What the hell was David doing now? She held her tongue. Maybe he was right to put on a charade. The man was carrying a shotgun.
“Wrong place,” the man told them. He patted the shotgun. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you folks. We get some weird people out here at times. I have a license for her and all—the gun, I mean. There’s a state prison not too far from here, you know. Still, it’s a mighty fine neighborhood, but you’re way off. You need to be several miles east. You’ll have to follow your tracks back to the main road.”
“I knew you had it all wrong,” David said to Ashley. “The little woman…she’s just gotten her driver’s license. Can you imagine?”
“Not a problem,” the man said. “You can turn around right over there.”
“Thanks,” Ashley said.
When they were headed back down the road, she could see that the man was still in the middle of the street, staring after them.
“You asshole,” she told David.
“Why, darling, every man knows that women can’t drive.”
She shot him an evil stare. “Oh, yeah, right. What a waste of time. I poked around in a field, met a hippie, then a farmer with a shotgun. God knows, there’s probably a pit bull around somewhere, too. We acted like a couple of idiots in front of a guy just out to give us directions. And what the hell did we find out? Stuart was after strawberry farmers.”
“You’re wrong. There’s something going on there, and we both know it.”
“No, we both don’t know it.”
“We need to get back onto that property. And maybe check out the adjoining fields.”
“All right, Mr. Journalist, you get onto any property you want to explore and get buckshot riddled through your hide. I’m going to find out who owns that place.”
David was silent.
“Well?” she demanded.
“Good idea,” he said meekly, smiled, then shrugged.
Jesse Crane had once been with the Miami-Dade police, though that had been some time ago. He was still a law enforcement officer, but, after the death of his wife, he had returned to his roots.
Out along the Tamiami Trail, the Miccosukee Indians owned much of the county land and spread out over much of the noman’s land of the next county, as well. The Miccosukees had their own police force. Sometimes there were conflicts between the sovereign rights of the Indians and the laws of the county, state and country. Jesse, however, had a way of handling disputes that seemed to bring out the best in everyone. He had a knack of knowing what he could handle himself and when he needed to bring in the more extensive facilities of the county force.
Tall, taut, lithe as melted steel, he exuded a quiet power and knowledge. He knew every dangerous creature in the Glades, could mix a potion that truly kept mosquitoes at bay, and maneuvered the hammocks and waterways of the Glades with greater dexterity than an otter. He was an arresting man with his mixture of Native American and European features, straight, ink-dark hair and hazel eyes.
For a long time, the roar of the airboat kept them from engaging in conversation. Then Jesse cut the motor, and the flat-bottomed vehicle drifted along in a sudden silence. It looked as if they were floating over the land, but they weren’t. The sawgrass was so high, though, that it stretched far above the surface of the water, which ranged from two to ten feet in depth.
Jesse pointed across the terrain. “There’s your ‘residential’ area,” he said to Jake.
“You could bring the boat up to within about fifty yards of the rear of the property, right?”
Jesse shrugged. “Well, a boat like this. Or a canoe. Nothing major. But then…” He shrugged and looked at Jake. “Hell, a lot of illegal stuff gets transported around this area in small craft and airboats. If you know what you’re doing, you can go for miles and if you bump into someone else, it’s by sheer accident. What exactly is it that you’re looking for?” he asked. “I read about the body that was discovered, but…I thought you’d be looking into religious cults, like the last time.”
“I was.”
Jesse was silent. The boat kept drifting.
“What do people usually do with property this far west and south?” Jake asked.