The Man Who Invented Florida by Randy Wayne White

Author:Randy Wayne White [White, Randy Wayne]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Mystery & Suspense
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 1997-03-15T07:00:00+00:00

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NINE

As Charles Herbott, the thirty-year-old environmental consultant, paused to stretch his back, to rest his arms, he said to Chuck Fleet, the thirty-five-year-old surveyor, "I've finally figured out why you keep lying about what day it is. You're trying to manipulate me, make it seem like it's not as bad as it is."

"What?"

"That's right. So I won't take care of you-know-who." Herbott motioned with his head toward the old man sitting in the shade of a ficus tree, shotgun in his lap. "Because you're so afraid. That's why."

Chuck Fleet didn't bother to look. He was hunched over, holding stalks of sugarcane with his left hand, cutting the stalks with his right. He'd cut for three or four steps, then bundle up the cane in his arms and carry it to the bamboo sled. When the sled was heaped high, he would harness himself into the rope and drag the sled to the old cane press on the other side of the mound. That's where the Captain kept the fire going, a huge black pot suspended over the buttonwood coals, boiling the cane water into syrup. Ten gallons of cane water made one gallon of syrup, after a lot of skimming, stirring, and more skimming to make the syrup clear.

Charles Herbott said, "It's Wednesday, not Monday. You're lying about that. I'll been on this goddamn island two weeks tomorrow. I've been keeping track. I know."

Chuck Fleet said, "Okay, it's Wednesday, not Monday. Whatever you say." Thinking, First Bambridge goes crazy, now Herbott. The difference is, Bambridge isn't dangerous. Herbott is potentially homicidal. . . .

Herbott returned to cutting, hacking at the stalks with the rusty machete the old man issued him each day, then collected each evening. Cut-cut step, cut-cut step. Cut the base of the stalk, then lop off the top. Stalk after stalk after stalk. Christ, he was beginning to feel like an animal, his clothes rotten from sweat, his hair and face caked with the black sand. All the work he'd done, everything by hand. "The way I know you're scared is, you won't even listen to my plans anymore."

Fleet said, "Keep your voice down. The Captain's old, but he's not deaf."

"And quit telling me what to do!"

From the direction of the ficus came the old man's voice. "Yew boys got a job a work to do! Fuss on yer own time."

"Sorry, Captain!"

They chopped in silence for a while before Herbott said, "You're getting bad as Bambridge, the way you kiss that crazy bastard's ass. 'Least Bambridge gets something for it. Living up there in the old man's shack, cooking the meals. That fat asshole's happy as a clam now, acting like he's one of the guards instead of one of the prisoners. But you, hell... he's going to work you to death. Which I don't mind, only you're going to take me down with you!"

Fleet started to respond, but then thought, What's the use? He gathered two cane stalks into his left hand, then cut them at the base with a single swipe of the machete.

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