It was the ringing of his phone that woke Ron. For some reason, even in his sleep, he'd been thinking of the remainder of the previous day. He was thinking of it even as he reached for the receiver.
After he and Mary had informed Tatum of their suspicions, even handing over the severed dog foot, the two had figured their jobs were over, as far as this little problem was concerned. Ron had enjoyed seeing Tatum's expression when he'd unwrapped the towel to reveal the plastic bag with the rotting canine paw inside. Mary had made some comment about eating it there or taking it home.
"Still the joker, Ms. Niccols?" Tatum asked. He had not been amused at her humor.
Ron was a little surprised to see that the security cop and Mary knew one another. "You two have met?"
"My other visits," Mary had told Ron.
Ron was growing certain of one thing-Mary Niccols would be a frequent visitor in the future, as the village quickly expanded to take up more and more of that prime wilderness. Such was life.
And then he had gone to the Eyesore, to try to see if Ms. Kwitney was there. He was growing more and more disappointed that she had not called him, and the prospect that he was just not her type was beginning to bother him. Maybe she just hadn't been as enamored of Ron as he had been of her. If so…oh, well, he told himself. But, truly, he hoped that was not the case.
He took the single sandy track leading out to the Eyesore. Finding it had proven to be something of a chore. The road was not marked, of course, and it was such an ephemeral avenue that it was nearly invisible in the wall of pines from which it emerged. He'd had to make two passes in his truck before he'd spotted it. Others must have had the same problem, for as he had turned off the paved road and into the forest; he had spotted a small yellow flag of nylon fabric tied to a pine sapling, close to the ground. That was Holcomb's idea of a road sign, he supposed.
Ron kept expecting to encounter someone else along the way. An employee headed out for supplies, or maybe one of Holcomb's people out spotting wildlife. But there had been nothing to encounter except for the ever-present buzz of central Florida's insect population screaming wildly in the yellow sunlight, and an occasional bird flitting from tree to tree. It had really been too hot for anything but the liveliest of Mother Nature's progeny. He'd watched clouds of sandy dust billowing up in his wake as he had driven down the road, perhaps moving just a bit faster than he should have. But it was the thought of talking again to Kate that drove him to push the pedal too close to the metal.
At last he had come out of the woods and into the clearing where Holcomb's compound sprouted out of the ground like a gigantic set of building blocks. Ron had pulled up to the front gate, shut the motor off, and had climbed out. For a minute or two he had stood in the golden light, feeling it press down on the crown of his scalp like a hot, but weightless hand: God caressing the hair of yet another of his children.
Ron had stood there, waiting. He had looked to the gate, expecting to see someone come out of the guardroom, which stared at him with a great, reflective eye of a window. No one came. He expected to see someone moving around, doing work, going from one building to the next, carrying boxes or equipment. He thought that he might see one of the four-wheelers come putt-putting out of the garage, or maybe one of the trucks.
But all was still. All was silent.
After a few minutes, Ron had called out.
"Hello!" Silence. "Anyone here? Anyone home?" Cicadas screamed at one another, yelling out their lust for all to hear. "Mr. Holcomb! Adam Levin?" A pair of Love Bugs floated on a hot current, joined genitally, one to the other, locked in a moment of reproductive passion. "Kate," he had screamed. "Kate! It's Ron Riggs!"
Only the bugs replied.
He'd reached into the cab of the truck, honking the horn once, twice, again. No one called. No one came. No one moved.
Ron had stood there for a moment or two more, thinking that he could feel that he was being watched. He knew that a number of people worked in Vance Holcomb's weird little compound. Ten or fifteen at least, just to keep it going. There were windows looking out at him, gilded filters of golden film making mirrors of them. Ron could see himself reflected in them; he was small and vulnerable as he leaned against his truck. He wondered who might be in there, seeing him, looking at him as if he were a specimen to be studied. Levin, perhaps, laughing at him. Or not laughing.
It was then that a chill had passed down his spine. This was not right. He was not wanted here. Not now, at least. Shivering away the gooseflesh, he had broken his gaze from the buildings and had climbed back into his truck, finding not a small amount of comfort when the engine fired right up. Perhaps he had turned around a little too quickly, had gunned the engine a tad too much, and had left the place in just an embarrassing bit of a hurry.
