Chapter Two Panther Cay

The Camino Island newspaper, The Register, was published three times a week and did a nice job of recording the milestones in the life of the community: funerals, weddings, births, arrests, and zoning applications. Its owner, Sid Larramore, had learned years earlier that the key to staying afloat, other than advertising, was to fill the pages with color photos of kids playing baseball, softball, T-ball, soccer, basketball, and every other possible game. Parents and grandparents snapped up the papers when the right kids were featured. Action shots of anglers proudly holding large grouper and wahoo were almost as popular.

Bruce read each edition from cover to cover, and Bay Books spent a thousand dollars a month on advertising. Touring authors could always expect a nice little story on page two, along with a photo.

Nothing, though, riled the island, and sold newspapers, like the gossip that yet another high-rolling developer from “down south” was gobbling up property and planning a million condos. “Down south” always meant Miami, a place famous not only for its drug traffickers but the legions of bankers and developers who laundered their money. For most Floridians, every project originating from down south was to be treated with great suspicion.

Because of an arbitrary decision made by a long-forgotten Spanish explorer centuries earlier, Dark Isle was considered to be under the jurisdiction of Camino Island, as was one other undeveloped spit of land near the Georgia state line. When Florida became a state in 1845, the name stuck and “Dark Isle” became official.

Bruce sat down at his desk with a stack of the morning’s mail, a newspaper, and a cup of strong coffee. He was immediately greeted with the headline: “Tidal Breeze Announces Panther Cay Resort.” Half the front page was a colorful artist’s rendering of the planned overhaul of Dark Isle into Panther Cay, a fresh new name created by some clever folks in marketing. A giant casino was to sit in the middle of the island, with a music hall to seat five thousand and at least that many slot machines. Big-name bands and singers were virtually guaranteed, as were countless well-to-do gamblers. To the south of the casino was yet another 18-hole golf course for the deprived golfers of Florida, and for sure every fairway was lined with luxury homes and condos. To the north was a contrived village with stores, restaurants, and apartments. The sandy white beach on the Atlantic side was lined with hotels offering spectacular views of the ocean. On the bay side there were marinas with plenty of slips to accommodate all manner of boats, including, possibly, luxury yachts.

Something for everyone. Promises galore. The possibilities were endless. Tidal Breeze crowed about spending $600 million to bring Panther Cay to life. There was no mention of the projected profits from the development.

Missing from the slick art was the bridge to make it all possible, but a spokesman for Tidal Breeze said, “Our company stands ready to pay fifty percent of the total cost of the bridge, and we’ve been assured by the state of Florida that the legislature will appropriate the rest of the funds during its next session. When completed, Panther Cay will pay for the bridge with new taxes within five years.”

Bruce had heard otherwise. The real gossip making the rounds was that Tidal Breeze was already in bed with some state senators and would get the bridge built without putting up a dime. It was promising to repay $50 million, about half the cost, over a thirty-year period with money saved from tax exemptions. It was a murky, complicated deal still being hammered out in bars around Tallahassee.

A much smaller story on page two offered some rebuttal from environmental groups. Needless to say, they were horrified at the project and vowed a tough fight. One of the more radical lawyers blasted Tidal Breeze for its long history of broken promises, failed projects, and environmental abuses.

The battle lines were quickly being drawn.

Bruce had been on the island for twenty-five years. He had opened Bay Books on a whim when he was only twenty-four years old and too young to be frightened. He had just nicked some rare books from his father’s estate, sold most of them for around $200,000, and became enamored with the business. He bought the only bookstore on the island, renovated it, put in a café and coffee bar, changed its name, and opened the doors.

He loved Camino and wanted it to change slowly, if at all. Panther Cay was the most audacious attack yet on the laid-back, peaceful lifestyle enjoyed by those attracted to the island and the town of Santa Rosa. From its downtown harbor, Panther Cay would be a twenty-minute boat ride away. The bright, gaudy lights of the resort would ruin the views to the west.

Bruce was somewhat confident the county supervisors would block it. However, with that much money in play, nothing was certain. At least two of the five supervisors were constantly spouting pro-growth nonsense.

