Superman becomes Swamp Thing, that’s how his legend will be amended. The idea makes him laugh because he is, indeed, a thing of the swamp. Even his breath smells like a bog, a bull gator’s breath. The sour funk of all the bad things he’s done, and for which he must atone or risk being a ghost forever.

He hears a splash, sees that his children have come to play in the boat. Tyler, the baby, splashing gleefully while his older sisters wear the pirate costumes he bought them last Halloween.

“Hi, kids,” he says. “Papa’s happy to see you.”

The children stare at him, saying nothing.

“Soon we’ll talk,” he assures them, shoving along the boatload of weapons. “Papa has a plan.”

4. Blood Relations

“They not bad boys, understand, they just too poor to be good.”

Another folksy remark from Detective Rufus T. Sydell, of the Glade City Police Department.

Roof, as he asks to be called, is a skinny, small-boned gentleman with a sun-damaged complexion and a slightly goofy, frequently deployed smile that’s about as wide as his face. Deeply crinkled, flat-gray eyes, set wide apart, as if he can see around corners. Wears his silvery hair in a military burr cut and began his second career as cop after retiring from the United States Marine Corps.

“Sydell a cracker name, like Whittle is a cracker name,” Roof explains, weaving his fingers together as he speaks. “Go back far enough we got relatives in common, guaranteed. Them old boys got up to all kinds of mischief out in the islands, fathering children and what all. Young lady, I am referring to the Thousand Islands, an area runs along the west side of the Glades. Sydells lived on a shell mound out in the Glades, just like the Whittles. Mound is a little island made by the Calusa Indians long time ago—heaps of oyster shells piled in the mangroves till it gets to be a foot or so above flood level. Just barely in this world, you might say.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, feeling like one of his young recruits. Ten minutes into his charm-dog spiel, I know enough to shut up and salute.

We’re talking to Roof, or rather he’s talking to us, because Shane wants to follow up on the Whittle brothers, see if they have any connection to Ricky Lang. Could be they’re just taking advantage, trying to fence a stolen aircraft, or it might be that they’re acting as agents for Lang, in which case they might have knowledge of the abduction. A notion that Detective Sydell dismisses as improbable.

“Smugglin’ drugs like their pappy done is more likely,” he says. “From what I know, this Ricky Lang individual don’t have much to do with white folk. First ever I heard of him, he was raising hell with the Sheriff’s Department, trying to enforce a no-alcohol regulation on the reservation. Long-established cracker business, trading moonshine with the Indians, and Mr. Lang made it pretty clear he didn’t like ‘shine and he didn’t like crackers. Man was a real crusader.”

“What happened? What changed him?”

Roof shrugs happily. “Money and politics, I guess. You think them boys up in Tallahassee play fast and loose? Young lady, I refer to our noble state legislators. Tallahassee ain’t got nothing on a tribal council, from what I hear, not once they got a dollar to fight over.”

“Either of the Whittle brothers have a record?” Shane wants to know.

“No more than the usual juvenile hijinks,” Roof responds airily, putting his hands behind his head, leaning back in his chair. “As I recall, young Dug—spells his name like what gets dug with a shovel—young Dug was brought up on charges for tormenting an alligator. Dragged it behind a vehicle for a few miles, as I recall, and got caught by the game warden. Must have been about twelve years old at the time. Then there was neighbors complained of a missing dog and a pet raccoon, blamed it on Dug. So we kept an eye on him. Any more pets went missing, I never heard about it. Roy keeps a watch over him, too, is my guess. Dug ain’t what you’d call full-on retarded but he’s pretty dim.”

“The pickup truck was brand-new,” Shane points out. “Is Roy Whittle gainfully employed?”

Roof laughs. “You mean like a paycheck job? Not that I’m aware, no. That don’t mean nothin’ in particular. There’s ways to earn a living around here don’t involve criminal activity.”

From Shane’s tight smile I can tell he thinks Detective Sydell is playing him. “You’re not concerned they were on an unregulated airfield with an aircraft used in an abduction?”

In his friendly, corn-pone way, Roof remains dismissive. “Out of my territory. Took place on the reservation, correct? Seems to me, if the Whittle boys were trespassing, so was you, which makes you not much use as a witness, was it ever to come to that. That said, somebody from a law enforcement agency develops evidence or hands us a warrant, we’ll pick ‘em up, rest assured. But from what I know, an abduction scheme would be a big leap for Roy Whittle. Never struck me as that ambitious. So if you and all your associates in the federal guvmint don’t mind, let me check up on the Whittles. This is my little slice of the world, I prefer to strut my own stuff.”

“Okay, that’s fine,” says Shane, standing up. He adds, stiffly but politely, “Thanks for your time.”

“No problem, I try to be helpful.” Roof says cheerily. He takes my right hand in both of his, gives me a reassuring squeeze. “Young lady, I hope this all works out. Terrible thing when a child goes missing. We hear anything from the search parties, anything at all, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

He stops us at the door, pretends to have an afterthought. “Mr. Shane? Young lady? It just come to me, that if you’re looking for a local connection to Ricky Lang, might be you’re barking up the wrong tree. There is a connection, come to think, but it ain’t the Whittles. Man you want to see is a fella goes by the name Leo Fish.”

Shane perks up, interested. “Leo Fish. He’s associated with Ricky Lang?”

Roof smiles like a toad with a nice fat fly in its mouth. “There’s a blood association ‘tween ‘em. Ricky had children by Leo’s sister. Used to be real friendly, Leo and Ricky.”

“Used to be?”

Roof shrugs elaborately. “Heard they had a falling-out.”

“Where do we find this Leo Fish?”

If Roof’s smile got any wider he’d swallow his own head. “Now that might be a problem, if Leo don’t want to be found. Guess you best ask around, see what falls out of the tree.”

The Glade City Motorcourt Inn looks to have sprung up from the moldy wet ground in the 1950s, and the various hand-lettered signs posted around the office—No Fishing Off The Dock Past 10 PM, No Bait In Rooms, Ice For Beer Only—indicates a clientele of visiting anglers. That probably accounts for the slightly fishy smell to the place. The scrawny, curly-haired blonde in charge looks like a product of the same decade as the decaying motel, but can’t be more than thirty years old.

She introduces herself as Trishy, has the same wide-apart flat-gray eyes as Rufus Sydell, which makes me wonder if they’re related, but frankly I haven’t got the nerve to ask. Maybe everybody “hereabouts” has a blood connection, as good old Roof implied. I’m not exactly a world traveler—life intervened, as the saying goes—but in my few excursions have never felt so in need of a passport.

Not that Trishy is the least bit unfriendly. On the contrary, she’s very chatty and curious. “Welcome to Glade City,” she says, handing us separate keys. “You’ll notice it’s not exactly a city. Heck, it’s barely a village. Used to be called just plain Glade and added the city part when the developers come down from Naples. Then the developers got flooded out by the hurricanes and left the name behind. You here for the fishing?” she asks doubtfully, checking out my slacks and shoes.

When Shane explains, her eyes widen. “Oh gosh! The search! I just this now heard about it. Wondered about the helicopters, figured it was somebody lost. We get the kayak folks, sometimes they misplace themselves, can’t find their way back. Your daughter, she was took by Indians, you say?”