As Ron continued on he was impressed with the beauty of the surrounding forests. It seemed ironic that this place, having been within the confines of the Edmunds Army Base and Bombing Range, had been spared the commercial exploitation of so much of the rest of the state. Certainly the military had been unkind to some of the property, but largely the forests and streams and wetlands had remained completely pristine. He thought again of the rumors that Ivory-Billed Woodpeckers were there, tucked away in the lower bottomlands. He personally doubted it, had passed it off as wishful thinking from some of the environmental activists who were trying to save the place.
But seeing another deer posing by the road, and spying the ever-present raccoons poking at the verge of the roadside waterway, he was ready to believe the improbable. The pines were thick and tall, the oaks sturdy and old, the cypress trees green and ancient. One never could tell, he supposed.
And then there was Salutations proper. He passed another of the old warning signs from the military days, before the recent round of base closings, and saw the garish yellow-on-white sign proclaiming Salutations, USA. Beneath those six-foot letters, somewhat smaller: Another Berg Brothers Production. Cartoon characters cavorted along the base of the sign, which formed a bridge over the roadway twenty feet overhead. He did an approximation of the voice of Sid the Squirrel. "Welcome Home, Everybody!"
There was a pair of guardhouses, yet another remnant of the base days. But, while they had been repainted and refitted with the latest in air-conditioning, there was no one manning either of the stations. Since this place was still what amounted to a gated community, he was surprised to find no one there, at least to hand out propaganda on what a wonderful and perfect place this was to live.
Salutations was spread before him, what there was of it, so far. He had to admit that if one was into the middle class ideal, this was certainly the place to be. The town was quite impressive. The Corporation engineers had laid the town out pretty much along the lines of the existing streets and structures of the old military base. Everything was there in almost perfect grids. Everywhere there were patches of grass and manicured shrubs. Even old-fashioned village greens right up front, a great white pagoda standing in the middle of that brilliant grass almost glowing in its limed and fertilized glory.
Off to the right was what was serving as a police station. The building was a sprawling, single story structure done up in red brick and white trim, pale shutters bordering the kind of windows one would expect to see on a house, rather than a police station. In fact, it was a private security firm, owned and operated by Berg Brothers Studios, that gave the citizens their sense of safety from the outside world. There was some debate already about how and when real police were going to be integrated into Salutations. Currently, the place didn't even have elected officials, but that was coming soon, since no other town was near enough to have incorporated these lands into its borders.
He drove on, passing the already thriving retail and entertainment district. The place looked busy with people, mainly young mothers, children in tow, and older women with silver hair and no one to fret over. He noticed a pair of competing groceries, the superstore types, and a small indoor mall took up most of a block. There was a sign for a cinema that was showing the latest films, including the newest Berg Brothers bomb that had ceased to show everywhere else save for the odd dollar cinema here and there. Ron admired the particularly long and tanned legs of a mom holding hands with her little blonde tyke, her short shorts giving a truly traffic-stopping view. He almost did run the next intersection and his tires barked quickly as he came to a stop. Even so, he watched the woman until she vanished into some kind of curio shop on the opposite corner. An older lady scowled at him from the parking lot of one of the groceries, and Ron felt a bit guilty. He would have tipped his hat at her if he'd been wearing one.
Taking a moment to refer to his street map, he looked at it, frowning at the parade of cartoon characters along the borders who smiled and pointed at various sights. "Harmony Way," he muttered. "Give me a break." He noted the address again: 100 West Harmony Way, and continued on, pressing the brightly colored map into the folds in the seat.
At the next intersection, he took a right. And there he was, right in front of Town Administration. The company men were keeping it neat and orderly until such time as the town voted to form their own government. He was sure they were looking forward to that. At least there was plenty of parking. He found a space well away from the building and got out. The temperature had already climbed another degree or two, and he paused just long enough to lower the windows a couple of inches on both sides of the cab. Once again he made a mental note to requisition a truck with air-conditioning.
