also tied to a tree. It had happened while she was knocked out, when the dexterously challenged Piejack had had time to work.

“Long as we stay still, they won’t never see us,” he said confidently. He hunkered beside her and, with his misassembled hand, stroked her thigh. When he lasciviously wiggled a blackened pinkie, she swatted it away.

Piejack chuckled. “You’ll feel better soon, angel. When we’re snug at home.”

Honey knew that he was too weak to carry her; otherwise they’d already be on his boat, speeding back to the mainland. Slowly she sat up, testing the rope that he’d secured to her wrists and then looped around her neck. The fit was tight enough to limit her options-and to make her slightly sorry for having pretended to tie up Boyd Shreave.

“Damn, I’m thirsty,” Piejack said.

Honey was parched, too. Her throat felt like she’d been gargling sawdust.

She heard the chopper hovering nearby yet she couldn’t see it through the trees. Maybe it’s me they’re looking for, she thought, although she couldn’t imagine why. Fry wasn’t expecting her home until the following day, so he had no reason to call out the Coast Guard.

Unless…

Honey stiffened.

…unless it was her ex-husband who’d summoned a search helicopter, which he wouldn’t do unless there was an emergency back in town.

Like something awful had happened to Fry.

Honey Santana lunged to her feet, nearly garroting herself. Piejack brought her down with one sharp yank.

“What’s your problem, woman?” he said.

Frantically she scanned the sky. A vision became fixed in her mind of Fry motionless on a stretcher in a speeding ambulance. The boy’s head was bandaged and his father was sitting beside him, stroking his hair. The image was so vivid that Honey thought she could hear the ambulance siren above the high drone of the helicopter.

Then the chopper flew away and the vision faded. Honey was overtaken by a desire to murder Louis Piejack on the spot, and she would have tried had she not been bound by the neck.

He stood up shakily and said, “Let’s get a move on, ’fore that whirlybird comes back.”

Honey watched with a bent fascination as Piejack struggled to untie the rope from the tree, no easy task for a man with a set of jumbled fingers. After several frustrating attempts he decided to attack the knot with his teeth, freeing both hands to hoist the gumbo branch as a sobering reminder for Honey to behave.

Once the rope was loose, he managed to rehitch the free end around his chest. Wordlessly he headed into the woods, leading Honey like a pack mule. They walked for half an hour, following a dense and unfamiliar shoreline until they broke into a large clearing. At one end was an untidy campsite with a small fire pit that was piled with ashes. Piejack tethered Honey to another tree while he rifled the gear belonging to the campers, who were nowhere to be seen. He found an uncapped jug of water, which he guzzled without so much as a glance toward Honey, who was too proud to ask for a drink.

Louis Piejack tossed the empty water bottle and resumed foraging. He kicked something hard that was wrapped in a blanket, and it made a noise like a cat caught in bedsprings. Piejack kicked open the bundle and revealed a dazzling electric guitar, which he gathered into his foully stained lap.

Honey felt vindicated. Boyd Shreave had scoffed at her when she said she’d heard guitar music.

“Can you play one a these?” Piejack asked.

“Sure.” She was trying not to move her jaws.

“I’m a piano man myself.” Piejack began tweaking the strings with his infected nubs. “This baby’s worth some cash, ya think?”

“Go easy, Louis.” Honey was disgusted to see him smearing his rancid bandages across the beautiful finish on the Gibson.

“Will you do a song for me?”

“I guess so. If you untie this rope,” Honey said. She couldn’t play a lick, but it was worth a shot.

Piejack hunched over to work one-handedly on the loops of the knot. As the moist stubble of his whiskers rubbed against her skin, Honey suppressed the urge to chomp a gaping hole in his neck.

Once her wrists were freed, he gave her the guitar. It was a magnificent thing to hold. With a sleeve she cleaned Piejack’s grease marks off the polished wood.

He said, “Now do me a love song, angel.”

“All right, Louis.”

Strumming lightly, she began to sing:

Piejack wrested the instrument from Honey. “I don’t care for that fuckin’ number.”

