He had read my reaction accurately.
I said, “Closer to an hour… but it is pretty, I suppose-if you’ve never been here before.”
The Garden of Eden might have been as deceptively idyllic: a crystal basin rimmed by palms that shaded clear water, and rivulets that dropped off, black and deep, near the bank. Gumbo-limbo trees sparkled with amber sunlight. They were elevated by mounds creating a sawtooth ridge.
“How’d you ever find this? Even with GPS numbers, it would be darn near impossible.”
I lowered the engine, saying, “It’s already almost nine. The tide’s falling and I don’t want to get trapped in here. Take a seat.”
My terseness was intentional. If the man wasn’t who he claimed to be-Caldwell, perhaps, a rapist and killer-now was the time to find out. There are many ways a good boat handler can rid themselves of a passenger. I started the engine and throttled toward the first bend.
Martinez, with his beard and gray ponytail, remained standing. When he turned to face me, his weight caused the skiff to list. “Was it something I said?”
I feigned ignorance. “If we hit a snag, you could fall overboard. That’s all I meant.”
“Come on, now. Suddenly, you don’t trust me. Which test did I fail? There’ve been so many.” Amused, he took off his parka, a red turtleneck sweater beneath. I got a glimpse of a holster when he knelt to stuff the parka under the seat. When he straightened, the pistol was in his hand; not pointed at me, but there. Like a magic trick, that’s how fast it happened. He continued talking, unaware that, reflexively, I reached for a holster not easily accessed.
“Maybe this will convince you.” He released the magazine and locked the slide back. A chambered round was ejected, which he caught before it hit the deck. It was something I’d seen experts do. With the same professional ease (after I’d confirmed the chamber was empty), he presented the weapon to me. A heavy-caliber Beretta; a.45, possibly, that was not smooth to the touch, unlike my Devel Smith & Wesson, but held far more cartridges.
“Stick it in that bag or carry it, I don’t care. When we get onshore, you take the shotgun. Check my billfold, too, but we both know how easy it is to fake IDs. Here, if you want-” He reached for his back pocket.
“You don’t need to do that,” I said. “I’m nervous, I admit it. I should’ve come out and said what’s on my mind.”
“Nervous is bad. Being careful, though, is smart. Hannah, every scenario you’ve considered; believe me, I would’ve done the same. Already did, in fact, back there while cutting our way through. Here’s the way it went-tell me if I’m close. Larry actually is Larry-or was.” His face tilted toward the skyline, where there might have been smoke if not for trees. “Lonnie and I could have cooked up the whole scheme, me in the role of Harney’s old pal Beano. After I’d killed him, of course, and fed his body to the alligators-that’s something Raymond Caldwell knows how to do. Lonnie gives me a list of three witnesses who saw us doing the dirty deed. Would a guy like Caldwell hesitate? Nope. Not if it involves money. Or keeping his kinky old girlfriend-”
“That’s close enough,” I said. “Isn’t it scary, how our minds sometimes work the same? There is one thing you left out-”
“No pictures on the Internet. Am I right? Not of Sabin Martinez. If there are, the ages didn’t mesh, or they didn’t look… well, sufficiently intimidating? But, then, you figured a man in my line of work would avoid broadcasting his-”
“Take your gun back,” I said. “This is just silly. You don’t need to convince me anymore.”
That wasn’t true. But we were here, now, in this remote place, and I had to cloak my doubts with confidence or risk a meltdown between us.
The man refused my offer in a convivial way yet was serious enough to say, “Keep the gun until we get back to Marco with oranges, or orange trees, or whatever it is you’re after. Under one condition. You test-fire that shotgun before stepping foot onshore, I don’t care how cold it is, I’m not kidding. Your story about giant snakes was convincing.”
When he again refused to take the Beretta, I placed it atop the console. The magazine went into my pocket, along with the bullet-after he’d turned around.
We had entered the serpentine bend. I motored along the concave edge, where water was deepest, then pointed. “See that spot just ahead? My last trip, we saw an orange floating, but it floated under the trees. We’ll pull in there. After I get an anchor set, and we’re tied up, I’d appreciate it if you tested the shotgun.”
“A show of trust,” Martinez said, not flattered but willing to make peace.
I, too, wanted to smooth things over. “You’re welcome to think so, but it could be because the darn thing kicks like a mule. Go ahead, open the duffel bag. It looks like the shotguns they carried on stagecoaches.”
Finally, a real smile: broad, white Teddy Roosevelt teeth framed in a bushy, graying beard. “I’d be honored,” he said, then, with the gun in his hands, amended, “If it doesn’t blow up in my face. This thing’s ancient.”
“My uncle got it somewhere. Or maybe it was handed down through the family. I don’t know. The last time I shot it, I was”-ten years old, I realized, here, while camping, but only said-“too young to ever want to shoot it again. The shells worry me. Don’t they go bad after a while?”
He snapped the gun open, tilted the walnut stock, saw twin triggers and high-ridged hammers on a barrel set only twenty inches long. “An old side-by-side coach gun. The best home-defense weapon there is.” He inspected a couple of shells. “Buckshot. Exactly what we need if it warms up.”
Snakes, he was referring to. It was impossible to scan the water without imagining a monster lying on the bottom or a python tracking us from the trees. I tested the temperature by exhaling as if blowing a smoke ring. My breath did not condense. I’d already unzipped my windbreaker; removing it seemed infidelity to my fears, but I took it off anyway. “Get the bowline ready,” I said. “You’ll need gloves. And watch the trees-they might be up there, getting sun.”
“Snakes?”
“Lay the shotgun on the deck,” I replied, “until we’re tied up.”
As I throttled closer, I dropped an anchor off the stern, then fed line until Martinez got his hands on a stout limb. I snubbed the anchor; he tied a flurry of half hitches. Soon, the boat was secure, bow and stern, on lines as taut as springs. On a falling tide, I didn’t want the engine to drift under the trees.
“Give it a try,” I said.
Martinez loaded the shotgun and fired twice into the water, the rounds spaced like signal shots. The results were mood-lifting, but the shells didn’t eject properly.
“Old Remingtons,” he said after prying them out. “Paper casings. They must have gotten damp over the years.”
He handed the gun to me. “Carry extra shells so you can get to them quick. A breast pocket or your right pocket. If it misfires, you need to be ready.”
I said, “Why don’t you take it? I’ll go first with a machete. You don’t know what it’s like, how thick the brush is.”
“Because you’re younger, I suppose, in better shape.” He smiled, viewing the scenery. “That’s true of some old guys, but this one might surprise you. Or are you trying to prove a point?”
“I have no doubt you’ve yet to reach your peak,” I replied, “but someone needs to clear a path. That way, you’ll keep both hands free if we-wait… You didn’t see this.” I reached for my phone and opened a gallery of photos.
Martinez, shaking his head, said, “If you were my client, my advice would be the same. Never give the only weapon to a stranger-especially if he’s walking behind you.”
“You are carrying the shotgun,” I said, then showed him the photo of the python.