He chuckled at the new name. If there had been a panther sighting within a hundred miles of Dark Isle, he wasn’t aware of it. There were only two hundred or so left in Florida. The species was highly endangered and lived near the Everglades. There was a beach called Panther Key on an island south of Naples.

But “Panther Cay” had a catchy ring to it and worked well in the promotional materials. There was already a website but it offered little.

His cell phone buzzed and he smiled at it. “Mercer, my dear, I was just thinking of you.”

“I’m sure you were. Hello, Bruce. How’s the island?”

“Still here. Miss me on your honeymoon?”

“Not at all. We’re having a grand time. Right now we’re on a train, the Royal Scotsman, somewhere near Dundee, headed for the Highlands.”

“Sounds lovely. Nothing to report here, except that a rogue corporation from Miami just announced a six-hundred-million-dollar resort on Dark Isle, now known as Panther Cay, at least that’s what the corporation is calling it. Other than that, things are quiet. There was a bar fight last Saturday at the Pirate’s Saloon.”

“I finished the book flying over. What an amazing story. Would it be possible to meet Lovely Jackson?”

“I can probably arrange that. As I said, she comes in twice a year and we have coffee. She’s a real character, but kind of spooky.”

“And you think she might cooperate if I write this story?”

“I don’t know. That’s the question. The only way to know is to ask her.”

“Here’s another question. How can this corporation develop Dark Isle if it’s owned by Lovely? She still claims ownership, right?”

“Right. She says she’s the last-known living heir to the property, but the paperwork is rather scarce. There has never been a grant from the throne or a property deed.”

“Sounds like another chapter.”

“Yes, it does. You’d better get busy. Is Thomas still around?”

“Sort of. He’s got his nose stuck in the book now, completely ignoring me.”

“What an idiot.”

“I’ll call when we get home.”

Steven Mahon had failed twice at retirement. For most of his illustrious career he was a top litigator for the Sierra Club and led assaults against all manner of environmental pollution and destruction. The lawsuits were long and brutal and after thirty years he burned out and retired to a small family farm in Vermont. There he lasted one winter, snowbound and bored, until his wife sent him to Boston to find work. He got a job with a small nonprofit, sued a few chemical companies, and survived a heart attack at the age of sixty-three. His wife was from Oregon, couldn’t handle snow, and decided they needed sunshine. They moved to Santa Rosa and bought a beautiful Victorian three blocks off Main Street. She took over a garden club as he puttered around with the turtle-watchers guarding eggs on the beach. When boredom threatened their marriage, he founded the Barrier Island Legal Defense Fund, an aggressive-sounding outfit that consisted of himself and a part-time secretary crammed together in a tiny office above a dress shop, across the street from Bay Books.

Now seventy years old, he claimed he’d never been happier. Bruce liked him because their politics were similar, and also because he bought a lot of books at no discount. He was quoted on page three in the morning’s paper as saying, “The proposed development of Dark Isle will be an environmental disaster like we’ve never seen in this part of Florida. We look forward to hauling Tidal Breeze into court.”

Never one to mince words or run from a reporter, Steven was always quick with a colorful word or two and loved making threats. Trench warfare against rich, ruthless corporations had stripped him of any semblance of timidity or diplomacy.

He and Bruce met for lunch at least once a month, and seeing Steven’s name in print prompted the invitation by Bruce. They found their favorite table on a waterside terrace at the main harbor, just as a shrimp boat chugged by loaded with the daily catch. Bruce, as always, ordered a bottle of Chablis. Steven said he would have only one glass. He was lean and in great health, but his doctors, and his wife, watched his numbers closely. Cardiac problems were hereditary.

“How’s the book coming along?” Bruce asked.

The book was his memoir, his war stories, his greatest hits in taking on wolf poachers in Montana, nuclear waste leakers in New Mexico, coal strip miners in Kentucky, and Miami cruise operators who dumped tons of garbage in the ocean. The list was long and remarkable and Bruce had heard many of the tales over the years. Steven was a fine raconteur and a good writer as well, but the book required discipline. The author disliked desks and computer screens.

“Two hundred pages, with at least that much to go.”

“When can I read some?”

