The Flock (5 page)

“Damn, boy. I've got them posted every ten yards all along my eastern boundary. You'd have to be a blind bat to miss them.” He eyed Dodd suspiciously. “Who are you, anyway? I've shot at men for trespassing here.” He wasn't lying.

“I'm Tim Dodd. I'm a reporter.”

Grisham shouldered his rifle. “Reporter? Stinking liberal reporter, are you? Here to help out those tree-hugging wimps trying to tell private property owners what they can and can't do with their land? You one of those?”

“No, sir. I try to stay neutral on such matters. I've been covering the difficulties Salutations has been having lately.”

Grisham's lined face cracked, showing a mouthful of perfect white teeth. “You're that guy that's been calling that blight
Jurassic Park
, aren't you? You're that guy writes for the
Inquirer
.”

“That's me,” Dodd admitted, smiling, too. “You enjoy those?”

“Anything that keeps those jerks one step behind my lawyers. That's all I care about. And anything that'll keep a few more damned Yankees out of the area.” Grisham sighed. “Damn, but I hate Yankees. You know…I bought this place so I could retire here and not have a bunch of Northerners around. I thought I'd be sharing this place with my cattle and my family and a few screaming jets now and again.

“Damned Democrats and their military downsizing. Screw that. Now not only do I have to deal with damned environmentalists poking around looking for endangered species, but there's a town full of damned Yankees being built on my doorstep.” Grisham turned and began to walk away.

“Um. Sir?” Dodd took a step toward him, following, looking back to see if anything was coming. Grisham must have scared it off, he figured.

“What?”

“Can you help me find my way back to my car?”

Grisham stopped, looked back at the bloodied, disheveled reporter. “Shit. An old soldier's work is never done.” He shook his head. “Just follow me, son. I'll get you out of here. Come on.”

Dodd had an awful time keeping up.

Riggs followed Kate for some time, admiring her rear end. She had glanced back a couple of times and had noticed where Ron's gaze was centered. She'd merely smiled.
Men. God love 'em
.

The two were moving gradually south by southwest through the savanna. “We'll come to Carson Stream pretty soon,” Ron said.

“You've been here?” Kate asked.

“No. But I know my maps, and if we keep going this way we'll hit that stream. It drains into a large wetland, right? We'll have a hard time crossing there without getting pretty soggy.” Ron spotted a small copperhead coiled and resting in the shade of a palmetto, but saw no reason to mention it. They were completely harmless unless you stepped on one. Most people didn't know that the last thing a pit viper generally wanted to do was waste its poison on a creature far too large for it to eat. But he found himself wishing he had brought along a walking staff. They were going to be in cottonmouth habitat pretty soon, and those snakes were a lot more aggressive than copperheads or rattlers. This area of Florida should have every type of poisonous snake native to North America. But it had been years since Ron had so much as glimpsed a coral snake—they seemed to be just about gone in most places.

“Ever see any coral snakes around here?” he asked.

Kate had stopped to look around. The area really was quite attractive. “Yeah. Sure. They're almost common in the higher areas, away from the streams and swamps.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding.”

Ron had come up next to Kate, sneaking a glance or two at her while she fumbled at the water bottle on her belt. She really was quite pretty, he thought. But she was indeed a tall woman. His first approximation had been off the mark, a bit. She was six foot-two inches tall, at least. Maybe even six-three.

“I'm six-three,” she said.

Riggs was so stunned that he said nothing. He swallowed hard enough for her to hear.

“I'm used to it,” she said. “Guys are always trying to figure out how tall I am. Especially when I'm at least—what?—five inches taller than you?”

“Uh. Yeah,” Ron said. She had stunned him. He didn't know what to say.

Her water bottle in her left hand, she pointed with her right and made a clockwise movement with it, indicating the pine savanna around them. “You know, Richard Leakey says the human mind is accustomed to this kind of terrain. That we seek it out and find it soothing, somehow. Because our ancestors came out of terrain like this in Africa. Out of the grasslands and the open vistas.” She took a swallow of water. “You agree?”

“I've read that, yes. I can't say I completely agree. I think he just has an affinity for this kind of place because he grew up around it. Totally subjective thinking on that point. Myself, I like deep woodland. Uplands, preferably.” He looked across the wide patch of open grasses; tall, thin pines interspersed every ten yards or so like some gigantic subtropical garden.