The way out was longer than he had thought, driving in. He kept expecting to see the paved blacktop of Salutations around each curve, but met only more of that sandy roadway and more pines and more palmettos and more oak. Once, he thought he saw someone, a dark figure behind a tall growth of bear grass, but he couldn't have been certain. And he hadn't cared really. All he had wanted to do at that point was get out of there, get back to the road, get on his way back home so that he could wash and dress to meet up with Dodd back in Orlando.
When he had come out of the woods and onto the asphalt, he had left a good hunk of rubber there, heading out.
At home he had checked his mail and his answering machine. Nothing but a few bills in the former, and, at last, a message from Kate on the latter.
"Ron. This is Kate," the machine said, accentuating her husky voice. Ron smiled. "Since I guess you're out chasing gators or teaching kids, I'll just leave a message. We'll be busy here today, so I won't have time to get up with you, but maybe this evening. Why don't you give me a call? I'm going to give you my number, so write it down and call me back later." He had scrambled through the mild jumble that was his house, and had found a pad and pen and soon had her number jotted down for posterity.
And that was why he had called her shortly before leaving for Dodd's new temporary abode on International Boulevard. Luck being still with him, she picked up on the first ring. No answering machine.
"Kate. This is Ron Riggs."
"Hello, Ron. I'm glad you got my message." She sounded tired. There was a breathless catch in her throat. Her husky voice excited him, though. Yet again he felt himself aroused by her, as he had not been aroused since he'd ended his romantic relationship with Mary.
"You sound pooped," he told her.
"I am. Hard time today. We've been all over Creation."
"Creation?"
"Well, the back country. I went with Vance and a crew out into the wilderness today. We had some work to do. Some population studies. We were gone most of the day."
"Well, that explains why I couldn't get a rise out of any of you today."
"What?"
"I went down to the Eyesore. To see you. But no one was there."
"You went down there today?"
"Yes." He could tell that she sounded annoyed, for some reason. "I figured I might be able to see you. I didn't have much to do in Salutations today, and we figured our job was over there, anyway. So I had some time to kill." Ron was nervous, now, and trying to hide it.
"You came down to the compound, though? And no one was there? How do you know no one was in?"
"Well, I thought someone would be at the gate. They weren't. I called out. Pretty loud. For Adam. For you. Even hollered for Vance Holcomb, which I guess he's probably not used to."
"You'd be surprised," she told him. He could hear a chuckle in her voice, which reassured him.
"And then I honked the horn a time or two. No one came out. I guess they were too busy. That is…if there was anyone there."
Kate said nothing to that. Neither denying nor confirming. Finally, she spoke. "Why'd you finish up early in Salutations? Catch any big pythons?"
"No. Not at all," he told her. There was no reason she shouldn't know what he and Mary had discovered. And maybe if he were frank with her, she'd warm up to him. She was playing a bit too hard to get, and he didn't really care for too difficult a chase where women were concerned. "Mary Niccols-a woman I work with sometimes-I took her with me to talk to a gentleman who lost a dog, and he showed us something he'd found."
"What was it?" Her voice sounded tense again.
"Well, it was kind of gruesome, really. But it was his dog's paw."
"Its paw?"
"Yes. Just the paw. And part of its leash," he added.
"Part of its leash?"
"Yeah. The really nasty thing was that the paw, and the leash, had been cut with some kind of tool."
"A tool? What do you mean? What kind of tool?" She sounded really very interested now, and Ron imagined her sitting on the edge of her chair, leaning into the receiver, hanging on his words.
"Yes. We took a close look, and the cut was too clean and too smooth to have been made by anything other than some kind of blade or clamp. Even the metal links in the leash had virtually no scoring on the chopped ends. Whatever the guy used, it went through bone and metal like cutting rubber with a razor blade."
"Good grief."
"Yeah. That's what we thought. In a way, I was kind of relieved. I don't like having to have animals trapped and euthanized, even if they do pose some vague threat to people. It was nice that it wasn't a snake."
"I know what you mean," Kate told him. "Did you find anything else?"
"No," Ron said. "We didn't really look around much, to tell you the truth. Not after that. We turned the evidence over to Bill Tatum, head of security out at Salutations. He didn't look too pleased to be handed a severed dog's paw, I can tell you. And I think he'd have been happy if it had been a snake. Dodd's Jurassic Park stories were starting to wind down, and they'd be easier to take than would some dog mutilator stalking his perfect little town. That kind of thing just isn't supposed to take place in a planned community, you know."