“Later, not now.” The waitress poured wine and they clinked glasses.

When it came to his writers, Bruce was famously nosy. He wanted to know what they were working on and pushed them to write more. A notoriously undisciplined bunch by nature, they usually lied and said they were making more progress than they really were. He was always ready to jump in and read their latest drafts, which, of course, meant they had to listen to his editorial comments. He wanted them to write hard and well, and get published, and enjoy the writing life. If necessary, he would call agents and editors and give his unsolicited opinions about the manuscripts. And they listened. He had built his store into a powerhouse on the independent bookstore circuit, and it sold a lot of books. He networked nonstop and could deliver as much in the way of gossip as in gross sales. He knew the writers, agents, editors, publishers, executives, book reviewers, critics, and many other booksellers, and he made certain they knew him.

He and Steven ordered seafood salads and sipped wine. It was June and the sun was hot, the tourists had arrived, and the harbor was busy with fishing boats and small craft.

And the bookstore was packed. The summer season was Bruce’s favorite.

He said, “I saw where you popped off in the paper about Panther Cay.”

Steven smiled and shrugged. “Popped off? I thought I offered my usual learned and reserved legal opinion.”

“Well, it was certainly the usual. I assume you’ll be involved.”

“Not yet but we’re watching closely. If Tidal Breeze gets approval, then all hell breaks loose.”

“You file suit?”

“Oh yes. We’ll unload all the heavy artillery, or as much as my little operation can handle. It’ll be expensive, though.”

Bruce and Noelle were generous to many local nonprofits and gave Steven’s $5,000 a year. He operated on a tight budget and worked his contacts in the environmental world.

Bruce said, “I’m sure you can round up a nice litigation team. The big guys should be all over this.”

“We’ll see, but I’m worried. The big guys, especially in the Southeast, are stretched pretty thin right now. A lot of irons in the fire, a lot of development. Money has been so cheap for the past ten years that everybody is expanding. Theme parks, superhighways, offshore drilling, subdivisions. There are not enough tree-huggers like me who know how to litigate and win. It’ll be a war.”

“You’ve already done your homework?”

“Yes. We got word about a year ago that the developers were sniffing around. As you know, Leo changed the seascape. Dark Isle was there for centuries and nobody wanted it. Leo hits and within hours the reefs and currents are radically different. Suddenly, a bridge is feasible, and of course the highway boys are always looking for a new one to build.”

“What about Lovely Jackson’s claim of ownership?”

Steven shook his head and drank some wine. The waitress poured water and asked if they needed anything else. They did not.

Steven said, “I’m not a property lawyer, that’s another specialty, but if she plans to fight the development, she has to go to court and prove ownership. Frankly, that’s the easiest way to stop Tidal Breeze. I assume the company’s legal squad will argue loud and long that she has no ownership interest. Therefore, the land belongs to the state, subject to local property taxes, and is wide open to development.”

Bruce swallowed a fat shrimp, chased it with Chablis, and asked, “What’s the legal principle called—‘adverse possession’? Something like that?”

“That’s it and it’s pretty basic stuff we covered in the first year of law school. If you squat on property that’s not yours for at least seven years, then you can claim ownership by adverse possession. According to Lovely’s book, slaves settled Dark Isle almost three hundred years ago and kept it to themselves. By the 1950s they were all gone. She was the last one and she left when she was fifteen, if you can believe her story.”

“You don’t believe it?”

“I don’t know. I’m not much for voodoo and black magic and such. But regardless, she needs a lawyer, Bruce, and now. Can you contact her?”

“I’ll try. As I said, she likes to come to the store occasionally. I keep copies of her book up front on the ‘Local Authors’ shelf. We’re selling about three a year. I get the impression that she rarely gets out.”

“How’s her health?”

“Not sure, but she appears to be in pretty good shape, very spry. I’ll reach out.”

