The first mile or so took us through pine stands that were relatively free of undergrowth, and we made good time. Jasper had also made good time on this stretch, his home stretch: the red thread of the GPS track was marked on the map with a string of small dots, showing his location at thirty-second intervals. Judging by the spacing of the dots and the scale printed on the map, the dog had covered the final mile in just ten minutes. It took us twenty-five minutes, partly because there were occasional stops to examine holes in the ground—the burrows of various animals, according to Vickery, including one that he swore, with a straight face, had to be a python’s hole—and partly because Angie had to call several halts to straighten and tighten the ragtag line.
A half hour after we’d started the search, we halted once more. This time it wasn’t to inspect an animal burrow or to re-form ranks; this time it was to figure out how, and whether, to cross a coffee-colored stream that lay in our path. Angie, who’d zoomed her GPS all the way in to pinpoint where Jasper had crossed, pointed to a narrow, muddy notch in the bank. “Dog tracks,” she said, and I saw that she was right. “That was a damn good collar.” I squinted at the map, which showed a narrow blue squiggle corresponding to the brown water before us. The fine print that bordered the squiggle sent a chill down my spine: the stream was named Moccasin Creek, and I was reasonably certain the name wasn’t a reference to footwear.
Moccasin Creek moved sluggishly between high, eroded banks bordered by overhanging branches. Lurking amid the leaves, camouflaged by the foliage, were countless snakes, I felt sure, draped liked venomous garlands, just waiting to drop upon us as we waded, neck-deep, in the murky waters. My nightmarish reverie was interrupted by Vickery. “Mind if I take a look at that map?” I handed it over, and he studied it briefly. He stepped closer to the bank and peered upstream and downstream, then huddled with Angie and me. “We could have big problems if we cross this creek,” he said quietly.
“I’m glad I’m not the only one who’s nervous about snakes,” I said.
“Huh?” Vickery looked puzzled. He reexamined the map, then shook his head. “Actually, Doc, I’m more worried about humans than reptiles.” Now it was my turn to look puzzled. “We’re in Apalachee County right now,” he went on. “But over there? The other bank? That’s Miccosukee County.”
“Oh, good grief,” Angie groaned. “So what?”
I was inclined to take Angie’s view. “No offense,” I ventured, “but FDLE has jurisdiction statewide, right? You can go into any county in Florida.”
“Theoretically, yeah,” said Vickery. “But like I told Pettis the other day, we have to be invited by the locals—in this case, the Miccosukee County Sheriff’s Office. And Miccosukee County Sheriff Darryl Judson is not an inviting kind of guy. He’s old as dirt, hard as nails, and mean as a stepped-on cottonmouth.”
“Oh, come on,” Angie said. “Really, Stu? You’re actually worried about crossing a little bitty corner of Miccosukee County?”
“Hey, I’ve been around a long time, but I need to hang on a little longer to get my pension,” Vickery shot back. “Three years longer, to be precise. I’ve heard stories about Sheriff Judson. He’s got friends in high places—his father was a state senator or some such, back in the day—and he’s got dirt on other folks in high places, too. I never heard of anybody who won a pissing match with Sheriff Judson.”
“Can’t we claim innocence by way of ignorance? That we were walking in the woods and we didn’t know what county we were in? Circle back and ask for forgiveness instead of permission?”
He shook his head. “If Judson made a big stink and the brass took a close look at your GPS or the maps Nat printed out for us, they’d see the county line. Then they’d have to decide if we were lying or just stupid. That would make it even worse.”
“Stu, we’re working a homicide,” she argued, “and we have got reason to believe that it’s linked to a prior homicide—more than one, in fact—that was committed in Miccosukee County.”
“The fact that a dog might—emphasis on might—have dug up these age-old skulls in Miccosukee County,” he retorted, “is not going to carry a whole hell of a lot of weight with a territorial sheriff whose private kingdom has just been invaded.”
“Think about the guy who killed Pettis,” she challenged. “Maybe he already knows where the skulls came from, maybe not. But he’s got the collar, and he’s got a head start on us, right?” Vickery nodded grudgingly. “If he’s looking, and he gets there ahead of us, he might wreck the scene. Can we afford to take a chance on that?”
“You’re not the one whose neck is on the line,” he retorted. “I’m the case agent. If anybody gets hung on the cross by Sheriff Judson or one of his Tallahassee cronies, it’ll be me.”
“Call Riordan,” said Angie. “If he tells us to keep going, it’s on him, not you, right?”
Vickery frowned. “Shit.”
“Come on, Stu, grow a backbone,” she snapped. “Are you really just gonna mark time for the next three years? Is that who you want to be?” Vickery reddened; he snatched his cigar from his mouth and rolled it angrily between his thumb and fingers. “That poor son of a bitch back there died trying to help us,” she pressed. “Don’t we owe him at least a good try?” Vickery’s jaw clenched and unclenched. As he continued rolling the cigar, I noticed the pressure of his grip increased. Shreds of tobacco sifted through his fingers as he slowly crushed the cigar to bits.