Convinced for the moment that he had seen the headlights of an approaching vehicle, Massick snatched his pistol out of the bag, then realised there were no mechanical sounds such as another swamp buggy would have made. Keeping the gun at the ready, he went forward until he reached a barely discernible side track which branched off to the left and seemed to lead straight towards the glimmer of light. All the indications were that, against the odds, he had found some kind of habitation in the heart of the swamp.
The pang of pleasure and relief Massick experienced was not quite enough to obliterate his natural wariness. The only reason he could envisage for people living in the waterlogged wilderness was that they were wardens for one of the area’s wildlife sanctuaries—and, for him, walking into an official establishment which had radio equipment could be as disastrous as calling in at the police station. He threaded his way along the path, trying not to make any sound as he negotiated successive barriers of dark vegetation, and after several minutes reached a hummock upon which was perched a wooden shanty. The wan radiance which seeped from the windows and the screen door was swallowed up by the surrounding blackness, but there was enough refraction to show that the building had been constructed from second-hand timbers—which pretty well ruled out the possibility of it being an outpost of authority. Emboldened by what he had found thus far, Massick crossed a cleared area to the nearest window and cautiously looked through it.
The room beyond the smeared glass was lit by oil lanterns hanging from hooks in the ceiling. Much of the floor space was taken up with stacks of cardboard boxes, and in the centre of the room was a rough wooden table at which sat a small stoop-shouldered man of about sixty. He had cropped grey hair, a sprinkling of silver stubble around his chin, and tiny crumpled ears which gave the impression of being clenched like fists. He was dressed in well-worn slacks and a faded green beach shirt. On the table before him was a bottle of whisky and several glass jars containing what looked like small twists of coloured paper. He was preoccupied with removing the coloured objects from the jars and carefully placing them in individual plastic boxes, pausing now and then to swig whisky straight from the bottle.
The room had two interior doors, one of them leading into a primitive kitchen. The other door was closed, but Massick guessed it led into the bedroom. He remained at the window long enough to assure himself that the occupant of the shanty was alone, then slipped the pistol into his side pocket, walked quietly to the screen door and tapped on it. The mosquito mesh made a noise like distant thunder. A few seconds later the small man appeared with a flashlight which he shone on Massick’s face.
“Who’s out there?” he growled. “Whaddaya want?”
“I got stranded,” Massick explained, enduring the searching brilliance. “I need shelter for the night.”
The man shook his head. “I got no spare room. Go away.”
Massick opened the door and went inside, crowding the other man back. “I don’t need much room, and I’ll pay you twenty dollars for the night.”
“What’s the idea? What makes you think you can just walk in here?”
For a repiy Massick used a trick he had perfected over a period of years. He smiled broadly and at the same time hardened his gaze and projected a silent message with all the conviction he could muster: If you cross me up I’ll tear your head right off your body. The little man suddenly looked uncertain and backed further into the room.
“I got to be paid in advance,” he said, trying to retain some advantage.
“Fair enough. I tell you what I’ll do, Pop. I could use a few drinks to make up some of the sweat I lost, so here’s an extra ten for a share in that bottle. How’s that?” Massick took his billfold from his pocket, counted out thirty dollars and handed them over.
“Okay, I guess.” The man took the money and, looking mollified, tucked it into his shirt pocket. “The whole bottle didn’t cost ten.”
“Consider it a reward for your hospitality to a weary traveller,” Massick said jovially, smiling again. He was prepared to be generous while armed with the knowledge that when he left he would be taking the money back, along with any other cash and valuables his host happened to have around. “What’s your name, Pop?”
“Ed. Ed Cromer.”
“Nice to meet you, Ed.” Massick went on into the room he had surveyed from the outside and picked up the whisky bottle from the table, observing as he did so that the small coloured objects his host had been packaging were dead butterflies and moths. “Is this some kind of a hobby you’ve got here?”
“Business,” Cromer replied, squaring his thin shoulders importantly. “Profession.”
“Is that a fact? Is there much demand for bugs?”
“Me and my partner supply lepidopterists—them’s collectors—all over the state. All over the country.”
“Your partner?” Massick slid his hand into the pocket containing the pistol and glanced towards the closed door of the bedroom. “Is he in there?”
“No!” The expression of pride vanished from Cromer’s face and his eyes shuttled anxiously for a moment. “That’s my private room in there. There’s nobody allowed in there bar me.”
Massick noted the reaction with mild interest. “There’s no need to get uptight, Ed. It was just when you mentioned your partner …”
“He runs the store up in Tampa. Only comes down one day a month to pick up the new catch.”
“He’ll be here soon, will he?”
“Not for a couple of weeks. Say, mister, what’s the third degree for? I mean, I could ask you who you are and where you’re from and what you’re doin’ wanderin’ around Big Cypress in the dark.”
“That’s right,” Massick said comfortably. “You could ask.”
He cleared some magazines from a wicker chair and sat down near the window, suddenly realizing how close he was to total exhaustion. His intention had been to press on towards the west coast in the morning, but unless Cromer had a swamp buggy parked out of sight nearby it might be best to wait until the partner arrived with transportation. It would be difficult to find a safer place to lie low and rest for a couple of weeks. Turning the matter over in his mind, he took off his sweat-stained jacket and draped it over the back of the chair, then settled back to drink whisky.
There followed fifteen minutes of almost total silence during which Cromer, who had returned to his meticulous sorting and mounting of butterflies, glanced expectantly at Massick each time he raised the bottle to his lips. At length, realizing there was going to be no taking of turns, he took a fresh bottle of Canadian Club from a cupboard in the corner and began drinking independently. After his initial querulousness he showed no sign of resenting his unexpected guest, but Massick noticed he was drinking somewhat faster than before and becoming less precise in his movements. Massick watched contentedly, enjoying his ability to cause apprehension in others simply by being near them, as Cromer fitted a jeweller’s magnifier over his right eye and began examining a small heap of blue-winged insects one by one, using his flashlight to supplement the room’s uncertain illumination.
“What are you doing now, Pop?” he said indulgently. “Is it all that hard to tell the boys from the girls?”
“Checkin’ for look-alikes,” Cromer mumbled. “Mimics, they’re called. You don’t know nothin’ about mimics, do you?”