“The sooner the better.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Two years earlier, in the aftermath of Hurricane Leo, a crew from the Florida Department of Natural Resources was probing the waters between Dark Isle and the mainland, a distance of roughly one mile. Satellite images revealed a remarkable shift in both the landscape and seascape due to the storm. The northern end of the island had been sliced off and now sat three hundred yards away by itself, even more secluded. The main section was still intact but long swaths of its Atlantic-side beaches were gone. The amount of sand that had been displaced was beyond estimation, and the crew was in the early stages of gathering information. The three scientists were taking hundreds of photographs and measurements. Using sophisticated underwater cameras, they were filming the reefs and currents and sending the data back in real time to their lab in Tallahassee. The day’s weather forecast was typical for August—hot, humid, with an 80 percent chance of late afternoon thunderstorms, some possibly severe.

Their forty-foot vessel was a flat-bottomed floating lab the DNR had been using for many years and was not exactly seaworthy. It wasn’t supposed to be because it was designed for beach and backwater research. The scientists were not concerned with the forecast because the dock on the mainland was within eyesight and easily reachable if a storm blew in.

Their work took them close to the bayside shore of Dark Isle, and, for some reason, they decided to have a look on land. The island was notorious for its slave history and old tales of trespassers who disappeared. However, it had been deserted for decades. The locals, especially the fishermen, stayed away from it. The scientists, though, were far too educated for ghost stories and scoffed at the legends of voodoo curses and savage animals. As they slid the boat to a stop in the sand, a strong wind rose from the sea. Lightning clapped nearby. Thunder boomed from the mainland. The sky quickly became dark and ominous. Since there was no shelter to be seen, the scientists made the decision to hop back onto the boat and head for the ramp. As they cast off, the winds began to gust and a thick, slicing rain began to fall. The boat was shoved away from the island. Heavy waves began slapping it around. The men were not wearing life jackets and couldn’t find them in the chaos. The choppy water tossed them about. The boat was no match for the waves and finally capsized. All three men went under.

One managed to hang on to the boat for two hours as the storm raged and the winds howled. When it finally passed, a county rescue team pulled him to safety. The sound was dragged for hours and into the next day, but the two lost men were never found.

The usual inquiries were made but eventually went nowhere. It was a storm, an act of nature. The experienced scientists were doing their work properly. It was just bad luck.

Lost in the tragedy and its subsequent investigation was the fact that the two casualties were white. The survivor was black.

Dark Isle had claimed more victims.

If the corporate suits who ran Tidal Breeze down in Miami were aware of the island’s colorful legends, it was not evident. After suddenly becoming attracted to the island, and after preliminary conversations with the right politicians and bureaucrats, Tidal Breeze began a clandestine operation to inspect and monitor the property. It hired a firm to use satellites to photograph, chart, and record every possible square foot. It hired another firm to scour the island with drones and send back images. What was feared became a reality. The island was so densely packed with ancient trees and vegetation it was impossible to see what was really on the ground. Leo, a Category 4 with winds of 145 miles per hour and a storm surge of an estimated twenty-five feet, had knocked over thousands of mature trees and strewn their limbs and roots into massive piles of debris. Thousands of other trees stood their ground and were shading much of the interior of the island. The vegetation had grown back after the storm and was too thick and dense to walk through. There was no evidence of roads or trails, no signs of the ruins of old buildings. A slight ridge ran along the center of the island. Its height was estimated at twenty feet in places, but most of Dark Isle was at sea level.

Though they would never admit it, because of the inevitable backlash, the suits had already decided that the best way to develop the island was to turn loose the bulldozers. A scorched-earth approach, one that Tidal Breeze knew well. They would save some of the nicer trees, display them, make a fuss over them, and preen about the company’s long-standing commitment to protecting the environment and natural habitats.

A third firm, called Harmon, was hired to send a team ashore. It consisted of four tough guys who’d once served in the army’s Special Forces. Three had been dishonorably discharged. They were supposedly experts in the more demanding areas of corporate security and private, semi-military-style jobs. Scoping out a small deserted island would not be much of a challenge.

Swaney, the captain and leader, decided a nighttime landing would be the smarter move. They couldn’t run the risk of being seen by police or sheriff’s deputies. The Coast Guard patrolled the area around Camino Island and Cumberland Island, Georgia. The DNR was often seen poking around. There were dozens of fishing boats and pleasure craft in and out of the main harbor at Santa Rosa. Someone, it seemed, was always nearby.

