In Wildwood he got on the turnpike and soon afterward stopped at the Okahumpka Service Plaza for a late lunch: Three hamburgers all the way, two bags of french fries and a jumbo vanilla shake. He drove one-handed, stuffing his cheeks. The digital Motorola started ringing, and Stoat checked the caller ID. Hastily he touched the off button. The man on the other end was a Miami commissioner, and Stoat had a firm rule against speaking directly with Miami commissioners – those who weren't already under indictment were under investigation, and all telephone lines into City Hall had long ago been tapped. The last thing Palmer Stoat needed was another trip to the grand jury. Who had time for such nonsense?
Somewhere north of Yeehaw Junction, a dirty black pickup truck appeared in the Rover's rear window. The truck came up fast and then settled in, three car lengths behind Stoat's bumper. Stoat was gnawing on fries and gabbing on the phone, so he didn't pay serious attention until an hour or so later, when he noticed the truck was still behind him. Weird, he thought. Southbound traffic was light – why didn't the idiot pass? Stoat punched the Rover up past ninety, but the truck stayed close. Gradually Stoat eased off the accelerator until he coasted down to forty-five; the black pickup remained right there, three lengths behind, as if connected by a tow bar.
Like most affluent white people who owned sport-utility vehicles, Palmer Stoat lived in constant fear of a carjacking. He had been led to understand that luxury 4x4s were the chariots of choice for ruthless black and Latin drug gangs; in such circles a Range Rover was said to be more desirable than a Ferrari. Glare on the truck's windshield made it impossible for Stoat to ascertain the ethnicity of the tailgater, but why take a chance? Stoat groped in the console for the Glock semiautomatic that he'd been given as a Christmas gift by the president of the state Police Benevolent Association. Stoat placed the pistol on his lap. Ahead loomed a slow-moving Airstream travel trailer, as wide as a Mississippi barge and just about as nimble. Stoat accelerated around it and cut back sharply, putting the camper rig between him and the pickup truck. He decided to get off the turnpike at the next exit, to see what the tailgater would do.
The Airstream followed Stoat off the ramp; then came the dirty black pickup. Stoat stiffened at the wheel. The clerk at the tollbooth glanced at the gun between his legs but made no mention of it.
"I'm being followed.," Stoat informed her.
"That'll be eight dollars and seventy cents," said the clerk.
"Call the Highway Patrol."
"Yessir. Eight-seventy, please."
"Didn't you hear me?" Stoat asked. He handed the clerk a fifty-dollar bill.
"Have you got something a little smaller?"
"Yeah. Your brain stem," Stoat said. "Now, keep the change and call the goddamn Highway Patrol. There's some lunatic tailgater following me."
The clerk ignored the insult and looked toward the vehicles stacking up behind the Range Rover.
In a low voice, Stoat said: "It's the black pickup truck behind the travel trailer."
"What pickup truck?" asked the clerk.
Palmer Stoat placed the Glock on the dashboard and stepped out of the Rover so he could peek around the Airstream. The next car in line was a station wagon with a square-dance pennant attached to the antenna. The tailgater was gone. "Sonofabitch," Stoat muttered.
The driver of the camper honked. So did another motorist, farther down the line. Stoat got back in the Range Rover. The tollbooth clerk handed him change for the fifty. Dryly she said, "You still want me to call the Highway Patrol?"
"No, thanks."
"How about the CIA?"
Stoat smirked. The little smart-ass didn't know who she was dealing with. "Congratulations, young lady," he told her. "You're about to enter the cold cruel world of the unemployed," Tomorrow he would speak to a man in Tallahassee, and it would be done.
Palmer Stoat found an Exxon station, gassed up5 took a leak and then headed back toward the turnpike. All the way to Lauderdale he kept checking his rearview – it was mind-boggling how many people owned black pickups. Had the whole damn world gone redneck? Stoat's nerves were whacked by the time he got home.
They had brought their idea for Shearwater Island to Governor Dick Artemus in glitzy bits and pieces, and he'd liked what he'd heard so far.
A planned seaside community. Beach and boardwalks between the condominium towers. Public parks, kayak tours and a nature trail. Two championship golf courses. A clay pigeon shooting range. A yacht harbor, airstrip and heliport.
But Dick Artemus could not locate Shearwater Island on the wall map of Florida in his office.
That's because it's not called Shearwater Island yet, explained Lisa June Peterson. It's called Toad Island, and it's right there on the Gulf, near the mouth of the Suwannee.
"Have I been there before?" Dick Artemus asked.
"Probably not."
"What does 'Shearwater' mean?"
"It's the name of a bird," Lisa June Peterson said.
"Do they live on the island?" asked the governor. "Is that going to be a problem?"
Lisa June Peterson, having already researched the question, reported that shearwaters were migratory seabirds that preferred the Atlantic coastline.
"But there are other kinds of birds on the island," she added.
"Like what?" Dick Artemus frowned. "Eagles? Don't tell me there's goddamn bald eagles on this island, because that means we got a federal scenario."
"They're doing the survey this week."
"Who!"
"A biological survey. Clapley's people," Lisa June Peterson said. Robert Clapley was the developer who wanted to rename Toad Island and subdivide it. He had contributed most generously to Dick Artemus's gubernatorial campaign.
"There's no votes in bulldozing eagle nests," the governor remarked gravely. "Can we all agree on that?"
"Mr. Clapley is taking every reasonable precaution."
"So what else, Lisa? In fifty words or less." Dick Artemus was famous for his insectine attention span.
His assistant said: "The transportation budget includes funding for a new bridge from the mainland. It passed the Senate, but now Willie Vasquez-Washington is being a prick."
Willie Vasquez-Washington was vice chairman of the House Appropriations Committee. He and the governor had tangled before.
"What's he want this time?" Dick Artemus said.
"We're not sure."
"You reach out to Palmer?"
"We keep missing each other."
"And I suppose this thing won't fly, this Shearwater Island/' the governor said, "without a brand-new bridge."
"The one they've got is sixty years old and wooden," Lisa June Peterson said. "It won't hold a cement truck is what Roothaus says." Roger Roothaus was president of the engineering firm that wanted the contract for designing the new bridge to Toad Island. He, too, had contributed generously to Dick Artemus's gubernatorial campaign. In fact, almost everyone who stood to profit from the development of Shearwater Island had donated money to the governor's election. This, Dick Artemus took for granted.
"So get Palmer to fix the bridge problem," he said,
"Right."
"Anything else?"
"Nothing major. We're anticipating some local opposition," said Lisa June Peterson.
The governor groaned. "People liveon this island? Christ, nobody told me that."
"Two hundred. Two fifty max."
"Shit," said Dick Artemus.
"They're circulating a petition."
"I guess that means they're not golfers."
"Evidently not," said Lisa June Peterson.
Dick Artemus rose and pulled on his coat. "I'm late, Lisa June. Would you relate all this to Mr. Stoat?"
"As soon as possible," she said.