The parking lot was busy with tourists, he noticed. It had seemed the way in was a road to nowhere, and he had seen no other vehicles coming in or going out along the way. But here they all were, Florida's combined curse and blessing: the tourists from points north. Everyone was a Yankee to a native Floridian. Overweight parents and their hamburger fatted broods went this way and that, going toward the curio shops and the enclosed mall and the theaters and the restaurants. Ron reckoned Salutations didn't really need any citizens to make this place work. The green oil from the tourists would probably lubricate the money machine just fine, thanks.
As he approached the red brick steps leading up to great, wide, whitewashed pine walls, the door opened and a tall, carefully groomed man in a neat suit came out. A wide face capped by a blond buzz cut beamed down. Although he was only standing two steps above, the fellow seemed to loom there, like a giant. Ron quickly decided the man stood at about six and a half feet, considerably taller than Ron. The big man's appropriately big hand shot out as Riggs came up the stairs.
"You must be Mr. Riggs from Fish and Wildlife." He took Ron's hand and squeezed it. Ron squeezed back.
"Yes, sir. And you're Andrew Dorkin?" Dorkin was the company executive who had first called the Service, touching base with those who could be either the company's friend or adversary, depending on the circumstances.
The big man smiled, a perfect grin in a tanned face, crow's-feet webbing out upon skin that had spent considerable time in the sun. "Oh, nonono. I'm Bill Tatum," he said, giving Ron's hand a final athletic squeeze and then releasing it. "I'm in charge of security here at Salutations. Have been since the studio broke ground two years ago." He smiled even more broadly and gazed around them. "This place was just the old base going to weed when I got here."
"I see," Ron said. "Well, I just assumed I'd be talking with Mr. Dorkin, since he's the one who's been speaking with the boys down at the office."
"Mr. Dorkin is very busy. I usually take up the slack in minor situations like this." He breathed in, seeming to enjoy the intake. In fact, the air was sweet, scented by the forest and wetlands that lay all about the town like a carefully painted picture.
Tatum was staring hard at something in the parking lot behind them, his smile fading ever so slightly, and Ron turned to see what it was. The expression on Tatum's face was that severe.
A smallish man was coming their way. He was dressed in rumpled khaki, a new digital camera hanging from his neck. Ron almost smiled at the way the man bounced their way, until he realized that his odd up and down gait was probably due to some old serious injury or, perhaps, a moderate birth defect. The guy was very thin, a dark brown beard artfully covering what was a generally chinless face. Coke bottle lenses expanded a pair of friendly eyes above a beak of a nose. And the whole picture was capped by what had to be one of the thickest and curliest heads of hair Ron had ever seen. Three pens of various types jutted out of that hair like a tribal decoration on some ancient Neanderthal. Once again Ron wanted to chuckle, but quickly noted that all vestige of Tatum's friendly demeanor had vanished as the goofball came their way.
Tatum spoke first. "Mr. Dodd. We keep telling you there's no story here. And we can do without your kind of publicity."
The Dodd fellow came up the steps, and Ron had in mind that the three of them looked to be a mismatched set of progressively smaller figures. "Hello," he said, and extended his hand to Ron. Ron took it. "I'm Tim Dodd, with the National Inquirer. Down here to get the story on what's going on in paradise." He smiled a lopsided grin.
"Ron Riggs," Ron told him. "U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service."
Tatum cleared his throat and seemed to glare a message at Ron. Ron got the message, but lying to the press wasn't part of his job. At least not this one.
"Yes. I saw your truck," the reporter said. "What exactly is the problem around here, Mr. Riggs?"
"There isn't a problem," Tatum said. "Due to the outstanding status of most of the property surrounding Salutations USA, we are obliged by law to confer with various governmental and environmental agencies whenever the company wishes to make any kind of decision involving construction or modifications of almost any type."
"Modifications, eh? Is that what you call a hunting party to exterminate the local wildlife?"
Whatever of friendliness remained in Tatum's face vanished and was instantly replaced with something quite darker. "Mr. Dodd. I've warned you once. You can't find a story here, so you're just trying to create one."
"What story?" Ron asked.