Camping and picnicking on Dark Isle were not against the law. For the locals, the island was a no-man’s-land that had never been developed and had never been owned, for all practical matters. It was just sitting there, three miles of deserted jungle surrounded by white beaches. Anyone could stop by for a swim, a picnic, or a hike.

But no one did. There were too many old stories of those who’d tried.

Moving quietly across the dark inlet, the team members sat low in their thirty-foot fixed-hull inflatable boat, a dinghy, and watched the lights of the Santa Rosa harbor grow distant. When the hull touched sand, Swaney lifted the motor and guided the boat onto the beach. The four pulled it out of the surf and secured it with stakes and ropes. High tide was four minutes after midnight, three hours away. Using night-vision goggles, they found the two large dunes they’d selected from the aerials and decided these provided the best cover for their camp. Each of the four had a small video camera mounted on top of his helmet, and the live feeds were sent to a control center in a brown, unmarked van—“the UPS truck” as it was known—parked in the lot of the Sheraton hotel on Camino Island. Each man also had a hot headset mike that allowed the two technicians in the van to talk in real time to the team. Everybody could communicate.

They set up camp by pitching four single rayon tents with fly screens. They unloaded coolers of food and drinks. The plan was to spend two full days exploring the island and two nights in the tents. They were not yet tired and decided to explore. They wore full military-style uniforms, minus the protective flak jackets. All were well armed with Glock 19 semi-automatic pistols and two carried M4 assault rifles. Each had a GPS monitor on his belt that allowed the technicians in the truck to follow his movements. The technicians were staring at the screen, following the four green dots as they moved along the beach, and trying to stay awake. No one on the team, and certainly no one in the van, expected excitement.

After an hour of walking the beach and finding no trail leading to the interior, Swaney said they would wait until daylight. By 11:30 the men were tucked away in their tents and falling asleep. They were all snoring an hour later when the first cat screeched at full volume and ruined their slumber. The animal was close by and its sound was a shrill, piercing call to action that ripped through the still night and caused the four to jump out of their skin. They instinctively grabbed weapons and looked out the fly screens. They waited, hearts pounding, lungs pulsing. The second scream seemed even closer, but that was probably because they were waiting for it.

The cry was not one of anguish. It was aggressive, as if warning the trespassers that they did not belong there.

Vince whispered loudly, “Hey, boss, what the hell’s that?”

Swaney whispered back, “How am I supposed to know? Let’s stay quiet.”

“Let’s get back in the boat.”

“Nobody moves.”

The cry seemed to come from the general direction of the south, either on the beach or close to it. A minute passed, and one to the north answered with his or her own version of a high-pitched growl that was distinguishable from the first.

There were at least two of them out there. Minutes passed and nothing was heard.

Swaney said, “Okay, get your lights and Glocks. On three we jump out and look around.”

On three they scrambled out, bounced to their feet, flooded the area with lights, and saw nothing.

“Hey, boss, you ever heard a panther growl?” Roy asked.

Swaney said, “No, have you?”

“Not in real life, but I saw one in a movie.”

“So you’re the expert?”

“Didn’t say that, but this boy sounded sort of like the one in the movie.”

“It’s either a panther or a bobcat,” Marcus said with some authority. “Both are native to Florida, though the panthers went south a long time ago.”

“Can you tell one from the other?” Swaney asked.

“Maybe. I’d bet it’s a panther.”

“Are they friendly?” Vince asked.

“Did they sound friendly?”

“Not exactly.”

“No, they’re not friendly at all. They’re aggressive as hell when they feel threatened.”

“I ain’t threatened nobody,” Vince said.

“Are you shittin’ us again, Marcus?” Roy asked. “Always shittin’ us.”

Marcus said, “No I’m not. Panthers are known for their aggressiveness.”

Swaney said, “All right, knock it off. We got food and supplies out here, so we’ll take turns playing sentry. I’ll take the first two hours. You guys get some sleep.”

