Tethered to some mangrove roots on the north side of the cove was the streamlined flats boat Leslie had been piloting the last day he saw her. A Hell’s Bay Whipray.
They were silent for several moments, then Leslie said, “It’s strange, but for someone who shaped my identity, you’ve always remained a mysterious figure to me. May I ask you some personal questions?”
Another interview. “You can ask.”
Between her outstretched legs, she was drawing circles in the sand, her eyes focused on the shapes. “You’ve committed crimes. Violent crimes.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Is it true?”
“Nothing I’m proud of,” he said.
“You’re good with your fists.”
“Average.”
“Apparently Wally would beg to differ.”
“Wally’s a little less than average.”
She lifted her head, smiled at him, then returned to the sand circles. “I also heard you’ve taken more than one human life.” Her eyes were bourbon brown and had a weary remoteness as if she’d spent too much time staring at something a great distance away. “Have you, Thorn? Have you killed?”
“Only in self-defense. Only as a last resort.”
“Good. Because that’s exactly what we’re doing here. That’s what we’re all about. The last resort. Self-defense.”
“I’m not interested in joining a gang or whatever this is.”
“Hear me out, please.” She brushed a wisp of hair from her eyes and was silent for a moment. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, Thorn.”
He had nothing to say.
“Even though it creates a grave problem for us, I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad to see you again.”
“Did you arrange this? Sending Prince to my house, dropping bread crumbs. Lure me out here.”
She shook her head. “Cameron had strict orders. He was to take a quick look at your property then leave. Have no contact with you. None whatsoever. I was worried something like this might happen. But he insisted on having a look.”
“Why?”
She glanced off and didn’t speak.
“What’re you doing, Leslie? What’s this about?”
“If I tell you, Thorn, then you’re involved. There’s no going back.”
“My son is here. I’m already involved.”
She stared down at the circles in the sand. “All right then.” She drew a careful breath. “We’re going to shut down the power plant. Turkey Point.”
“And why would you do that?”
“For a lot of reasons.”
“Give me one.”
“To take control of our destiny.”
“Your destiny?”
“That’s right.”
“You can do that by yourself. Alone. In a room, anywhere.”
“Like you do? Disengage? That’s what you mean? Retreat into solitude, keep your head down. Push the world away.”
“Yes.”
“Oh, I’ve tried that. For years you were my model, Thorn. I barricaded myself from the noise and craziness. Lived as primitively as I could. Actually I got pretty good at it. But things have changed, the earth is in deep shit, and ignoring it, being disengaged, is no longer a luxury we can afford.”
“Save the planet, that’s what you’re about?”
“Save what’s left of it.”
Thorn looked out at the sky beyond the cove. The sun had bleached the ragged clouds of their early-morning pinks, and the air was already fogged with August humidity. Tucked in the dense mangrove branches across the basin, a little green heron scanned the waters. Ripples washed ashore on the small beach as if stirred by something large passing along the mucky bottom. Farther out, a school of mullet were feeding. They dimpled the mirrored surface, sending a school of glassy minnows streaking toward the edges of the cove.
“What happened to the crocodiles? You were helping the planet pretty well working with them.”
“Years ago when I started, the American croc was on the verge of extinction. There were less than a hundred left in Florida. Now their status has been upgraded to ‘threatened.’”
“An improvement.”
“Sure. They’ve got a foothold, they’re reproducing and spreading. They don’t need me anymore. I’m finished with that.” Leslie looked off at the sky above the mangroves, lapsing into silence.
First Flynn, now Leslie, their paths altered in some measure by Thorn’s example. As if he’d been touting some ideal of simplicity when, the truth was, the way he lived was not a choice. It was the only way he knew.
He’d inherited the Key Largo house and land, and with only the skimpy income he made from selling his custom flies, he had to keep things basic, handle maintenance himself. It was how he made it through, patching this, refinishing that, holding it together with duct tape, nails, and sweat. When he could, he relaxed and watched the pitch and plunge of birds, tracked the migrations of fish and the cycles of the moon and tides and observed the flamboyant colors staining the sea and sky at daybreak and sunset. His days were peaceful and gratifying, but nothing he promoted to others.