"I guess you want an explanation."
"Naw," said Keyes. "This happens all the time."
"You're deep in the Everglades," Wiley said. "This is my camp. I'm hiding out."
"And doing the worst Kurtz I ever saw."
"Let's wait for history to make that judgment. And stop that funny business with your hands. That's not rope, it's oiled sawgrass. You keep trying to get loose and it'll cut through the veins of your wrist. Bleed to death in nine minutes flat."
Keyes craned a glance over his shoulder and saw that Wiley was telling the truth. He stopped struggling.
"Where are my clothes?"
"We've got 'em hung by the fire, drying out."
"We?"
"Los Noches de Diciembre.The Nights of December."
"Oh, Skip, no," Keyes said dispiritedly. It had not occurred to him that Wiley was mixed up with the kidnappings, yet it made perfect sense. Wiley had never been predictable, except in his passion for extremes. The symbolism of Bellamy and Harper was so obvious that Keyes felt dim and stupid.
"Don't look so bummed out," Wiley said. "Now's a good time to meet the rest of the guys." He clapped his enormous hands. Three figures emerged from the shadows and assembled behind him. Keyes looked up to their faces, backlighted by the fire.
"Brian, I'd like you to meet the group. The big fellow here is Viceroy Wilson—you may have heard of him."
Keyes said, "I think we met at Pauly's Bar."
"Yeah," Wilson said, "my fist met your head."
"And this," Wiley said cheerfully, "is Jesus Bernal."
Bernal was a jittery little Latin in a stringy undershirt. Keyes immediately noticed a strong resemblance in stature and complexion to Ernesto Cabal; no wonder Al Garcia's witnesses had been eighty percent sure.
Jesus Bernal shot Keyes a contemptuous glance before slipping into the shadows. Wilson followed in a sullen gait.
"Viceroy hates you 'cause you look like a cop, and Jesus is just a little shy," Wiley explained. He threw his arm around the third man. "But here's the guy who made all this possible. Tom Tigertail. Tommy, say hi to Mr. Keyes."
Tommy Tigertail leaned forward to study the half-naked prisoner. Tommy was a handsome young Seminole: late twenties, medium height, lean but showing plenty of muscle. He had longish black hair and a classic Creek face, with high cheekbones and Oriental eyes. He wore jeans but no shirt, just a towel slung around his neck.
"You're not hurt," he said to Keyes.
"Naw, a little queasy is all."
"You put up a strong fight," Tommy said. "Swallowed half the pond."
"You were the one under the canoe?"
Wiley piped, "Tommy's one helluva swimmer!"
Expressionless, Tommy walked back to the fire to join the others.
"That young man," Wiley whispered proudly, "is worth five million dollars. Can you believe it? He made it all on Indian bingo. Got four bingo halls in South Florida—see, gambling's legal on the reservations. Perfectly legal. You can't put a casino on Miami Beach but you could open one smack in the middle of the Big Cypress. It's goddamn brilliant irony, isn't it, Brian? Little old blue-hair paleskins from all over creation come to bet Seminole bingo and the Indians make a killing. Ha! Bury my heart at Chase Manhattan! Tommy's the business manager so the tribe cuts him in for the biggest chunk. Already he's put away five fucking million dollars!"
"So what's he doing out here instead of the Galt Ocean Mile?"
Wiley looked disappointed at the remark. "Tommy's out here," he said, "because he believesin me. He believes in what we're doing."
"And what is that, Skip?"
"Well, in Tommy's case, we're launching the Fourth Great Seminole War. In the case of my little Cuban friend, we are advancing the cause of international right-wing terrorism. And as far as Mr. Viceroy Wilson is concerned, we are kicking the living shit out of whitey." Wiley bent over and dropped to a whisper again. "See, Brian, each of these guys has his own particular constituency. My job, as I see it, is to make them feel equally important. It's a delicate balance, believe me. These are not the most stable human beings in the world, but they've got loads of energy. It's damned inspiring."
Keyes said, "What about you, Skip? What's your constituency?"
"Come on!" Wiley's brow furrowed. "You don't know?"
Somewhere in the brush an animal scampered, emitting a high-pitched trill. Keyes glanced toward the darkness apprehensively.
"Relax," Wiley said. "Just a raccoon. My constituency, Brian. Along with the eagles, the opossums, the otters, the snakes, even the buzzards. All of this belongs to them, and more. Every goddamn acre, from here west to Miami Beach and north to the big lake, belongs to them. It got stolen away, and what we're going to do ... " Wiley made a fist and shook it. " ... is get it back."
Keyes thought: A cross between Dr. Dolittle and Che Guevara. Wait'll I tell Cab Mulcahy.
"Don't give me that you-poor-sick-boy look," Wiley said. "I'm just fine, couldn't be better. You're the one who's got a problem, Brian. A big goddamn problem, I might add. Before this is over you're gonna wish you were back at the Sun,covering the bozos in the mayor's race."
Keyes said, "I'll take some of that tea now."
He was trying to slow Wiley down, keep him from getting too wound up. Keyes remembered what Wiley could be like on one of his fast burns, all reckless fury.
Wiley held the hot mug to Keyes's lips and let him sip.
"Brian," he said giddily. "We're gonna empty out this entire state. Give it back to Tom and his folks. Give it back to the bloody raccoons. Imagine: all the condos, the cheesy hotels, the trailer parks, the motor courts, the town houses, fucking Disney World—a ghost town, old pal. All the morons who thundered into Florida the past thirty years and made such a mess are gonna thunder right out again ... the ones who don't die in the stampede."
Skip Wiley's brown eyes were steady and intense; he was perfectly serious. Brian Keyes wondered if he was face to face with raw insanity.
"How are you going to accomplish this miracle?" he asked.
"Publicity, old pal. Badpublicity." Wiley cackled. "It's my specialty, remember? We're going to take all the postcard puffery and jam it in reverse. The swaying palms, the murmuring surf, the tropical sun—from now on, Transylvania South."
A postcard to end all postcards, Keyes thought.
"When I say bad publicity," Wiley went on, "search the extreme limits of your imagination. Think back to some of the planet's great disasters—the bubonic plague, Pompeii, Hiroshima. Imagine being tourism director for the city of Hiroshima in 1946! What would you do, Brian? Or think modern times: try to sell time-shares in West Beirut! Christ, that's a tall order, but it's nothing compared to what it's going to be like down here when we're finished, me and the guys. By the time we're through, old pal, Marge and Fred and the kids will vacation in the fucking Arctic tundrabefore they'll set foot on Miami Beach."
Wiley was pacing before the fire, his voice booming through the copse. Viceroy Wilson sat impassively on a tree stump, Kleenexing the lenses of his sunglasses. Jesus Bernal swatted at gnats and moved herky-jerky in the firelight, tossing his knife at a tree. Tommy Tigertail was out there somewhere, but Brian Keyes couldn't see him.
"Did you kill Sparky Harper?" Keyes asked Skip Wiley.
"Ho-ho-ho."
The suntan oil, the rubber alligator, the tacky Hawaiian shirt. Keyes thought: Who else but Wiley?
"And Ted Bellamy, the Shriner?"
"I'm afraid he's dead," Wiley said, tossing a stick in the fire.
"What about the girl at the Seaquarium?" Keyes asked.