Free Deadly Catch by E. Michael Helms

St. George.
    Inside the lobby we stopped to pay our respects to Old Joe, a huge stuffed alligator estimated to have been around two hundred years old. Despite his fierce appearance, Old Joe was a docile fixture around the springs before someone murdered the poor beast back in the mid-1960s.
    The Ball Room Restaurant, named for the original owner/developer of the Wakulla Springs resort, financier Edward Ball, wasn’t anything fancy, but it was comfortable with an old-timey atmosphere about it. A hostess showed us to a table with a view overlooking the springs through huge arched windows. A few minutes later a cute waitress in her teens arrived with menus. She took our drink orders and then disappeared to give us time to select from the dinner fare.
    So far, for the entire pleasant afternoon Kate and I had avoided any mention of Maddie Harper or the case I felt myself being drawn into. Finally, after our platters of fried chicken and fried green tomatoes arrived and I’d ordered a third round of drinks, I worked up enough nerve to get down to business.
    “I talked to Bo Pickron yesterday. I can’t tell you exactly why right now, but I need to know why you warned me to steer clear of him.”
    Kate pursed her lips and looked away. She took a sip of wine and glanced at me from the corner of her eye. “It wasn’t a warning, Mac, it was advice.”
    “You said he could be trouble.”
    Her lips tightened even more. She hesitated a few seconds, then turned and stared straight into my eyes. “Okay. I wouldn’t let him get into my pants, and he took offense.”
    That wasn’t exactly what I’d expected to hear, but what the hell could that have to do with me? No way could you convince me that Bo Pickron was wired AC/DC. Kate must have read my mind. Her eyes widened, and then she laughed and placed a hand on my arm.
    “No, that’s not what I meant,” she said, stifling another giggle. “Bo tends to get a little rough if he doesn’t get his way, or if somebody crosses him.”
    Now I was pissed. “He hit you?” I’d kill the bastard.
    “No, nothing like that,” Kate said. “Let’s just say he got a little too dang grabby and hard of hearing until I set him straight. Later on, I learned he has a reputation of roughing people up, some on the job, some not, if you get my drift.”
    So, Bo Pickron was a self-centered chauvinistic jock, not averse to using strong-arm tactics to get his way. Some fine boss he would make. At least Kate had had the good sense to drop him like hot coals when he’d tried to force his charming ways on her. I admired the lady even more now. I placed my hand over hers. “Thanks for being honest with me.”

    By Thursday I had my Florida driver’s license and plates for my truck and trailer. I was now a legal resident of Palmetto County, Florida. Friday morning I drove back to Parkersville for a little shopping excursion. I’d seen several ads for Redmond’s Sporting Goods in the newspaper. If the sheriff was correct about somebody targeting me, I figured I’d better have something other than my fists for protection, deputy or not. I was a decent shot with a pistol, but with a shotgun I was hell on wheels. The combat in Fallujah had mostly been up close and personal, and the pump scattergun I carried while serving as company gunnery sergeant had served me well.
    After filling out a ton of paperwork I walked out of Redmond’s with a Maverick Model 88 twelve-gauge pump. With a twenty-inch barrel and synthetic stock, it’s lightweight but packs plenty of wallop—eight rounds of double-ought buckshot worth. I also picked up six boxes of shells. If thirty rounds of double-ought weren’t enough for whatever trouble I might run into, odds were I wasn’t going to walk away from it anyway.
    I still hadn’t made up my mind about working undercover for Bo Pickron. No doubt he could be a royal prick, but Maddie Harper was dead, most likely murdered, and I felt I needed to find out why. She’d been