The other three returned to their tents as Swaney sat on a cooler with his M4. He smoked a cigarette and gazed at the distant lights of Camino Island. He listened carefully for the approach of something, though he knew the cats or whatever they were would not make a sound in the sand. There was no moon and the night was dark. Somewhere up there a satellite was watching them. An hour passed. Swaney smoked his third cigarette to stay awake. He walked silently around the campsite, holding his pistol. He heard no snores from the tents and figured the others were too rattled to relax.

They tag-teamed through the night, taking turns as lookouts, all armed and ready, and though there were no more screams or howls, they slept little. Roy was awake when dawn broke and made a pot of coffee over a burner. The aroma drew the others out of their tents.

After a breakfast of fruit and ham sandwiches, they dressed and prepared for a long day of exploring. All had their Glocks on their hips. Roy and Vince carried machetes to hack through the undergrowth while Swaney and Marcus were armed with their M4s. Swaney checked in with the boys in the UPS truck and all systems were go. A silver drone hummed into view about a hundred feet above them to act as their forward scout. Its 360-degree rotating scan gave the techs a clear view of the team on the ground and the intimidating job in front of them. Communication was clear and instant. The four on the ground talked to command at will, though Swaney wanted as little chatter as possible.

Using infrared images from satellite photos taken before Leo, Swaney chose a trail, or what he hoped would be a trail, off the beach, through some dunes and into a thicket of sea oats and hedge vines. For an hour they hacked with their machetes but made little progress. The drone was two hundred feet above them but could not penetrate the dense canopy of the oaks, elms, and Spanish moss. The techs in the UPS truck could see nothing but forest. The sun was high and hot, the forecast was for clear skies, temps in the eighties, and the chance of the usual late afternoon shower. After two hours the men were hot and tired, and Swaney signaled for a retreat. They had advanced perhaps fifty yards through the thick bushes, vines, trees, and storm debris. Back near the water and in the clear, the drone picked them up again and followed them as they hiked along the beach. At another slight opening, they found a trail covered with dead trees and made some progress, though every inch was contested. By noon, they were exhausted and fed up with the island. There was nothing there but dead trees and wild vegetation.

Their goal was to find nothing. If there were remnants of history, any signs of the lost slave colony, they were to destroy them. Tidal Breeze wanted a clean slate when it assaulted the island. Objections from historical societies and lawsuits from preservationists would only delay the beauty of Panther Cay.

The men were resting and eating sandwiches at the foot of a two-hundred-year-old elm when they lost contact. Their headset mikes were suddenly dead. The boys in the UPS truck did not respond. Marcus, the tech expert, tried a cell phone but they were out of range. He tried a satellite phone but its batteries were dead. He said, “This is too weird. The batteries are brand-new, never been used. They can’t be dead.”

Swaney looked at his cell phone. It was dead. He looked at his handheld GPS monitor. The screen was black. The helmet cams were off. They listened for the drone but did not hear it.

Abandoned by the technology they took for granted, they said nothing as they ate and absorbed the reality of where they were. However, they were tough soldiers who’d been well trained years ago, and they were armed. After four hours of fighting their way through the forest, they were convinced that no other human was on the island. The only possible threat was those damned panthers, which would be dead the second they were spotted.

Swaney stood, stretched, picked up his backpack and his M4, and said, “Let’s backtrack and head for the beach.”

Shielded from the sun, the forest was cool and dark. As they moved slowly and searched for their trail, a thick cloud settled over the island and shut out even more light. Within minutes, Swaney stopped and looked for clues on the ground. All four scanned their surroundings. They were already lost.

In the UPS truck, the technicians went through their emergency checklists and tried everything. After half an hour of futility, they finally called their Harmon supervisor in Atlanta. There was concern but no panic. The men had been in far more dangerous situations. They were experienced and armed and could take care of themselves. There was no discussion of a rescue.

The first rattlesnake was resting on a limb three feet off the ground and showed no sign of alarm. He watched them as they froze and gawked at him. He did not coil as if to strike, nor did he bother to rattle his tail.

“Eastern diamondback,” Marcus said softly, as if the snake might be upset at being identified. “The deadliest of all rattlers.”

“Of course,” Roy said under his breath. He no longer believed anything Marcus said.

Vince rubbed the handle of his pistol and said, “I can take him, boss.”