“You might be right,” she said. “You know…this land we're on. It's a little higher than the surrounding area. Just underneath the soil here, we have limestone.”

“Oolitic limestone, yes.”

Again, Kate smiled. “Nice to meet someone who knows his stuff,” she said. “At any rate, this is what the boys all want.”

“Pardon?” He was thinking of wanting something, but he wasn't quite sure what she meant.

“You know, this is the best terrain for building in the entire Florida peninsula. This stuff runs in bands in different areas of Florida, and wherever it is the boys love to build on it. It doesn't sink. It doesn't give. Wonderful place to slap up houses and shopping centers and all kinds of buildings.”

“I know what you mean.” Ron followed her gaze out across the savanna. It truly was unique.

“You know, there are about eighty thousand acres of this here.”

“
What?
You're joking.”

“Nope. Vance has mapped out at least eight thousand acres of longleaf pine savanna. Biggest untouched plots anywhere in North America. Used to be common all along the low country on the Atlantic and Gulf coastal plains. Almost all gone, now.” She looked at Ron. “This is why this place is so important. This is why it should be preserved. And as a whole, not in parcels.

“Vance has some plans. Some grand plans.” She replaced the water bottle on its holder and started off. “Come on. We're going to cross Carson Stream and get back to the compound.” Ron fell in behind her. “And stop staring at my ass,” she said.

True to her word, the crossing was made without even getting their feet wet. A big tupelo gum at the edge of the stream had fallen, creating a natural bridge across the creek. It had been a moderately old tree, so they hadn't even had to do a balancing act as they went over it. Downstream, Ron had spotted an alligator, a six-footer, and had pointed it out to Kate. “Seen 'im,” she had said, not even bothering to look.

Within an hour they had come to Vance Holcomb's compound, angling at it from the east, through a stand of particularly impressive live oaks, Spanish moss draping down in heavy ropes and tendrils all around them. Under the shadows there, Kate had stopped Ron with a gentle touch, pointing to the ground a few feet away. “A gopher tortoise,” she told him, aiming with a long index finger at the shelled reptile. “Now
that's
worth looking at. You don't see many of them anymore.”

They watched the tortoise who looked back at them, perfectly still, and calmly sizing them up. And then they headed toward the compound, which really did look like a fortress. There was an eight-foot privacy fence made of dark stained pine, and beyond that was a ten-foot chain link fence with gleaming razor wire coiled along the top. “So this is the Eyesore,” Ron muttered.

“We like to call it Fort Apache.” Kate stopped at the first fence and fumbled with a rather large and formidable padlock, trying to insert a key from a ring she had pulled from her pocket. “Damn thing always gives me fits,” she told him. Ron stepped up and held it for her while she worked the key in and turned it. “Ah.” It clicked open.

As they entered the enclosure a short, dark man who was walking just inside the chain link fence, a box on his shoulder, greeted them. The man waved and hollered, “Hey, good looking.” Kate waved back to him as he passed and went about his business.

“That's Billy,” Kate told him, this time having no trouble with the lock on the inner gate. Soon they were inside it. “He's a Native American.”

“Seminole?” Ron watched the retreating figure.

“Yes. He is, actually.” She led him toward the first building; long, low walls of tabby construction, flat roofed with wide, narrow windows inset with dark glass through which Ron could not see. He suspected there were people in there looking at them, though. It was something he could feel.

“I'm one quarter Seminole. My grandmother was full blooded, she always said. She never taught me a lick of the native language, though. I can't speak a bit of it, either dialect.” Ron always felt guilty about that, even though he couldn't think of a good reason why he should feel so. His father was of Irish descent, and he never felt guilty about not being able to speak Gaelic. He thought of Mary Niccols, her dark, beautiful face, and realized the source of his guilt.

“Why not?” Kate was looking at him in a new way. He always got that when he told people he had Seminole blood in his background. So many people thought it was
cool,
or they thought he had some kind of inner sight for being of Indian ancestry. Both reactions were condescending and annoying.

“I was just never exposed to the culture. I almost applied for the tribal rolls, once. Went down there to see about it, but I never said a word to them. Down there at Miccosukee.” He remembered that, just a few years back, after his father had died and when he had first found the job with Fish & Wildlife. Ron had driven down with every intention of talking to someone about his lost heritage, but he hadn't done it, had ended up just looking around like he was merely another tourist.