"You gave it to Tatum? Damn. I'd like to have examined it."
"What for? I told you something metal cut it. What interest do you guys have in a dognaper?" Ron was confused, a bit. Could the perpetrator be someone from the Eyesore? He thought of Levin carving at the tubful of buzzard guts.
"Ah, no reason," she said. "I'm always tinkering."
"Tinkering? With a dog paw?"
She utterly surprised him, then. By asking him out. "What are you doing tonight?"
"Well…when?"
He thought of her looking at a clock, to get the time. "How about eight o'clock? I could meet you somewhere. How about St. Cloud? I know a really good Cajun restaurant there."
"Damn."
"What? Don't like Cajun?"
"No. I mean, yes, I like Cajun food just fine. But, I have to meet someone in Orlando at seven. I'd have to drive from Orlando down to St. Cloud after that, and there's just no way I could make it by eight." He thought, trying to figure a way. "Can you meet me in Orlando?"
"God, no. I hate that place. Stay away from there as much as possible," she told him. "Who are you meeting, anyway? Another lady?"
That sounded almost like jealousy. That was a good sign. "No. Nothing like that. At all. I have to meet that reporter, Tim Dodd. Funny little guy."
"Dodd? I know who you're talking about. The one who wrote all of those funny stories in the Inquirer. Why meet him out there? Isn't he in Salutations?"
"No. He pulled out of there today. In a hurry, too."
"A hurry?"
"Yeah. He was really very upset. Said something strange had happened to him and he needed my input."
"Strange? In what way?"
"I couldn't say. He was all scratched and bruised. Said he'd gotten lost in the woods. Wanted to talk to me about something, and said he had to check out of the hotel and get a room in Orlando."
"Oooo. Sounds mysterious," she said.
"I don't know about that. But I'm to meet him at the Penta on International Boulevard. In fact, I'll have to be leaving soon if I'm going to make the meeting."
"Well, I'll let you go, then."
"I wish I hadn't promised to meet him out there," Ron admitted. "I'd rather spend some time with you. Get to know you better."
There was some uncomfortable silence from the other end. Ron even fidgeted. Finally, Kate spoke. "That's flattering, Ron. I enjoyed your company, too. We need to get together to talk at length."
"No problem to that," he said, blushing invisibly to her. "You're a unique woman."
"We can talk about it. Tomorrow? You call me tomorrow."
"I will," he said.
"Well. Bye."
"Goodbye."
He sat there for a while, thinking of Kate, wishing he hadn't promised Dodd to meet him. And then he remembered the way Dodd had passed the object to him as he'd left. As good as his word, Ron hadn't so much as looked at whatever it was. It was still in the pocket of the shirt he'd been wearing earlier. He had to get it.
Ron went to the clothes hamper and found the shirt lying on the very top. He dug into the left pocket, recalling that Dodd had been left-handed and the thing had ended up in the wrong pocket. He took it out and looked at it. Yes. It was as he'd thought. A computer disk. But not a CD, and not a 3.5" floppy. This was something else. It looked like one of those digital disks he'd seen at a technology demonstration at the office a few months before. In fact, he was fairly certain it was for a digital camera. Well, it wasn't Ron's business. He'd give it back to the guy as soon as he saw him.
He put it in the pocket of the short-sleeved shirt he was wearing and tried not think of it. For all he knew, it contained some incriminating evidence against some executive from Berg Brothers. Yes, best to give it back to Dodd as soon as possible.
Quickly, he had locked up the house, climbed into the little Toyota Corolla he owned, five years old and going to have to serve for five more before he bought another one: Fish amp; Wildlife did not pay as well as Ron had hoped. He headed toward Orlando.
In less time than he would have thought, he had pulled off the interstate, on to the big boulevard that paralleled it, and was in the parking lot of the Penta. It was a very nice hotel. Four stars, and very plush. He had stayed there with Mary once, doing the tourist stuff when they weren't having sex, which was only about half the time. She had almost been the one for him. Maybe Kate would be the real thing. He thought of the rest of his life with a woman half a foot taller than he was. Well, they'd turn a lot of heads.
But not as many heads as yours and Mary's dark-skinned children would, eh, you jerk? Ron shook the subversive thought from his mind and tried to pretend it had never been there.
