Free Florida Firefight by Randy Wayne White Page B

huh?”
    The two men laughed, feeling comfortable in each other’s company. The New Zealander brought Hawker key lime pie—pale yellow and delicate—and excellent espresso. They shifted the topic of conversation to more pleasant things.
    Hawker asked questions about the operation of the inn and was assured Graeme Mellor could run the place blindfolded. As diplomatically as he could, he asked why the place had been allowed to fall into disrepair. Hamilton couldn’t give him a good answer, but even before he finished, Hawker realized he had known the real reason all along: When people are stripped of their personal pride, they no longer take pride in their personal possessions.
    It explained the creeping decay he had seen all over the island.
    As Hawker stood to leave, he asked, “The night you fought the Colombians, did the other town leaders go with you?”
    Hamilton wiped a massive hand across his face, thinking. “You mean like the mayor, or Ben Simps, chief of our one-man police force?”
    Hawker shook his head. “No, not the figurehead leaders. You know the kind of men I mean—the kind of men people watch and listen to and admire, whether they admit it or not.”
    â€œI guess there’s only one man in town who fits that description,” Hamilton said after a moment. “Local boy I watched grow up. Boggs McKay. Hell of an athlete in high school, and went to Florida State on a football scholarship. Smart, too. No one really knows for sure, but some say he’s got a masters degree in … something. He married up there, had kids. Made lots of money. But then something happened. Heard his kids got killed by some drunk driver, and then his marriage went on the rocks. Just showed up here about three years ago like he’d never left. Bought a boat and went to crabbing. Doesn’t talk much; never talks about his past. But when Boggs McKay does talk, mister, people straighten right up and listen.”
    â€œWas Boggs with you that night?”
    An amused smile settled on the face of Buck Hamilton. “Mr. Hawker, Boggs McKay doesn’t follow anybody anywhere .”

ten
    That night Hawker settled into his cottage. It was a garish rental cabin behind the main lodge, built of board and batten, painted flamingo pink.
    There was a kitchenette, a sitting room with a black-and-white TV and a bedroom with a brass bed gone green from age. There were throw rugs on the linoleum, and the wall was rust streaked from the ancient air conditioner. With the windows open, you could hear the tidal rush and an occasional guttural heron cry from the Chatham River outside.
    Hawker stripped off his clothes and went to the mirror.
    The Colombian’s knife had dug a six-inch furrow in his shoulder. Dr. Winnie Tiger’s stitches were like black teeth. The wound intersected an older scar: in December of 1975 he had gotten stabbed trying to break up a bar fight on Chicago’s South Side.
    He flexed the shoulder and stretched the muscles until sweat beaded on his forehead.
    His nose had clogged with blood again. He blew it clean, then stopped the bleeding with a styptic pencil and nasal spray.
    When he could breath again, Hawker showered. He turned the water as hot as he could stand it, then as cold as it got. He pulled on thick cotton sweat pants and a soft black rugby jersey, then set about opening the crates Jacob Montgomery Hayes had shipped down from Chicago for him.
    He placed the 128k RAM computer on the little desk near the telephone, then mounted the video screen atop it. He patched in the telephone modem and the second disk drive, then checked it all to make sure it worked.
    It did.
    There were three crates of weaponry. He opened only one. From it he took a 9-millimeter Ingram MAC11 submachine gun. It wasn’t much bigger or heavier than a standard .45 automatic pistol. The silencer was longer than the weapon itself, and Hawker threaded it on. He filled the