Swaney lifted a hand and said, “No, let’s just ease away.”

To make matters worse, Marcus said, “These boys don’t live alone. When you see one you know there are others.”

“Shut up!” Roy said.

The second one was coiled and ready to strike, but gave the obligatory warning. When Swaney heard the unmistakable sound of the rattling, he stopped and took a step back. In the weeds, less than ten feet away, was a thick diamondback highly agitated.

“Take him, Vince!” Swaney said quickly.

Vince, a legendary marksman, fired four shots from his Glock and blew the snake in half. They watched him flip and jerk, his fangs still snapping as he died.

The gunshots echoed through the woods. When all was quiet and the snake was still, the four men realized how heavily they were breathing. No one spoke for a moment or two.

Marcus said, “This bad boy is over six feet long, very rare.”

Swaney stepped back and looked around. “We came in from the southeast. I’m guessing west is that direction. Seems like the sun is brighter.” He pointed and said, “Let’s head this way. Mark the trees so we don’t go in circles.”

“We’ve been doing circles for the past hour,” Roy mumbled.

“Shut up.”

The third rattler hit Swaney at the top of his right boot and did not break the skin. Swaney jumped as he screamed and lost his footing. Vince fired away but the snake disappeared into a pile of wet leaves. Roy, the medic, examined Swaney’s leg and pronounced him lucky. The vinyl layer of the boot had two deep fang marks.

They took a long break and had some water, but only a sip or two because they were running low. Each man gave his assessment of their situation and there was no consensus about which direction to try next. They had no idea if they were trekking closer to the shore or deeper into the jungle. Distant thunder did not lighten their mood. Marcus again tried the mikes, transmitters, and phones, with no luck. Even the compass on his watch was frozen.

It was a stretch to believe anyone would try to rescue them. The boys in the truck were geeks. Their bosses in Atlanta would not know what to do. They had sent in their best team for the job. Now that team was hopelessly lost. There was no backup.

They agreed that if they could manage to inch along in a straight line, more or less, they would eventually find the beach. Dark Isle was only three miles long and a mile wide. Surely they would find the ocean sooner or later.

They began moving, all eyes on the ground now, all ears waiting for the slightest rattle. Marking the trees as they moved along, Swaney tried to keep them in a straight line but it was difficult. There was no trail. Almost every step had to be cleared. They took a break at 5:00 p.m. and sat in a semicircle. Each took one sip of water from bottles that were almost empty. They had eaten everything in their backpacks.

Swaney said, “Okay, it’ll be dark in a couple of hours.”

“It’s already dark,” Roy blurted, and he was not wrong. The thick canopy above them kept the sunlight away.

Swaney went on, “I say we keep going for another hour and also look for a clear spot to bed down.”

“We haven’t seen a clear spot since this morning,” Vince said. Tensions were smoldering and the men were losing confidence in Swaney’s leadership.

“You wanna take the point?” Swaney shot back.

Vince did not reply. No one else volunteered. They picked up their equipment and began moving. There was more thunder and it seemed closer. When the rain began, dusk enveloped the jungle. They hacked out a small clearing and searched every log and burrow and pile of leaves for snakes. Roy and Vince had packed rain flys, and they strung them between two saplings for shelter. The rain, though, was kept away by the canopy. As it grew heavier it leaked down the trunks of the trees and began soaking the ground.

Swaney checked his watch at 8:00 p.m. Its dial gave the only faint light. The jungle was black, so dark and dense that the men could not see each other. They sat on the damp soil, backs to each other, watching the ground, trying to see signs of anything that might cause trouble. Swaney said he would pull the first hour of sentry duty. Exhausted, the other three finally nodded off. The thunder and rain faded as the storm moved away.

The jungle was eerily quiet. The only sounds were the rustling of tree limbs high above. Swaney fought to stay awake, and had nodded off himself when he heard panthers in the distance.

Their second day on Dark Isle was beginning to look like their first, when they suddenly saw light. The canopy thinned ahead of them and the vegetation was not as dense. As weary as they were, they managed to shift to a faster walk and were soon on the beach. They had survived a nightmare, fought off poisonous snakes and avoided being mauled by panthers, and they were still in one piece. All four had numerous cuts and scratches but nothing serious.

