Gateways. Part 29

"He's still bleeding," Luke said.

"I know," she said through her clenched teeth. "I got eyes."

She felt so on edge this morning she wanted to take a bite out of somebody.

Devil was the biggest gator anybody'd ever seen, so it made sense he'd have the biggest gator hole in the Glades. Like all gators, as the winter dry season began, he'd sc.r.a.pe out all the vegetation from this low spot in the limestone floor and create a big wallowing hole. Fish would work their way into it, turtles and frogs too, and even some birds would come around to see if they could snag a quick meal. Sometimes those birds and turtles became gator snacks.

In the wet summers gators left their holes and spread out through the Glades, but not this year. The dry spell made gator holes more important than ever.

The edges of Devil's hole were piled high with muck he'd sc.r.a.ped out. This provided rootin' soil for things like cattails, swamp lilies, ferns and arrowleaf. Yellow-flowered spatterdock lilies floated on the surface of the blood-tinged water.

Devil lifted his head and let out a hoa.r.s.e, rumbling bellow, then let it flop back down into the water as if it was too heavy to hold up.

"He's hurtin', Luke. Hurtin' bad."

Because of me, she thought.

Guilt scalded her. She'd considered Devil indestructible, invincible, almost supernatural. But he wasn't. He was just a big, misshapen gator who would have been happy spendin' his days doin' what gators do: lolling in his hole, eatin' this and that, waitin' for the rains.

But no. Semelee couldn't let him be. She had to roust him out of his comfy hole and lead him out of the Glades into the outer world where he didn't belong. The result was he got hurt. Hurt bad.

"He can't die," she said. "He just can't."

She had this terrible feeling that if Devil died, part of the spirit of the Glades would die with him. And it would be all her fault.

"It was that guy," Luke said. "That city guy you been takin' a s.h.i.+ne to. He done this."

"No, he didn't. I already told you that. He didn't have nothin' to do with hurtin' Devil. It was the old lady. She's the one. She's some sorta witch. So's her dog."

In a way Semelee was secretly glad that the old witch's spell, or whatever it was, had kept Devil out of her yard. Because she'd seen her man, the special one, place himself between Devil and his father. She'd've had to go through him to get to the old man, and that would've meant hurtin' him, maybe even killin' him, somethin' she definitely didn't want to do. But it had showed her that he was made of good stuff. That was important.

"I say we do all three of them-old lady, father, and son-and have done with it."

"No. I told you: The son ain't to be touched."

Luke grumbled. "All right. We'll have another go at the old guy, but the lady...what're you gonna do about her?"

"Don't know yet. We can't do do her unless we can get to her. I'll think of somethin'. But it'll have to wait till the lights is done. I ain't lettin' nothin' get between me and the lights." her unless we can get to her. I'll think of somethin'. But it'll have to wait till the lights is done. I ain't lettin' nothin' get between me and the lights."

"Awright. But what do we do till the lights come? We goin' panhandlin' as usual?"

"Not durin' the lights. We'll just hang out. Besides, we don't need to go beggin' cause we'll be gettin' a hunk of cash from those dredgin' guys when they finish at noon."

"What if they try to stiff us?"

"They won't. They ain't gettin' out of the lagoon less'n they pay up."

But Semelee didn't want to think about dredgin' or money or nothin' cept the lights. Antic.i.p.ation thrummed through her like she was a plucked guitar string. The lights'd start tonight and run for three days. But this year would be like no other. This time they wouldn't be underwater, which meant they'd be bigger and brighter and better than ever before.

Starting tonight, everything in her life would change. She sensed it, she knew it.

3.

Tom had been watching the Weather Channel's reports on Hurricane Elvis. It continued to move south off Florida's west coast; although its winds had increased to 90 miles an hour, it was still a Category I. And no threat to Florida at this point.

He was just finis.h.i.+ng his cup of coffee when Jack came through the door, dripping with sweat.

"I was wondering where you were." He'd been a little anxious after awakening to finding the house empty and Jack's car still parked outside. Obviously he'd been out jogging. "I don't suppose you'd care for a cup of hot coffee right now."

"After my shower I'd love one. Never turn down coffee."

As Jack ducked into the bathroom, Tom rinsed out the French press and began to make another serving. He noticed his hand shaking a little as he spooned the ground coffee. He touched the fresh bandage on his head. The st.i.tches were still a little tender under there. He'd been shocked at the sight of his bruised, black-eyed face in the mirror this morning. He felt so good he'd almost forgotten about the accident.

Now he couldn't get it out of his head. Someone wanted him dead. Why?

Last week his life had been safe and sane, prosaic, maybe even a little dull. Now...

What was happening? He didn't live the sort of life where he got on people's wrong side. Was it a mistake? Had he been mistaken for somebody else? Who on earth would want to kill him?

He pondered those imponderables until Jack returned, in fresh shorts and T-s.h.i.+rt, his wet hair combed straight back.

"Hey, good coffee," he said after sipping the cup Tom had made for him.

"Colombian. I was thinking of scrambling some eggs. Want some?"