"Don't you read the Inquirer? My column, 'In Dodd We Trust'?" Dodd looked indignant.
"Afraid not," Riggs told him, a grin cracking his face.
Dodd raised his thin arms in the air, as if asking the gods for a reason. "You're a deprived individual, Mr. Riggs. Which is better than being depraved, eh Tatum?"
"This is private property, Dodd." Tatum ground out the words.
"Yes, it is, Mr. Tatum. But you don't really need or want the negative publicity of having me tossed out of here, do you? I know you've already discussed it in your various board meetings. So I'm just going to hang out until I dig up the truth. What do you say, Riggs? Want to cough it all up for me?"
Ron finally smiled at the little man. "I'm just here on minor business, actually. I'm going to scout the area here and see what kinds of populations the local forest currently serves as home. Nothing sinister or dramatic, I promise."
"What kinds of creatures, Mr. Riggs? Giant snakes, maybe?" Dodd stepped back and lifted the camera to his face. Before either of the other men could complain, he had at least two shots of them there in front of the security building.
"Stop that, Dodd. I mean it." Tatum was pointing at the reporter and was rewarded with having a shot taken of his menacing posture.
"You can't stop the Press, Tatum. You know that."
Tatum was at the end of his patience. He put his hand on Ron's shoulder and nudged him toward the door. "Let's go inside, shall we? Where we'll have some privacy."
Dodd called out to them as they went in. "Riggs. I'm at the Executive, down the street. Give me a ring or leave a message with the front desk. I'd like to talk to you."
And then Riggs and Tatum were inside, walking down a neat, pale yellow corridor with doors on each side leading into offices from which young secretaries and junior clerks emerged and vanished as the two men went toward an elevator at the end of the hall. Once in the elevator, Tatum breathed in, held it, then released, calming himself.
"Do you know what they've been calling Salutations in that rag he writes for?"
"Um. No. I have to say I don't read that paper."
"Jurassic Park. They're calling us Jurassic Park."
Ron, in spite of himself, laughed. He looked guiltily up at Tatum. "I'm sorry. But you have to admit that it's funny."
"We have some trouble with alligators, a couple of people are snakebit. Next thing we see, the National Inquirer is calling us Jurassic-freaking-Park and claiming we've got a monster living in the forest around the town." Tatum squinted his eyes, an expression of exasperation, then seemed to recover a bit. "Sorry. But that guy gets on my nerves."
"No offense. I can see where you're coming from." Still, if Dodd was writing that stuff, he at least had a good sense of humor.
They came to the third floor. "This way," Tatum indicated with a wave of his arm. "The office up here has a truly impressive view of the area. You'll see." They went through a door at the end of the short hallway, and Ron noted that the third floor was much smaller than the two below it. He hadn't noticed from the parking lot.
As Tatum had promised, the office did afford an impressive view of the town and its environs through the wide window set in the north wall. The town's roads led into a residential area a few blocks north, then vanished at the forest that stood like a frozen green wave. Off in the distance, Ron could make out what looked to be a patch of longleaf pine savanna, a truly rare environment in America. To the left, and west of the town, he noticed a series of buildings that looked completely out of place, almost what appeared to be a fort of some kind, although a modern one.
"What is that?" Ron asked, pointing at those odd buildings.
Without turning to look, Tatum answered. "That is what we've taken to calling the Eyesore."
"Eyesore?" It did look terribly out of place, and was not characteristic of the rest of this carefully planned community.
"Holcomb's place. Vance Holcomb."
"Ah. I'd heard about the…situation with Holcomb."
"You'd think a man with a few billion dollars could find something better to do than sit out here and cause problems for this company. Pointless problems, too, I might add. Salutations USA is as concerned with protecting the environment as any other American organization. We've done our utmost to minimize the impact of modern living on the natural world around us." Tatum moved behind the big desk that sat facing away from the view. He indicated a padded leather chair for Riggs.
Both seated, Tatum continued.
"You know the drill," Tatum said, this time with a bit of coldness in his voice. "We've had several more dogs vanish. Mainly in Phase Three, eh," he turned and shrugged toward the houses that bled into the forest to the north, "over there."
