“You said that, find another way in, but what does it mean?”

“Pursuing intelligence. Locating someone who may have knowledge of Ricky Lang’s secret places. Where he’d go if he was hiding from the world.”

Shane pivots the laptop, points to the screen.

“See this? That’s a Google Earth view of the Everglades. This little corner up here, that’s the Nakosha reservation, but it borders wilderness on two sides, all of which is part of either Everglades National Park or Big Cypress National Preserve. That’s over three million acres, and the only human occupation is around the edges—and that’s only within the area officially designated as parkland. The actual wilderness is at least five times larger. Very few roads, and most of those are on the periphery. There are hundreds of square miles that can only be accessed on foot or, in a limited way, by airboat.”

“So it really is hopeless. He could be anywhere.”

“No, no. He’s somewhere, a definite somewhere,” Shane strenuously insists. “That’s my point. We need to find a way in to Ricky Lang’s world. Either by locating one of his partners in crime, or an individual who knows him intimately and is willing to talk.”

“Whittle or this Fish person.”

“Precisely.”

Suddenly Shane puts the laptop aside and leaps up, as if he’s got ants in his pants. Or, given our location, roaches. But it’s his cell phone, which he left on vibe, and soon enough he flips it open.

“Agent Healy? We’re fine, any news? I see.”

He shakes his head at me, restarting my heart.

“Good, excellent,” he says, using his eyes to let me know the information isn’t life or death. “Let me get a pen, I want to write this down.”

He fumbles around in his luggage, locating notebook and pen. He listens for about five minutes, saying little more than uh-huh, and small encouragements to keep Healy talking. Finally he concludes, “Sean? Thank you very much. We really and truly appreciate everything you’ve done, everything you’re doing. We know the operation is in good hands. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Garner? She says yes. Excellent. Talk to you soon.”

He flips the phone shut, sits there thoughtfully, as if ticking over various ideas. “Interesting,” he says. “We finally have a motive.”

“Beyond him being crazy?”

“Might be what made him crazy. Agent Healy just interviewed Ricky Lang’s live-in girlfriend. Apparently this is a recent relationship and the girl has no connection to the tribe, but she does know that Ricky has been obsessed about his dead children.”

“Dead children?” I say, the words catching in my throat.

“Six months ago Lang’s children perished in a house fire. According to the girlfriend, Ricky blames the tribal council.”

“Oh my God. You think they killed his children?”

“No idea,” says Shane. “This is all second- or third-hand information. But if Lang holds the tribe responsible for the death of his kids, that explains a lot.”

“He’s out of his mind with grief.”

Shane nods thoughtfully. “And seeking revenge.”

6. Mr. Crispy Says Goodbye

Roy figures patience is in order, take it one step at a time. Dug and Stick have been on his case about the helicopters flitting over the airfield four or five times in the fading hour before sunset, as if puzzling out whether to bother landing. Like all this unwanted attention is his fault somehow.

Stick Davis, more or less sober, wants to know what the Feds are looking for, and what does it have to do with a stolen Beechcraft.

“This some kind of sting operation?” he asks in his deceptively casual Alabama drawl. “Y’all setting up old Stick?”

Roy figures Stick is armed someway or other. Not in the vicinity of his waist—the oddly protuberant drinker’s belly takes up all the available space—but maybe an ankle iron, or a larger-caliber handgun secreted in the tattered backpack on the floor of the truck.

Stick in the rear seat, legs out, ankles crossed, wearing leather deck shoes without socks. Actually humming to himself and twiddling his thumbs. A creature never looked so relaxed. Which you might say about a rattlesnake curled behind a rock, if you didn’t know squat about venomous snakes.

Tell him the truth, more or less, Roy decides. As much truth as needs telling.

“They’re lookin’ for a couple of folks, none of ‘em us,” he says. “None of your concern. Nothin’ to do with the airplane.”

Stick chuckles, shaking his head. “Roy, you know what? I wasn’t born yesterday. Other thing, I ain’t figure on getting arrested today, awright? So whyn’t you tell old Uncle Stick what’s really going on?”

Dug, looking eager, says, “It’s a secret, ain’t it, Roy?”

The new Dodge Ram is parked at a deserted rest stop area just outside the reservation. Not that anyone has picnicked here lately—with the crumbling concrete benches and the hard-scrabble ground strewn with broken glass, the area is not exactly welcoming. Not that it matters. None of them have exited the cab, not wanting to be clocked by whatever long-range cameras or spotting devices they may have aboard the surveillance helicopters. Roy has left the motor running to boost the AC, but the cab feels close and smells of whatever Dug has tracked in on his boots. His twin being a magnet for shit of all species. Pig, deer, dog or human; if a turd is out there, Dug will find it.

“What happened is, Ricky Lang detained a few people,” Roy explains. “They’re lookin’ for them, the, um, people, not the airplane.”

“You saying the Beech isn’t directly involved?” Stick wants to know.

“Not no more it ain’t. Plus, Ricky is on the run, busy getting his butt chased by about five hundred cops. So this is our opportunity to make a few dollars.”

“Uh-huh,” says Stick. “Figured something like that. You’re taking an opportunity.”

“You still in?”

“Until I’m out. Which will be decided dependin’ on my observations of the situation. Calculating risk, we call it.”

“There’s always risk,” Roy points out.

Stick laughs. “Oh my. The boy is a philosopher.”

They sit in the crap stink of the Dodge Ram until the sun winks out over the Everglades. There one moment, gone the next. Just to be sure they wait out the twilight, what the old-timers call “after light,” and there comes a time when the helicopters retreat to the east, seeking home base and refueling.

The vast Everglades, difficult to search in daylight, are impossible at night.

Roy backs out of the rest stop, drives onto the access road. No headlights because he’s heard that satellites can detect running lights. The boundaries of the narrow road are marked by the red eyes of coons and other small creatures sniffing out the truck as it passes. Roy driving with care and concentration, thinking about the multimillion-dollar Beechcraft King Air 350. How he’ll trade the insanely valuable airplane for a new life. Buy some old farm up in the Carolinas or maybe Kentucky, see what happens next. Make sure there’s a cabin for Dug, a place he’ll feel comfortable. Not in the main house, surely. All his brother needs is a place to lay down and creatures to kill. Squirrel or possum or house cat, four legged or two, Dug ain’t particular, so long as he can make it dead.

The airfield glows faintly with the light of early-rising stars. Roy aims the big Dodge like a beacon, crunching on fine gravel until they arrive at the mound of earth that forms the camouflaged hangar. He can feel Stick tensing in the back seat, eyes full of the darkness, thirsty for any sign of betrayal. His own heart slamming because for all he knows the FBI has staked out the hangar.

Meantime Dug, soothed by a chronic lack of imagination, comes awake with a grunt. “Where we at?” he wants to know, grumpy as a child.

“We’re here,” Roy whispers. “Money in the bank, ain’t that right, Stick?”

They wait for a while in the truck, engine off and ticking as it cools, until Roy gathers up his courage and steps out, ready or not, here he comes. Standing in the hot velvety hush of backcountry nightfall, ears keen for the cocking of a gun or the crunch of boots on gravel.