By Randy Wayne White
The weird suicide of a biologist leads document Ford to the invention of flesh-eating parasites infesting Florida waters--and a organic disaster that merely document can cease.
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Her inflection left the statement open-ended, maybe inviting questions, maybe not. Applebee was a brilliant recluse. She was hinting that he also had some emotional instabilities. But then she added, “You two might hit it off, professionally. The only friend Jobe has is his laboratory. You’re both goofy that way. And you’re both obsessed with water, with what goes on among those three tricky atoms. Plus, he’s a fan. ” I said, “Huh? ” “Fans, sweetie. My brother’s read your papers; a lot of us have.
Then we stop. ” I watched as the woman used the belt to slap Jobe’s face sideways. It made an ugly, bullwhip th-WHACK against flesh. She was Eastern European, probably Russian. Her accent was as telling as the high Slavic cheeks and forehead, the short chin, the high nasal bridge. She was tall—over six feet. Lean, athletic, flat chested with skinny ballerina hips, long sprinter’s legs, and short ballerina blond hair. The man was her opposite. He was oxlike, with curly, shoulder-length black hair, and dense body pelt showing on arms, the backs of his hands, and neck.
I wanted to put this one off as long as I could. Later, my conscience would play the inevitable game of “What if . ” What if I had stopped by the man’s home on Friday instead of Sunday night? What if I hadn’t interrupted the two people who were interrogating and beating him? Would he have lived? Or would he have died? And what would have happened then? I had Frieda’s directions on a square of paper stuck to the truck’s dashboard, so I knew he lived on a lake twenty-some miles south of Orlando, and slightly southeast of Kissimmee, on a little unincorporated island I’d never heard of, Nightshade Landing, Bartram County.