"Has anyone seen anything?" Riggs stood and went to the window to look out at that neighborhood. Most of the forest was that same pine-oak mix. But there was that savanna area beyond it and past that he could see some truly impressive cypress trees rising up in wetlands beyond.
"Nothing. No one has even heard a dog struggling with anything. No yelps or barks. Dog there one minute, gone the next."
"I doubt it's a gator," Riggs said.
"Why do you say that?" Still seated, Tatum was looking in the same direction as Riggs.
"That area is too high and dry. No streams, no swampy area there. And you said some of the dogs vanished from fenced yards. Gators can dig like nobody's business, but you'd see the sign, of course. And that neighborhood's elevated, too. I'd almost call it a hill. What passes for a hill in this area. An alligator would have to be terribly hungry to go up there, and from what I can tell from looking around, and from the environmental impact statements I've read, there's plenty of food in the gator habitat to keep a sizable population well fed and in place. I think we can rule out alligators. So no need to call in one of our licensed trappers, just yet."
"Well, that's a relief. I'd hate to see Dodd take that one to town. Can you imagine what he'd write? And the last thing I'd want to see is a photo of some trapper hauling off another one of those big alligators in the bed of his truck. Christ. That last one was a fifteen-footer. Damned dinosaur was what it was. Ate two dogs, that one." He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. "What else, then?"
"Well. I won't know for sure until I check. One of the impact statements I read mentioned a panther track."
"Panther?"
"Florida panther. Felis concolor floridanus. Mountain lion. Cougar."
"Oh, Jesus."
"But I don't think so."
"Why not?"
"We're too far north, for one thing. There aren't but fifty or so of them left, and most of them live in or near the Everglades. Every once in a while one strays north, especially since the Department began seeding the area with transplanted panthers from Texas, to beef up the bloodlines because of inbreeding. But I don't think it's a panther. They're very afraid of dogs. More likely to run from one than eat one. Still, they do weigh over a hundred pounds, and killing a dog wouldn't be that difficult for a healthy panther.
"But, no. I think someone would have heard something. At least one of the dogs in the neighborhood would have caught wind of a panther. And there's been no sign of struggle or of blood. I can't see a panther operating like that. Nope. Doubt it's a panther."
"Then what?"
"Could be bear, I guess. But I'd rule that out for many of the same reasons, although I know these woods have a healthy bear population. A bear coming in to eat a dog would just make more of a fuss, I think." Ron gazed off into those woods, peering even beyond the longleaf savanna.
"Then there's coyotes. They've been known to lure dogs out into the bush and then ambush them and eat them. But I haven't seen any credible evidence that there are any coyotes in this part of the state.
"So…barring the dogs just wandering off into that wilderness and getting lost…"
"Yes?"
"I'd have to say a snake."
Tatum stood and took a few steps away from his desk. "A snake? You mean, like Dodd is writing about? A giant snake? Are you crazy?"
"Well, look at it this way. The dogs don't even raise an alarm. They're in the yard one hour, gone the next. No one sees anything or hears anything. No blood. No tracks. In the past, people here in Florida have either lost large pet snakes, or released them when they got too big to handle. Pythons, usually, but there are a couple of Anacondas on record as having been recaptured around the state. One near Big Springs State Park was a twenty-footer. It had been chowing down on the local dogs when it couldn't find enough raccoons to eat."
"Twenty feet? You're serious?"
"Yes, I am. I've read the reports about that one. They found it under a lady's house when her poodle started barking at something under there. A snake that big could eat a child, you know."
"Jesus." Tatum strode back to the desk and picked up the phone, then put it back down. "I guess we leave this up to you guys, then? Endangered or threatened species, right?"
"Actually, if it's an escaped large constrictor, we don't want it roaming free. It's a non-native species and not officially welcome here. But, yes, I'd like to take a look around, and we can recommend a specialist to trap it if we decide that's what the problem is."
"Well, that's a relief." The smile returned to Tatum's face. "So. When can you get started?"