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 my joke, “but just wait till summer really gets here.”

Wakulla Springs was a little over an hour’s drive from St. George. We headed east on Highway 98, enjoying the beach scenery and each other’s company. We drove through Apalachicola, home to what the locals, along with many others far and wide, call the best oysters in the world. Once a sleepy fishing village, the downtown area is fast becoming a popular artists’ colony and weekend shopping destination for southern Alabama, Georgia, and Panhandle residents. I’d spent a couple of days there before moving on to St. George.

At the eastern end of town we passed the Gibson Inn, a large, early-twentieth-century three-story wooden structure with wrap-around porches and topped by a cupola. I’d visited their bar at happy hour one evening, and the place was hopping.

“The Gibson is haunted, you know,” Kate said, turning in the seat to catch a better glimpse as we drove by.

I snickered.

“It’s true, Mac. The ghosts of an old sea captain and a young woman roam around the place. They’ve been seen by the staff and so many guests that there’s no way they could all be making it up.”

I laughed. “Yeah, well they’ve got a great bar in there, too. I never noticed any spooks when I was there, but I’d bet my money that it’s mostly spirits conjuring up the spirits.”

We crossed the John Gorrie Bridge into Eastpoint, and several miles later we turned north onto Highway 319. I couldn’t know it then, but a couple of weeks later I’d be traveling much this same route on more serious business. A few miles farther on I turned onto Wakulla Springs Road and soon came to the park’s entrance.

I paid the attendant the six-dollar daily fee, handed Kate the park map, and followed her instructions to the Waterfront Visitor’s Center. After finding a parking spot that offered some shade, we hurried across the lot to the ticket window. I shelled out another sixteen bucks for our River Cruise tickets, then we strolled about the grounds to stretch our legs while waiting for the three-thirty cruise.

At three-thirty sharp we boarded the tour boat, a thirty-foot rectangular vessel with open sides for good viewing and a top to provide shade and keep the rain off. Our guide, a young state park employee with longish blond hair and a matching mustache, gave us the official spiel as we glided over the main spring for a moment, which due to recent rainfall was a bit murky instead of the crystal-clear aqua Kate had bragged about.

According to our guide, the bones of mastodons, saber-toothed tigers, and other extinct animals still lay at the bottom of the spring where they had rested since the last Ice Age. We turned downriver, and before long scores of alligators came into view, some sunning on the banks or logs, others watching us drift by with only their eyes and snouts visible above the water.

One curious eight-footer approached the boat way too close for my comfort. Kate leaned over me and snapped photos while I moved my arm away from the rail. No free meals at my expense. And I didn’t object when she asked to switch places.

Our guide pointed out a pair of ospreys nesting in the top of a giant cypress, brilliant purple gallinules, the rare limpkin, and other feathered inhabitants of southern swampland swimming or wading in the shallows along the banks. The guide really grabbed my interest when he mentioned that several of the early Tarzan movies starring Johnny Weissmuller had been filmed here, as well as the cult classic Creature from the Black Lagoon, one of my all-time favorite flicks as a kid. He even pointed out the huge tree where Tarzan stood beating his chest while belting out his famous “Aaaaeeeeeaaaah!”

I hadn’t felt so relaxed in a long time and was sorry to see the tour end. Back ashore after our hour-long, three-mile wilderness adventure, Kate and I visited the rest rooms and then headed for the restaurant for an early dinner before returning to 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 Kate’s friend and like a big sister to Sara Gillman.

Sheriff Pickron was convinced Brett Barfield was responsible, but I had my doubts about that. By all accounts he and Maddie were crazy in love. According to Sara, when Maddie told Brett she was pregnant he’d agreed they should get married right away. If he somehow was involved with her death, what was his motive? And just where the hell was he?

If I was a betting man, I’d give odds he was dead.

That evening I’d just fired up my propane fish cooker for a Cajun shrimp boil when Kate drove up in her Honda CR-V. She parked behind my pickup and slammed the door as she got out. She looked pissed; pissed but sexy in a Gillman’s polo and khaki shorts.

“She lied, Mac!” Kate’s face was flushed and her fists clenched tight. “Ooooh!”

I saw now how Kate was able to set Bo Pickron straight. No way would I want to tangle with the hellcat stomping toward me. She’d been raised with three brothers and could rough and tumble with the best of them. “Who lied?” I said, taking a step back and tightening the grip on my bottle of Bud.

Kate pointed to the beer. “You have another one of those?”

“Yeah, be right back.” I hustled inside the trailer and grabbed two Buds from the fridge. Kate was sitting atop the picnic table when I came out, her feet planted on the bench. I twisted off the cap and handed her a beer.

“Now, who lied about what?” I said, taking a seat beside her.

Kate took a long swig and squinted as she swallowed. “Sara! I can’t believe she’d lie to me like that. I am so dang ticked at her I could spit nails.”

“Okay, what’s this about?”

Kate sighed and leaned forward, resting her arms on her bare thighs. “Maddie. Turns out she and Brett weren’t going to the mountains after all. They intended to drive up to Donalsonville, Georgia, get married, and then head south to Disney World and the Keys for their honeymoon. Sara knew all about it from the get-go. She lied to cover for them.”

“Christ, she must feel like hell.” I took a swig and gathered my thoughts. Heading for south Florida and the Keys would explain why the young lovers had taken Brett’s boat with them. “Then the notes they left for the Harpers and Barfields were decoys to throw the families off the trail.”

Kate nodded. She looked close to tears.

“What about phone calls? Did Maddie ever check in with Sara?”

Kate slugged down a couple of more swallows. “No, and that’s why Sara’s so upset. She said Maddie planned to call every few days to let her know where they were and what they were up to. But when Maddie never called, Sara got worried. She wanted to tell somebody, but Maddie had made her swear not to tell a soul.”

My mind was still churning when Kate drained the last of her beer. I’d never seen her drink so fast. I twisted off the cap and handed her the other. She took a sip and sighed, staring through the pines at nothing in particular.

“Poor Maddie,” she said after a minute. “Why on earth are kids so stupid sometimes, Mac? I swear, I could wring Sara’s neck.”

“For what, being loyal and keeping her word to her best friend?” I finished my beer and set the bottle on the table. “It was probably too late for Maddie before Sara ever expected that first call.”

Kate looked at me, her eyes brimming with tears. “I know,” she choked out. “I’m just so sorry any of this happened, for Maddie and Sara.”

After another beer Kate calmed down enough that I was able to talk her into staying for supper. I spread several layers of newspaper on the picnic table and dumped the basket of Cajun boil on it. We drank beer and feasted on spicy shrimp, potatoes, corn on the cob, and smoked sausage until we were stuffed to the gills. It was dark by the time we finished cleaning up. I grabbed a couple of tumblers and broke out a bottle of single-malt scotch I’d been saving. Kate’s company certainly qualified as a special occasion.

We sat outside under a star-filled canopy, sipping scotch and talking long into the night. The full moon finally peeked above the pines and began its slow arc across the sky. Kate got up from her chair and curled up on my lap.

“I’m too dang drunk to drive home tonight, Mac,” she said, and kissed me for the first time. “Guess you’ll have to let me spend the night.”

We kissed again, and then I picked her up and carried her into the trailer.