“But there’s twelve more verses,” she said innocently. “It’s called ‘The Trapped on an Island with a Revolting Pervert Blues.’ You never heard it before? Fiona Apple does a killer cover.”

Piejack flung the Gibson into the fire pit and said, “You ain’t one bit funny.”

Honey touched the side of her face. She had a bruise the size of a pomegranate where he’d clobbered her with the branch.

“Louis, may I have a Vicodin?”

“I only got the one left-and it’s for me.”

“Always the gentleman,” she said.

“We get home, you can have all you want. So quit yer bitchin’.”

“Where’s this boat of yours, anyway?”

“Ain’t far now,” he said, although he didn’t sound certain. “Gimme your hands,” he rasped, and fumbled at her neck for the loose end of the rope.

Honey spotted a bluish glint on the other side of the campsite-a pipe-like object on the ground beneath a bay tree. Piejack caught her staring past him, and he wheeled to see what had grabbed her attention.

“Jackpot!” he chortled.

“What is it?”

“Jackpot! Jackpot!” Piejack wobbled excitedly across the clearing and scooped up his sawed-off shotgun. Waving it high for Honey to see, he cried, “I thought I’d lost ’er for good, but look here!”

“Wooooo-hooo,” said Honey. She felt like weeping.

Perry Skinner and Sammy Tigertail had split up to search for Fry. Given his limited wilderness instincts and chronic bad luck, the Indian didn’t expect to find the boy. Yet there he was, in a splash of sunshine, sitting on a Dolphins helmet near a stand of green buttonwoods.

Fry appeared startled by the arrival of the stranger, though he tried to look brave. Sammy Tigertail introduced himself and said, “Your father’s lookin’ all over creation for you.” He offered some water, but the kid declined.

“Where is he? My dad.”

The Indian checked his watch. “We’re supposed to meet up in twenty minutes on the other side of the island.”

Fry said, “I’m not going anywhere. I don’t know you from the man in the moon.”

“Your father does. I saved his life once-me and my uncle.”

The boy eyed him. “When he rolled his truck?”

Sammy Tigertail said, “Yep. That night on the Trail.”

“You’re one of the Big Cypress Seminoles?”

“Well, I ain’t exactly from the south of France.”

Fry didn’t crack a smile. “You could be a Miccosukee is what I meant.”

“I could be, but I’m not.”

“How come you’re wearin’ blue contacts?”

“This the real color of my eyes.” It was a sensitive subject for Sammy Tigertail; conspicuous evidence of his mixed ancestry. He wasn’t ashamed so much as uncomfortable. Skinner’s kid was quick, and fearless with the questions.

He said, “That fleece you’ve got on is a Patagonia.”

“My deerskin loincloth is at the dry cleaner,” the Seminole cracked. “Don’t you read the papers, boy? We’re like the new Arabs. We got casinos and nightclubs and hotels. Our chief is now called the chairman, and he just sold his Gulfstream to Vince Vaughn. That’s how far we’ve come.”

The boy looked stung. “I didn’t mean anything bad.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“My mom had me write a paper about Osceola, what they did to him,” Fry said. “What we did to him.”

The Indian felt sort of lousy about jerking the kid’s chain. “Come on. It wasn’t you that killed him.”

“On the Internet I read how your tribe never surrendered, not ever. That’s cool,” said Fry.

“Depends what you mean by ‘surrendered.’ They booked Justin Timberlake at the Seminole Hard Rock for New Year’s.” Sammy Tigertail was ready to change the subject. “I heard about your skateboard crash. How’s the headache?”

“I’ll live.”

“Mr. Skinner said for me to make sure you keep that football helmet on ’til we find your mother. That way, he won’t get yelled at.”

“But it’s too heavy.”

“Do what your dad says. We should go now.”

Fry put on the Dolphins helmet and followed Sammy Tigertail, who again asked if he needed water.

“Nope. I’m good,” Fry said.

The Indian had to laugh. “You remind me of me,” he said, “back when I was a white boy.”

“Was your dad like mine?”

“He cared just as much. He would’ve made me wear that damn thing, too.”

