Then he strikes a match.

7. The Mysterious Mr. Fish

Stuffed animals are not my thing. Not teddy bears, not real bears, stuffed. Not in museums, not in homes, and certainly not in restaurants. Excuse me, but killing an animal and trying to make it look alive, or not quite dead? Creepy. You want to kill a big deer? Catch a big fish? Fine. Eat what you want and throw the rest away. Just don’t expect me to admire it on your wall.

So the Glade City Hunt Club is not exactly my kind of place. Then again, we’re not here to admire the alligators nailed to the paneled wall, or the huge black bear that guards the entrance, glaring at visitors with beady glass eyes and exposed fangs that look like they need a good brushing.

Ugh, disgusting. The bar, where the only thing stuffed is the tip jar, is not my scene, either. In terms of design it’s actually quite pleasant. A curved mahogany bar top with matching brass rails, and wide-bladed ceiling fans stirring the thick, muggy air. Behind the bar, liquor bottles glow like amber jewelry, illuminated by hidden lights. It’s the clientele that turns me off. Too much testosterone, combined with the loud, braying voices of manly men bragging about themselves. Truth be known, I go for the strong silent types, and silence does not seem to be an option at this particular watering hole.

We’ve been told that if you want to locate Leo Fish, who doesn’t want to be found, start at the Hunt Club. One of the guides will know where to find him, although persuading any of the locals to help an outsider might be tough.

That’s the gospel according to Trishy with the flat-gray eyes. We’re about to see if there’s anything to what she says. Shane glances at his watch, announces, “We haven’t got time for finesse,” and then abruptly strides out onto the screened-in porch, where the raucous crowd clusters two or three deep around the bar. Leaving me at the entrance looking lost and feeling a lot of hot stares checking me out.

Shane is anything but lost. He opens his wallet, extracts some cash and waves his fist high in the air.

“Five hundred dollars to the man who can put me in contact with Leo Fish!”

Wow. The resulting silence is shocking to the ear. An entire roomful of macho hunter-fisher types eyeballing the big guy, sizing him up. Maybe this was what it was like in the Old West when a new marshal came to town. I’m ready to duck in case gunfire erupts, but after a few thudding heartbeats, conversation returns to the previous level. Eyes look elsewhere. We’re being ignored.

Shane waves his fist again. “Hey! Pay attention, you maggots!”

Again, utter silence, not to mention death-ray looks.

Shane, having got their full and undivided attention, explains: “We need to contact Leo Fish because he may be able to help us save the life of a young woman. Anybody who wants the finder’s fee, or who just wants to do the right thing, may contact me in the parking lot at the Motorcourt inn. I’ll be there for the next hour. The man who helps me find Leo Fish will have a friend for life, as well as the five hundred. Thank you for your attention and have a good night.”

He takes me by the hand and more or less drags me out of the Hunt Club and doesn’t let go until we get to the rental car.

“Sorry,” he says. “The exit was overly dramatic but I wanted to leave ‘em hanging. Wondering who you are. Maybe curious enough to help.”

“That was an act?” I say, a bit breathless from trying to keep up. “‘Pay attention, you maggots’?”

Shane gets in, fires up the engine and puts the car in gear. “Absolutely. We want the whole town buzzing. If anybody in Glade City knows how to put us in contact with the mysterious Mr. Fish we’ll know in the next hour. And if not, we’ll know that, too, and not be wasting our precious time.”

“Kelly’s precious time,” I remind him.

“Exactly,” he says.

Shane’s idea is to wait outside in the Motorcourt parking lot, so any potential snitches will feel more comfortable approaching under cover of darkness. But the mosquitoes are so bad—they feel as big as blue jays—that we have to remain in the Crown Vic or be drained of blood long before the hour is up.

“How did they stand it around here before they had screens and air-conditioning?” I ask.

“I assume they drank heavily. A habit that doesn’t appear to have died out with the invention of bug spray.”

Shane is trying to keep the conversation light, but I just can’t do it. Can’t fake being wry and relaxed when inside I’m screaming.

“When will they start searching again?” I want to know.

Shane considers, then replies, “There may be ground units working through the night, investigating known locations. Air surveillance will resume when the sun rises.”

“That may be too late,” I point out.

“All we can do is keep trying,” Shane tells me. “Never give up. That’s the only way to proceed, and you’d be surprised how often ‘never give up’ produces results.”

To his everlasting credit, the promised results are produced about fifteen minutes later, when an old pickup bounces into the parking lot and begins to circle, as if uncertain of what to do next.

Shane gets out, does his raised-fist thing, and the truck stops. A scrawny little dude gets out, looks around to see whether he’s been followed. I’m beginning to recognize the type. Except for the long scraggly hair tied in a ponytail, he could be kin to the sheriff, or to Trishy for that matter.

“What you want Fish for?” he asks suspiciously. “You a cop?”

“Retired. This concerns Ricky Lang. Heard he was married to Leo Fish’s sister, and thought he might help us find Mr. Lang.”

“The crazy injun they huntin’ for?”

“The fugitive,” Shane insists. “Lang kidnapped this woman’s daughter.”

“Um, Leo and Ricky don’t exactly get along.”

“That’s no concern of ours. We just want possible locations. Can you contact Mr. Fish or not?”

The scrawny dude with the ponytail scrutinizes the larger man. “It ain’t like Leo’s got a phone or ‘lecricity. He’s a white man but lives more or less like them Seminole Indians in the old days. He ain’t got a normal home, he camps out deep in the Glades, moving when it pleases him. Take me two hours to get to him by airboat, and two hours back if he wants to come.”

“Take me to him,” Shane says. “I’ll talk to him there, wherever it is.”

Ponytail dude shakes his head. “No way, Jose. Ain’t leadin’ no lawman to Leo Fish. I’ll take him your message, see what he says, but it’ll cost you a thousand.” He looks at me for the first time, nods politely. “Evening, ma’am. Airboat is expensive to run, blows through gas like you wouldn’t believe, that’s why I got to get my price.”

“Two hours?” asks Shane.

“Four or five round trip.”

Shane nods agreement. “Okay. Five hundred to cover the cost of the airboat, regardless. A thousand if you bring me Leo Fish.”

Scrawny licks his chapped lips. “The five up front?”

“When you get back,” Shane says firmly.

“How I know you won’t drive away, leave me for a fool?”

“Because you have my word.”

“Okay, deal.” Scrawny shakes on it, looking like he believes in Randall Shane.

That makes two of us.

8. The Furious Thing

Roy Whittle has Old Sparky on his mind. The electrified killing machine used by the state of Florida to execute death-row inmates. Called Old Sparky because the method—surging two thousand volts through the human body—is not entirely reliable. Sometimes the inmate’s head catches fire and has to be doused with a handy bucket of water, kept nearby for that purpose. Sometimes the heart fails to stop beating and a second or third jolt is required. Sometimes, and this is what really bothers Roy, the inmate starts sizzling like a big ham under the broiler.