Read Night Moves for Free Online

reception—Useppa Island isn’t cheap, you know. That’s what I meant about calling in a favor.”
    I felt dense because I hadn’t figured it out sooner. “If you file an incident report with the FAA, how much air time would you lose? Not to mention all the paperwork, I know. But they wouldn’t ground you . . . would they?”
    “Grounded? Hell, they’d confiscate my plane. Probably wouldn’t see it again until late winter. That’s a big chunk of money I’d lose.” Futch patted the fuselage. “Which would make sense if I didn’t think my aircraft was safe. But I’m a safety freak, you know that. And the feds can’t tell me anything I can’t find out for myself. Fact is, we didn’t crash-land. We just landed hot—which doesn’t constitute an incident report, far as I’m concerned.”
    He motioned to the tool kit that was open on the elevator flap. “Hand me that ratchet, would you? I need a three-eighths, and the seven-sixteenths.” Locking one of the ratchet heads into place, he continued, “You mind walking a big circle around the area? There’s a roll of mechanic’s towels under the seat. Use ’em to mark any tree stumps or rocks. Anything that would knock off one of our floats.” Then referring to the bandage on my arm, he warned again, “But don’t get that damn cut wet, you could be sick for weeks.”
    I was less concerned with germs than with what Futch was considering. He was going to attempt a takeoff in dense sawgrass? I wasn’t going to question his judgment, but the man knew what I was thinking.
    “Don’t worry, I’ve done it before. Never with two passengers—weight could be a problem. Did you check your cell phone? Mine’s got no reception.”
    I took a look and said, “Maybe if we were closer to the road.”
    The pilot shrugged. “Once you scout the area, I’ll know more. Check our landing track first. We made it in. Get this fixed, we should be able to fly her out. And Doc?”
    I had pivoted to leave, but stopped.
    “Probably no need to remind you, but tell Quirko to watch his step.”
    Quirko was Futch’s nickname for Tomlinson. I smiled and said, “Don’t worry. If you say there’s no need to tell the FAA, that’s good enough.”
    “That’s not what I meant. A month ago, I flew a couple of state biologists into a spot near here. Herpetologists doing a census on exotic snakes. They showed me a video they had, them opening up a twenty-two-foot-long boa constrictor. The thing had choked to death eating a deer. Caught it just a few miles from here.”
    “I saw a photo in the paper,” I said. “Tomlinson probably did, too, but I’ll pass it along.”
    Futch wasn’t done. “I’m serious, I wouldn’t want to do much walking out here. In an afternoon, those guys counted eighteen boas and six or seven pythons. And I’ve spotted two snakes so big I circled around and watched them from the air. Those bastards breed like rabbits—same as the iguanas on Boca Grande. So be careful if you reach to pick up a limb . . . or have to squat for some reason.”
    “Got it,” I said. “No latrine stops, and keep track of my fingers. Holler if you need me.” I could hear Tomlinson’s feet splashing aft of the plane, so I grabbed two rolls of towels from the cockpit, then slogged off in his direction.
    Truth was, some time in the Everglades was just what I needed to decompress. I had followed news accounts that claimed the population of exotic snakes—escapees from zoos and pet store mistakes—wasn’t just growing, it was exploding. The media, however, have a long history of sensationalizing stories about Florida, usually exaggerating the bad, seldom the good. From hurricane damage to oil spills to red tides, I could not think of one exception. Now the possibility of seeing a boa or python gave me a reason to stop obsessing about almost dying and think about something else.
    I wasn’t the only one fixated on our near demise. Tomlinson heard me bulldozing through the