"Sure. And some hash browns and toast, and maybe some grits with extra b.u.t.ter. Oh, and while you're at it, a side of biscuits and gravy."

Tom gave him a dour look.

Jack shrugged and smiled. "Hey, we're in the south so I figured one of their traditional, artery-clogging breakfasts would be in order."

"What do you know about southern cooking?"

"There's a place called Down Home a few blocks from where I live. In New York you can eat any style you want."

"Right now," Tom said, "I don't feel like eating at all. Hard to be hungry when there's someone out to get you. If I knew who or why, maybe it wouldn't be so bad. I'd still be scared, but..."

"Maybe I can help there," Jack said softly.

"You? How?"

The phone rang. It was the front gate, wanting to know if he was expecting any packages.

"Not that I know of. Wait." He turned to Jack. "Are you expecting a delivery of some sort?"

"Yeah!" He grinned. "It's here already? Great. Good old Abe."

Tom told the gate to send the truck through, then turned back to Jack.

"You were saying something...?"

Jack cleared his throat. "I checked out the medical records on Borger, Leo, and Neusner last night and-"

"How on earth did you do that?"

"I got in through one of the clinic's windows."

"What?"

"No biggee. I popped the lock on one and crawled through. Don't worry. You'd have to look pretty close to the underside of the sash to even suspect someone was there."

Tom couldn't believe this. His own son breaking and entering-and the clinic of all places.

"Dear G.o.d, why?"

"Stay calm. I wanted to see if any of them had had physicals recently-the answer turned out to be yes to all three, by the way-and to see how they did."

"What if it had an alarm, or what if you were caught on camera? You could go to jail for something like that!"

"Only if I got caught, which I didn't. No alarm, no surveillance cameras. I checked that out first. But I found what I was looking for: Each one of them pa.s.sed their physical with flying colors."

"A lot of good it did them. They're all dead."

"I think they died because because they pa.s.sed with flying colors." they pa.s.sed with flying colors."

"Oh, you're not going back to that Gateways conspiracy thing you were talking about yesterday, are you?"

"Follow the money, Dad. Whenever you wonder if something funny might be going on, follow the money. And the money leads to Gateways."

Had he gone completely paranoid?

"Jack-"

"Think about it: It's only younger, healthy widows and widowers being attacked-the ones who stand the best chance for holding on to their houses the longest. Coincidence?"

"You're talking about a billion-dollar corporation, Jack. This is penny-ante stuff. Imagine the impact of four extra resales in a year on a nine-digit bottom line. Meaningless!"

"It may be meaningless globally, but what about locally? What if someone in Gateways South needs to boost his bottom line and this is a way-just one of a number of ways, say-to do it?"

Tom didn't know what to say. Breaking into offices, digging up "clues"...he had to admire Jack's initiative, and was touched that he'd go to all that trouble for him, but...Jack seemed to think he was Philip Marlowe or Sam Spade. And he wasn't. He was an appliance repairman, and he was going to get in over his head and in deep trouble if he kept this up.

"I suppose you can make a circ.u.mstantial case for it, but it just doesn't add up. You're implying that Ramsey Weldon or someone at his level of management went out and hired those men to smash up my car and then have me eaten by an alligator. It's preposterous."

Jack scratched his head. "I know it seems that way, but so far he and Gateways South are the only ones I can see benefiting from your pa.s.sing. I'll have to go with Weldon for the time being."

Tom felt a surge of acid in his stomach. "'Go with'? What does that mean?"

"Oh, I don't know," Jack said with a smile that did nothing to relieve Tom's anxiety. "Have a little tete-a-tete or something like that."

"Don't. Please, don't. You're just going to get yourself in trouble."

"Don't worry. I'll be discreet. The very soul of discretion."

Somehow Tom doubted that. But before he could say anything else, the doorbell rang.

"I'll get it," Jack said.

A delivery man stood at the door holding a cardboard carton.

"I've got four packages for 'Jack.'"

"That's me." Jack took the box and placed it on the floor. "I'll help you with the others."

As Jack followed the man outside to his truck, Tom stepped over and looked at the return address: Bammo Toy Co. Bammo Toy Co.

Toys?

He noticed too that the s.h.i.+pping label was addressed to "Jack" at this address. No last name, just "Jack." Odd.

When all four cartons were inside the door, Jack tipped the driver, then lifted one of the boxes.

"I'm going to put these in the spare bedroom, if you don't mind."

"Sure. Go ahead."

As Jack headed for the bedroom, Tom lifted one of the packages to help. He hefted it...heavier than he'd expected.

Jack had already relocated the first box and almost ran into Tom in the bedroom doorway. He took the package from him-rather quickly, Tom thought.

"Hey, no, Dad. Thanks, but that's okay. I don't want you hurting your back."

"Don't be silly. They're not that heavy."

He returned to the living room and picked up another package. Jack was right behind him, hovering like a mother hen.

"Dad, really-"

Tom ignored him and carried the carton into the bedroom.

When all four were piled against the wall, he said, "It says they're from a toy company. What kind of toys are we talking about? Toy robots? I mean, they're heavy enough."