Sammy Tigertail wondered what his life would be like if his father were still alive. I’d probably be off at college now, he thought, studying business or accounting, and dating a trippy coed like Gillian.

Fry said, “Hey, can you slow down a little?”

The Indian turned in time to see the boy teeter. He caught him under the armpits and slung him over a shoulder.

“Actually I feel like shit,” the kid murmured.

“Deep breaths,” Sammy Tigertail advised, traipsing onward through the scrub and hammock.

Perry Skinner had been waiting for the Seminole in the mangroves near the skiff. He took Fry and hugged him.

“Not too tight,” the boy squeaked, “or I’ll start hurlin’.”

Skinner lay him on the casting deck of his boat and looked him over. “It’s my fault,” he said, “draggin’ you out here with a goddamn concussion.”

“I’ll be okay. Where’s Mom?”

“Sammy and I are fixin’ to go get her right now. Stay here in the shade.”

“But I wanna come, too-”

“No!”

The kid sighed unhappily. Skinner slipped a seat cushion under his head and told him not to worry. “We won’t be long. Sammy knows right where she’s at.”

The Seminole nodded. He figured it would be easy to find the place again in the daylight.

“And it’s just her and the guy,” Skinner said. “Sammy said the girlfriend ran off.”

“I know, Dad.” Fry described his encounter with Eugenie Fonda. “She was nice. She stayed with me last night after I got sick. The Coast Guard chopper picked her up this morning.”

Skinner turned to Sammy Tigertail. “Well, that simplifies things. You ready?”

The Indian set off in the lead. He improvised a path through the cactus plants to the ravine that Gillian had named Beer Can Gulch, because of the hundreds of empty tall boys. Perry Skinner called it a “recycler’s wet dream.”

Sammy Tigertail pointed to the Calusa shell mound. “She’s camped on the other side.”

Skinner ran up the slope, the Seminole two steps behind. At the top, Sammy Tigertail pointed out a clearing, fifty yards away. They saw a couple of pup tents, but no sign of Honey Santana or the remaining Texan.

Skinner was halfway down the hill before realizing he was alone; the Seminole hadn’t moved.

“What’s wrong?” Skinner called out.

Sammy Tigertail motioned for him to return, and Skinner jogged back. There was no easy way to tell him, so the Indian said it directly: “He’s not dead, Mr. Skinner.”

“Who’s not dead?”

“That guy I hit with the rifle butt. The one with the tape on his hand that you said was after your wife. I told you I killed him but I guess I didn’t.”

Skinner grabbed Sammy Tigertail’s arm. “How do you know?”

“Because this is the spot where I hammered him. He fell into that cactus patch and now he’s gone.”

“Show me.”

The Indian walked him to the place, careful to avoid the spiny plants. Skinner noted numerous crushed leaves and several loose threads of cloth.

“Maybe somebody moved the body,” he said quietly.

“No, sir, I don’t believe so.” Sammy Tigertail pointed to a furrow where something large had slid down the shell mound into the pile of Busch cans.

“Like a gator drag,” the Indian said. Nesting alligators grooved similar trails while hauling themselves back and forth to the water. This one had been made by a human.

Skinner quickly scouted Beer Can Gulch. He discovered a line of unmistakable tracks leading up another slope; recurring impressions of kneecaps and elbows.

“The bastard’s crawling,” he said.

Sammy Tigertail had mixed feelings. He was relieved that he hadn’t killed the white man and set loose another bothersome death spirit. At the same time, he was sorry that the guy was still around to cause trouble.

“What’s his name again, Mr. Skinner?”

“Piejack.”

“As bad hurt as he is, he won’t get far.”

“He doesn’t need to. It’s a small island, like you said.” Perry Skinner pulled the.45 from his waist and clicked off the safety. He said, “Sammy, I forgot to thank you for finding my son.”

“He’s a good kid,” the Seminole said.

“It would destroy him if something happened to his mom.”

“Or to you, Mr. Skinner.”

Gun in hand, Fry’s father disappeared over the crest of the Calusa mound. Sammy Tigertail sprinted after him, kicking up a dust of ancient shells and warrior bones.