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Authors: E. Michael Helms
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the Panama Red might be connected. What do you say?”
I thought it over a minute. “Why the deputizing bit? Can’t I just do some snooping on my own?”
Pickron grunted. “Have it your way. This is still a free country, but if you run into any trouble, you’ll be on your own. My way, you got the law on your side. How about it?”
As I got up to leave, I remembered Kate’s words about steering clear of Bo Pickron. “I’ll think about it.”
My gut instinct told me the sheriff was on the up and up, and I tended to trust my gut; it had served me well in Kuwait and Iraq. During our meeting there’d been no patronizing, no “call me Bo, call me Mac” bull hockey. His niece was dead; Brett Barfield was missing, probably on the lam. And Pickron was convinced there was a connection between Maddie’s death, Barfield, and the Panama Red that washed up on Five-Mile Island and found its way aboard my rental boat.
Deputy McClellan—it had a nice ring to it. Not quite the weight First Sergeant McClellan carried, but deep down I think I missed the rush that combat brought. This undercover gig might be a nice change of pace from fishing. Still, there was the advice Kate had offered about Pickron the day I discovered the body. What had happened, or what did she know, to tell me to steer clear of him? I needed to know that before I made a decision one way or the other.
I’d already decided on one thing: to become a legal resident of Florida. It would be a requirement if I chose to be deputized, but that wasn’t my main reason. I genuinely liked the area and most of the people I’d met, Bo Pickron and Ben Merritt being the exceptions. I figured I could find whatever I was looking to do with my life here as well as anywhere. If I had a change of heart later, I could always hitch up my trailer and move on.
And I won’t deny that Kate played a big part in my decision.
That evening I mentioned my intentions to Jerry and Donna Meadows. They were tickled to hear the news. I signed a six-month lease for site 44. It was not only a much better rate, but the lease would help prove my residency. I already had a post office box rented in St. George that would help, too. In the next day or so I’d apply for a Florida driver’s license. That should do it.
Now, there was the matter of Kate Bell.
I spent Tuesday morning changing the oil in my truck and thinking over Bo Pickron’s offer to deputize me to work undercover for him. The fact that the arrangement would strictly be between the two of us bothered me some. Could I trust him to cover my back if the shit hit the fan, or would he leave my ass hanging out to dry?
Last evening I’d called Kate and learned she worked only half a day Tuesday. I’d been itching to do a little sightseeing to see what the area had to offer besides great fishing, and Kate suggested a day trip to Wakulla Springs State Park that afternoon after she got off work.
“It’s a breathtaking place,” Kate said, assuming the role of travel agent. “Wakulla Springs is one of the largest and deepest freshwater springs in the entire world. Divers have explored and mapped out hundreds of miles of underwater passages, and it’s an archeologist’s dream.”
“Just how much stock do you own in the place?”
“Very funny, Mac. You’ll love it. Besides, they have a great restaurant.”
“I knew there had to be a catch in there somewhere.”
I pulled into Kate’s driveway a little after one. She came bounding down the steps wearing a pair of white shorts and a green button-up blouse with the tail knotted at the midriff, leaving enough skin exposed to immediately cause a stir in my nether regions. Her auburn ponytail was threaded through the back of a matching white ball cap sporting a blue marlin logo.
“Phew, is it just me, or is it hot in here?” I said, pretending to wipe my brow as Kate slid onto the seat next to me.
“It is warm today,” she said, buckling her seat belt without picking up on
I thought it over a minute. “Why the deputizing bit? Can’t I just do some snooping on my own?”
Pickron grunted. “Have it your way. This is still a free country, but if you run into any trouble, you’ll be on your own. My way, you got the law on your side. How about it?”
As I got up to leave, I remembered Kate’s words about steering clear of Bo Pickron. “I’ll think about it.”
My gut instinct told me the sheriff was on the up and up, and I tended to trust my gut; it had served me well in Kuwait and Iraq. During our meeting there’d been no patronizing, no “call me Bo, call me Mac” bull hockey. His niece was dead; Brett Barfield was missing, probably on the lam. And Pickron was convinced there was a connection between Maddie’s death, Barfield, and the Panama Red that washed up on Five-Mile Island and found its way aboard my rental boat.
Deputy McClellan—it had a nice ring to it. Not quite the weight First Sergeant McClellan carried, but deep down I think I missed the rush that combat brought. This undercover gig might be a nice change of pace from fishing. Still, there was the advice Kate had offered about Pickron the day I discovered the body. What had happened, or what did she know, to tell me to steer clear of him? I needed to know that before I made a decision one way or the other.
I’d already decided on one thing: to become a legal resident of Florida. It would be a requirement if I chose to be deputized, but that wasn’t my main reason. I genuinely liked the area and most of the people I’d met, Bo Pickron and Ben Merritt being the exceptions. I figured I could find whatever I was looking to do with my life here as well as anywhere. If I had a change of heart later, I could always hitch up my trailer and move on.
And I won’t deny that Kate played a big part in my decision.
That evening I mentioned my intentions to Jerry and Donna Meadows. They were tickled to hear the news. I signed a six-month lease for site 44. It was not only a much better rate, but the lease would help prove my residency. I already had a post office box rented in St. George that would help, too. In the next day or so I’d apply for a Florida driver’s license. That should do it.
Now, there was the matter of Kate Bell.
I spent Tuesday morning changing the oil in my truck and thinking over Bo Pickron’s offer to deputize me to work undercover for him. The fact that the arrangement would strictly be between the two of us bothered me some. Could I trust him to cover my back if the shit hit the fan, or would he leave my ass hanging out to dry?
Last evening I’d called Kate and learned she worked only half a day Tuesday. I’d been itching to do a little sightseeing to see what the area had to offer besides great fishing, and Kate suggested a day trip to Wakulla Springs State Park that afternoon after she got off work.
“It’s a breathtaking place,” Kate said, assuming the role of travel agent. “Wakulla Springs is one of the largest and deepest freshwater springs in the entire world. Divers have explored and mapped out hundreds of miles of underwater passages, and it’s an archeologist’s dream.”
“Just how much stock do you own in the place?”
“Very funny, Mac. You’ll love it. Besides, they have a great restaurant.”
“I knew there had to be a catch in there somewhere.”
I pulled into Kate’s driveway a little after one. She came bounding down the steps wearing a pair of white shorts and a green button-up blouse with the tail knotted at the midriff, leaving enough skin exposed to immediately cause a stir in my nether regions. Her auburn ponytail was threaded through the back of a matching white ball cap sporting a blue marlin logo.
“Phew, is it just me, or is it hot in here?” I said, pretending to wipe my brow as Kate slid onto the seat next to me.
“It is warm today,” she said, buckling her seat belt without picking up on
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