“Why didn't you talk to them?” Kate had opened the door at the front of the building, holding it for Ron. He could feel cool air inviting them in.

“I don't know,” he admitted. “I just didn't feel like I belonged there, I guess.” He shrugged. “Heck. I don't know.” He shrugged again. “There was someone once, who encouraged me to look into it, into signing on and learning the culture. But, well, it just didn't work out.” Mary's name was on his mind, but he decided not to mention her.

Kate ushered him in. “Oh well, then. Welcome to Fort Apache.”

They were in a large, pale, brightly lit foyer. The floor was white tile against stark white walls. The overhead lights were all fluorescent, and there were panes of frosted glass covering skylights that let in muted sunlight. “We use a lot of solar energy here. Half the light is powered with solar, and all the water is heated with solar. About one fourth the cooling is done with solar, through evaporation actually, but Vance has guys working to beef that up.”

“I'll be damned.”

Kate pointed down the left side of the hallway. “You go that way. You'll see a room. First door on your left. Go in there and look around or have a seat. I've got to go see someone. There's a fridge in there and you'll find something cold and refreshing to drink. Make yourself at home and I'll be right with you.” She patted him once on the shoulder and quickly strode off, her long legs taking her down the hall and around the corner. She was gone.

Ron went to the door she had indicated. It seemed to be a lab of some sort. There were the classic lab tables, much like those he had used in college science courses, complete with natural-gas fixtures, sinks, and work areas. A smock-wearing fellow was busy puttering around with something on one of the tabletops, up to his elbows in a plastic tub.

“Hello,” Ron said.

The man looked over his shoulder as Ron came in. “Hello,” he answered. He squinted his eyes, focusing on the patch on Ron's shirt. “Fish and Wildlife.” It wasn't a question. “Sorry I can't offer you my hand, but it's covered in bloody goo, so I assume you wouldn't like that.”

“You assume right,” Ron told him.

“You want a cold drank?” The guy had lapsed into an exaggerated southern accent. “Git you won out dat dere oss bahx. Might have a RC Cola in thar.”

Ron opened the refrigerator and saw an array of beverages. He chose a bottle of distilled water. “Thanks. This one looks good. I think I'll pass on the RC. You guys don't have any Moon Pies, do you?”

“Slap outta them. I et 'em all.”

Ron eased over to where the other man was working, looking to see what he was doing. “Well, in lieu of a proper southern greeting, I'm Ron Riggs. You already know who I work for.”

“I'm Adam Levin. Formerly with the University of Florida.
At
Gainesville. Now a much higher paid employee of one Mr. Vance Holcomb, all around jillionaire and crusading environmentalist.”

“Who's the environmentalist? You or Holcomb?” Ron had all but emptied the water bottle.

“Both of us, actually.”

Ron had moved up close, and finally had a view of the contents of the vinyl tub. It looked to be a pile of guts. “Intestinal tract,” Riggs noted. “What was it?”

“Turkey buzzard. We've found several dead within the area, and I've been dissecting them to figure out what's going on. We suspect poison. This is the first chance I've had to go through the stomachs. Got three more in the cooler over there.” He indicated a waist-high refrigeration unit against the far wall.

“Who would poison a buzzard?”

“Well, someone likely poisoned something else. Something the buzzard subsequently ate. Used to see this kind of crap all the time when I worked out in Arizona. Stupid, short-sighted ranchers would poison the coyote, other stuff would scavenge the dead coyote, and then they'd die, too.” He shook his head. “Damned ranchers. Those spoiled brats got away with everything they did. And those jerks grazing their stock on government property practically for free. Makes me sick to even think about it.”

Ron said nothing. At times, he felt helpless and ineffective in the face of the turning of events. So he had trained himself to be impassive when it came to something over which he had no control. Why put yourself in anguish when you had no influence to change such things? “Should the stomach be that color?”

“Yeah. That's nothing unusual. Been in the cooler for some days, now. That's the way it goes, you know.” Levin was using a small scalpel to open the top of the stomach cavity. Even cooled the smell that oozed out was noxious. It was only then that Ron noticed the scented jelly on Levin's bare upper lip. Unprepared for the stench, Ron backed away.

“Ever come up on a vulture sitting on its eggs? They'll cough up the contents of their stomach at you, hoping the stench will drive you off.” Ron was thinking of a black vulture whose nest he had accidentally found while investigating a rocky overhang on a mountain in Georgia.