It was almost six-thirty, but the sun still blazed. It burned against my bare shoulders as I downshifted Pam’s VW around a truck hauling hogs. That’s a stench you don’t want to trail too long, especially in a convertible with no top.

The old car shimmied a bit as I punched it, but it rose to the occasion.

I passed the sign for the Big Lake Dairy, and then the grand entranceway on Highway 98 for the Flying J ranch. Skeet Johnson, who owned the Flying J, had the delusion that he was J. R. Ewing and his place was like Southfork on old reruns of Dallas. In reality, he never got much past sinking the concrete pillars and attaching some fancy wrought-iron gates. Inside, he only had a hundred acres, a few mud holes, and about sixteen crossbred head. All hat and no cattle, as they say in Texas.

Cattle started me thinking about Jeb Ennis’ visit to the park. A little sweet talk, a few soulful looks, and I’d been willing to take up almost where we’d left off all those years ago. Of course, that was before I watched him speed away from Himmarshee Park, looking cool as an ice cube in his supposedly sweltering truck.

I came to the little bridge over Taylor Creek, which meant home was only a mile or so away. I always look to the right for the sign that says Turkey Buzzards on Bridge. Is it a warning, or a notice to the tourists taking the back roads to Disney to get out their cameras?

As I looked today, my eye caught a glimmer of sun on metal in the high weeds that lead to Taylor Slough. I was nearly over the bridge before it registered that something didn’t look right about that silvery shine.

I slowed on the other side, pulling off onto the shoulder. Back-tracking on foot, I peered over the bridge’s railing. From this angle, a dark-colored compact car was visible. Clambering down the incline I waded into the brush.

The car was a Toyota. There was no one inside, though the driver’s door stood wide open. I pushed through mucky soil and fetterbush, grateful for my slacks and boots. With brush pricking at my arms, I wished I’d slipped into long sleeves before striking out into the swamp.

I looked around the car for someone who was hurt or lost. But the only sign was a long trail of flattened grass, corresponding to the path the car made off the road. At the rear, there was a Florida tag and a bumper sticker. Beef: It’s What’s for Dinner. Probably a local. You don’t see many pro-vegan messages on bumpers in the state’s cattle belt.

Back at the driver’s side, the headlight button was pulled out. But if the lights had been on, the battery was now dead. Not even a gleam came from the headlights or the interior light. The keys were in the ignition, which was turned to the off position. I leaned in, careful not to touch anything. Something dangled from the keys in the shadow of the steering wheel.

It was a small plastic doll with pink fluorescent hair, just like the Troll family I’d seen on Emma Jean’s desk.

___

Martinez answered on the first ring.

“It’s Mace Bauer.’’

“That was fast.’’ He spoke before I got out more than my name. “Don’t tell me you’re already dating someone else who might have killed Jim Albert.’’

I ignored that. “I’m out here along Highway 98. I think I’ve just found Emma Jean Valentine’s car, abandoned in the swamp.’’

His voice was instantly serious. “Where are you?’’

I filled him in, and agreed to wait until he arrived.

Sunset was still a good hour away, but you couldn’t tell it by the bugs. Waving one hand around my ears, I searched with the other through the VW’s front trunk. My fingers clasped a metal canister. Success! Bug spray is something no native Himmarsheean should ever be caught without. And my can was still in my waterlogged Jeep.

I sprayed my palms with repellent, then rubbed my neck, my ears and across my face. I donned a long-sleeved shirt from the trunk, smelling of spare tire and mildew. The mosquitoes marshaled their forces, seeking entry to an unprotected spot. I thought I heard a whine of frustration as they flew off in search of a less experienced opponent.

A swollen thundercloud darkened the horizon. I retrieved the tarp, just in case the skies opened. While I waited, I called my home answering machine. There were messages from Marty and Mama. I returned the calls, leaving my own messages on their machines. Just as I was wondering whether anyone actually speaks to anyone else anymore, I spotted Martinez’s police-issue sedan approaching the bridge.

As soon as he got out of the car, he started dancing and slapping. I handed him the spray.

“DEET,’’ he read off the side of the can. “Isn’t that stuff toxic?’’

“Only to the bugs. You need something strong here. Our mosquitoes will wipe the floor with their puny cousins from down in Miami. Coat your hands, then wipe it on. Don’t get it in your eyes or mouth.’’ I’d seen more than one newcomer with teary vision and a stinging tongue.

“I’m not an idiot.’’ He sprayed, then handed back the can. “Where’s the car?’’

I looked down at his pressed dress slacks and shiny leather shoes. Not an idiot, huh?

“It’s pretty wet down there,’’ I said. “Don’t you carry a pair of boots?’’

“Don’t you think I’d be wearing them if I did?’’

“Just asking.’’

“What makes you think the car is Emma Jean’s? Did you find a purse?’’ Martinez spoke as I led the way down the embankment and into the brush.

“I recognized her key chain. Mama told me she drives a dark green compact, which is what this is. Plus, my house is only about a mile from here.’’

I told him about her late-night phone call. “She never showed.’’

“Did she seem distraught?’’

“Yes, but no more so than when she appeared waving a tire iron at church.’’ I stepped around a mucky spot. “Watch that …”

“Mierda!’’ I don’t understand Spanish, but that had the ring of a bad word. I turned to see him release his dress shoe with a sucking sound.

I itched to say I told you so. “I might have spotted the car this morning if I’d been paying more attention.’’

“What do you mean?’’

“Well, I was distracted. Donnie Bailey called my cell to tell me about what they found when they checked out my Jeep. Or, more like what they didn’t find.’’

“That’s police information.’’ I could hear the scowl in his voice. “Officer Donnie shouldn’t share those kinds of details with a civilian.’’

“Even if it’s the civilian’s Jeep, and the civilian was the one who was run off the road? Get real, Detective. What do you think I’m gonna do with what Donnie told me? Run to the media? We’re just a little town. But not even the Himmarshee Times would run a story that lame: Local Woman Veers off Road; Big Vehicle Might Be Involved.’’