“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.
Twenty-three
As the helicopter sped north along the coast, Eugenie Fonda frowned out the window. One minute she’d been watching snowy egrets scatter like confetti across a carpet of mangroves; then abruptly the view had changed to a dreary checkerboard of parking lots, condo towers and suburbs. Eugenie had anticipated a rush of relief at the first sight of civilization, but instead she felt depressed.
Gillian was chatting up one of the Coast Guard spotters, while another crewman tended to the private investigator. Eugenie couldn’t hear a thing over the turbines, which was fine. Her thoughts turned to the boy in the football helmet, Honey’s son. Eugenie tried to imagine what it was like living in the backwater of Everglades City, where there were no Jamba Juices or Olive Gardens or Blockbusters; where the only entertainment was a swamp bigger than Dallas.
Fry seems like a fairly normal kid, she thought. A happy kid, too. She was sure that his old man would find him soon, and run him to a doctor.
Eugenie also wondered about the tall blue-eyed Seminole. She was glad that she hadn’t tried seducing him to get a lift off the island, because that would have hurt Gillian, of whom she’d grown fond. It also averted the humiliating possibility that the Indian might have refused to have sex with her. Eugenie was unaccustomed to such rejection because she was unaccustomed to dealing with men of character.