The evening was dark, no moon, but you'd never have known it. Orlando was, as usual, lit up like the all night party it was. There were people everywhere, going to restaurants, to clubs, to parks, to money traps, to everything one could imagine. He doubted any of them were headed home.
Soon, he was in the lobby of the hotel. If the facade was false marble, and not the real thing, then it was an excellent imitation. The place was all pink and white; carpet and what appeared to be polished stone. Very nice. Again, if you liked that kind of thing. Ron was one of those people who did like it, from time to time. He'd never be able to take a steady diet of it, though. It was good for a laugh, now and again.
He got in a short line at the front desk, waiting his turn. Finally, a lean, dark-headed and cleanly pressed young man indicated with a friendly wave that he could step forward.
"May I help you?" the young man asked.
"Yes," Ron said. "I'm meeting someone here. Someone who's supposed to have checked in today. Could you ring his room for me? I don't know the room number."
"Certainly," the man said, picking up a receiver, his manicured fingers poised above a bright yellow keyboard. "What is the guest's name?"
"Dodd. Tim Dodd."
The young man's fingers played quickly and expertly over the keyboard, flitting with practiced speed. There was a short pause. Then, "I'm sorry. We don't have anyone by that name registered. Not even a Dodd," he added.
"Huh," Ron grunted. "Hmm. How about his company? Maybe he's registered under the company name. He works for the National Inquirer."
The young man's eyebrows perked up at that. "That's interesting," he said, his fingers already jotting away. And then, "No. Nothing registered to them, either. I'm sorry, but your friend doesn't seem to have checked in yet."
"Were you guys full today? He was going to come in early this afternoon. Maybe you had no vacancies."
"No, sir. We've had vacancies all week. This isn't our peak season, you know." The young man was still smiling, but Ron could tell he wanted to be done with this so that he could deal with paying customers.
"Okay, then. Maybe he just hasn't had time to check in. I'll have a drink at the bar and then come back and see if he comes in."
"You do that," he said, already motioning for the next person in line to come forward.
Ron faded away, and found himself on a stool in one of the Penta's less expensive bars. The place had four clubs and three restaurants, all part of a mini-mall attached to the hotel. So, for an hour Ron nursed a couple of beers from chilly to warm as he slowly sipped them, waiting for Dodd.
At last, he went back to the front desk and once more asked the nice young man the same questions. And once more he received a negative reply.
Damn and hell. He could have spent the evening with Kate. He was really looking forward to getting to know her. To kissing her, in fact. He really wanted to kiss her. "Screw you, Dodd," he muttered.
And within another hour he was back at home, ready to crash. He was asleep about as soon as his head hit the pillow. He'd even forgotten about the disk, and it sat in the pocket of the shirt, which lay in a heap of sea green cotton fabric on the floor. He dreamed. In his dream, instead of Kate, there was Dodd, muttering to him. "I've got something to tell you," the scabby-faced dream image was saying.
That was when the phone awakened him.
Fumbling out of bed, he looked at the red light digits on his clock. "Seven ay emm," he groaned. "This is my day off. Who the hell is calling me on my day off? This better be good."
"Hello," he could not hide the drowsiness in his voice.
"Ron."
"Kate?" He was perking up already.
"Yeah. Listen. You were supposed to meet Tim Dodd, right?"
"Right."
"Well, he's dead."
"What? What?"
"Some Osceola County Mounty stopped a car late last night. Pulled them over for something. Speeding, I think. Something wonky was going on with the license of the guy driving the car, and he tried to make a break for it. Wrong cop. Big chase. He ended up pushing the guy off the road. Somewhere off of twenty-seven, I think. Into a drainage ditch full of water and lily pads. Don't ask me how, but the driver got away. Something about a third car and another suspect. But when they pulled the car out of the ditch and looked in the trunk…"
"Dodd?"
"Dodd." Silence. "He'd been shot. Once. In the head."
"Jesus."
"I think you might want to talk to the cops," Kate said.
"Grief." He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, stared at nothing. "Thanks for calling, Kate. But…I'd better go. You're right. I'd better call the cops."
And now. Now, he thought seriously about the small disk that Dodd had given him. He gazed down at the heap of cotton fabric that was the shirt, and was almost afraid to reach down and retrieve it.
But, finally, he did.