They emerged at the far north end of the island, on the Atlantic side, about a mile from their camp. An hour later they saw their dinghy where they’d left it. Their tents were still pitched. The coolers had not been touched. They opened them and almost celebrated with cold water, ham sandwiches, and fruit. As they ate, they broke camp and tossed everything into the dinghy. A speedy exit from Dark Isle was underway. When they were in open water, their cell phones and GPS monitors suddenly had service.

Swaney avoided the harbor at Santa Rosa and navigated through the inlet to the Atlantic. At the southern tip of Camino Island, they puttered into a small marina. They moored the dinghy at the pier, unloaded it, then jumped into a waiting van. At the Sheraton, they showered, ate some more, and spent an hour on a conference call with headquarters in Atlanta.

By then, all four were complaining of fever and stomach cramps. They disbanded at the hotel, said quick goodbyes, and went separate ways. Vince, though, was too dizzy to drive and stayed in a hotel room. The small cuts on his arm were throbbing and blisters were forming on both wrists. His bowels were in turmoil and he sat on the commode for a long time. When he realized he could not walk without leaning against the walls, he called an ambulance and was taken to the hospital in Santa Rosa.

Swaney drove forty minutes to the airport in Jacksonville. His flight to Atlanta was two hours away, but he never made it. A violent case of diarrhea hit him in the terminal and he collapsed in the men’s room. He had a high fever, severe chills, and blisters were popping up on his forearms. He was taken to a hospital in Jacksonville.

Roy lived in Ponte Vedra, ninety minutes south of Camino Island, and by the time he pulled into the driveway his wife was waiting. He had vomited on himself and was so dizzy he could barely see. He was delirious and kept saying he had no idea what was happening. His arms and legs were swollen and his hands were turning red. His wife was terrified and called 911.

Marcus died first. They found him the following day slumped in the front seat of his car at a rest area off Interstate 10 near Tallahassee. He had called his brother and reported that he was deathly ill, delirious, and suffering from acute diarrhea, among other things. His brother lived in Chicago and could not render aid at the moment. The state trooper who tapped on his window, saw his body, and finally opened the door, was nearly knocked out by the nauseous odor. Blisters and lesions covered his face and arms. First responders quickly realized it was too late and eventually hauled his body to the county morgue.

Swaney’s doctors were the first to diagnose his condition—Vibrio vulnificus. Flesh-eating bacteria. It had apparently entered his body through one or more of the many nicks, scratches, and cuts he had incurred but largely ignored. Now they were so swollen and painful he had to be sedated. From there he went into a coma and never came out.

Vince died in the Santa Rosa hospital while his doctors were still scratching their heads. Roy lingered for a week in Ponte Vedra as his wife watched in horror as his skin rotted and turned black. When the doctor said it was time to turn off the machines, she did not object.

It took Harmon a couple of weeks to piece together the puzzle. All four men died of Vibrio vulnificus, which led to a condition called necrotizing fasciitis, type 3. It was a rare flesh-eating bacteria but not unheard of. In the United States there are about thirty such deaths each year, almost all in warm, tropical climates. Since the four deaths occurred in separate places, there was no way to link them to the job at Dark Isle. Indeed, that little project had been secretive, and Harmon wasn’t about to divulge anything that was not required. The company had done nothing wrong, nor had anyone else. It would be difficult if not impossible to prove where and when the bacteria was encountered.

The report to Tidal Breeze did not mention the four deaths. It said nothing about the mysterious, temporary blackout of all communications. It certainly didn’t mention the threat of wild animals—panthers and diamondbacks. It assured the client that there were no signs of ancient life on the island. No roads, trails, abandoned dwellings, fences, settlements, cemeteries. Nothing. Nothing but piles and mounds of fallen trees, broken limbs, and dead vegetation. Clearing the island for development would be a “substantial challenge,” since so much would have to be hauled away, but it was possible.

The report was exactly what Tidal Breeze had in mind, and with it in hand the company pushed on with its aggressive plans to develop Panther Cay.