"Man, I seen that, Mr. Freeman. That's a sin, man. Hey, I got a buddy who can compound that right out. You know, I can take care of that easy," he said with true enthusiasm.
My hook was set.
"Great. Why don't you take it home with you now. Cleve has a key in his desk drawer. It's the one with the yellow Pep Boys tag on it."
Right there under his nose all the time. But the kid's joy seemed unaffected.
"OK. Got it, Mr. Freeman. When do you need it back?"
"How about Monday or Tuesday?"
"I got a Tuesday morning shift," he answered.
"Sounds good."
The kid thanked me again and I punched the off button and knew that, one, the law hadn't gotten to the boat ramp yet. And two, the kid would be revving that V-8 and be out of there in record time.
Next I dialed Billy's private number and he clicked in before the second ring.
"Yes."
"Hey, Billy."
"Max? It's unlike you to call when the sun is down."
"I need to see you."
"OK. Shall I meet you at the ranger station?"
Billy could sense my urgency and was instantly turning up his efficiency.
"No. I need you to pick me up at the southern access park, the one along Seminole Drive."
"All right."
"It's going to take me an hour to paddle up there."
"Anything you want to tell me now?"
"No. I'll see you there."
I turned off the phone and stuck it into my bag. I knew I was being paranoid, but I wasn't going to discuss the GPS unit over the phone. I'd spent very little time with the electronic surveillance guys in Philly but the stories that got passed around about cell-phone intercepts were legion.
I quickly dressed in a pair of thin canvas pants and a dark long-sleeved shirt. I stuffed some other clothes into my travel bag and put on my black, soft-soled Reeboks. I then pulled out a plastic Ziploc bag that I used for storing salt and sugar. I put the GPS unit inside, sealed it, and then wrapped it tight in a piece of dark oilcloth I used to keep things dry in the canoe. If I met anyone along the way and had to dump the unit in the river, it might stay until I could come back for it later.
Before walking out the door I slathered some insect repellant on my face, neck and wrists and put out the lamp. My night ritual began again.
I headed upriver, slow at first, breathing in the thick smell of marsh and wet cypress. It was dark and this time the waxing moon was shrouded in high cloud. But even in that uneven light I could follow the water trail south into the current. Within a few minutes my eyes adjusted and I could pick out the edges of the root tangle and tree boughs. I'd been this route so many times I could almost time the upcoming curves and turns around the cypress knees and fallen logs. Still, I kept glancing behind me, expecting to see the beams from spotlights swinging through the vegetation in search of my shack.
I'd tucked the wrapped GPS under my seat so I could get to it quickly and wedge it into a root hole if I had to. Maybe they'd wait until morning. Hammonds and his crew had already had a taste of the night out here. The word would have gotten around. Serving a warrant in unfamiliar territory is full of the same unpleasant possibilities whether you're in a place like this or in some dark tenement house in the city. You don't know what's coming around the corners. You don't know what kind of reaction you're going to get from someone when you tell them you're the man, and all their rights to be secure and private in their own home have just been flushed. I didn't like doing it myself as a cop and I didn't like the idea of it being done to me now.
I picked up the sound of the water spilling over the dam ten minutes before I got there. The current strengthened and I had to drive the bow in to get around the eddies to the concrete abutment. I yanked the canoe up and onto the upper river and started again.
As I passed the spot where I'd found the dead child, the moon broke through a gap in the clouds and raised the light. Somewhere in the canopy a barred owl let out its double set of notes.
Hoo. Hoo.
It was the first time I'd heard that species on the river. Who indeed, I thought.
When I reached the access park, Billy was waiting, sitting in his car along the entrance road with his engine and lights off. The park was deserted at this hour. The place is used almost exclusively by canoeists and kayakers, and calling it a park is giving it too much glory. There is a single canoe concession that rents boats and paddles. The owner is a tobacco-spitting transplant from Georgia who is long gone by 5:00 P.M. when all his rentals are due back in. A single bare bulb glowed over his makeshift office and I pulled my canoe up into the pool of light knowing that tomorrow he'd recognize it and keep it safe until I returned.
Billy didn't see me until I walked into the light, and then he came over to help me with my bags.
"Will handling evidence get you in trouble?" I asked, holding out the GPS bundle.
"Only if w-we go to c-court. And if this is w-what I think it is, w-we better not go to court."
As we drove east to the ocean I filled Billy in on my discovery of the footprint and the unit. We were both thinking, "Setup." But who? The cops or the killer? We ground out the possibilities.
Hammonds' crew was under tremendous pressure to find a suspect. But no matter how I rolled it, I couldn't see them getting desperate enough to plant the GPS. The feds could be jumping the gun to try and snatch credit away from the locals, but why not just let Hammonds fall flat on his own? Either could have gotten a GPS unit easily enough. And they pretty much knew the location of the shack from Cleve. But how do they get out there and slip in and leave the thing without being seen or without leaving a trace? Cops are not the most subtle actors on their feet, I knew from experience. They also don't like to muck up the chance of making a clean case against a suspect that they still have on the hook. And when you put my discovery of the body, the psych report from Philly and my canoe access to the wilderness Glades together, they already had a pretty good barb in me.
On the other hand, if the killer planted it, he was taking a hell of a chance.
He could easily know the water. Might even have known the shack. He could have come in from the west out of the Everglades, but he would have had to be watching to see me leave. So why hadn't he called in an anonymous tip right away? If he'd planted it after I left this morning, he could have called Hammonds' group and they could have escorted me back from their offices themselves.
"W-Warrants are hard to g-get signed on a Friday," Billy said, working the puzzle with me. "Even f-federal warrants. But they c-c-could be there now."
As we drove over I-95 on the Atlantic Boulevard overpass I caught a glimpse of the moon opening up over the ocean through the clouds. If the killer had put the cops on to me, he would have been there too, watching from somewhere in the forest, waiting, like a good hunter, to see his trap sprung. Was he still there? Or would he have followed me out? Was he following now? As Billy pulled onto A1A and headed south to his oceanfront apartment building, I cussed myself for being paranoid but looked back at the traffic behind us as we pulled into the entrance of the Atlantic Towers.
CHAPTER 7
I had spent two weeks in Billy's penthouse apartment when I first moved to Florida. But a place like this never fails to amaze.
The elevator stopped at the twelfth and highest floor and opened onto an alcove that was all his own. A handsome set of double oak doors stood at one end. Billy snapped down the European brass handles and pushed the doors wide to swing my bags through. He punched a single button on a wall panel and the huge, fan-shaped living area glowed in subdued recessed lighting. The thick carpet and textured walls were done in subtle shades of deep greens and blues. The wide leather couches and chairs were dark but offset with some kind of blond wood tables that kept the place from feeling heavy. Sculptures in onyx stone and brushed stainless steel glowed in the indirect light and several paintings adorned the walls. On the south wall was my favorite, an oil by the seventeenth-century Flemish painter Hieronymous Bosch called The Wanderer, which I had pondered for hours during my first stay.