Blood and Salt

Prologue

The wind howls.

It comes from the east and whips itself into a fury. Towering royal palm trees bend precariously. Some topple as their roots tear from the ground.

The waves ripping in off the Atlantic roar up and over beaches and seawalls, foaming and spitting. The sky overhead, nearly black, looms low and leaden. A tannic smell permeates the air.

Hurricane Eliza has arrived.

Crescent Key surrenders to Eliza’s wrath. A voluntary evacuation has left the island mostly abandoned.

A few defiant souls hunker down in their seaside mansions, loath to heed the warnings. They believe their walled estates will sustain the pummeling winds and rains Eliza unleashes. That she is only a Category One storm feeds their denial, but her anger is furious and unpredictable.

Human creations are no match for the fierce temper of this storm. Shingles shear from roof after roof; in some cases entire roofs peel away. Windows shatter and daggers of glass explode into the whirling squall. Flood water from the storm tide swamps the streets, stranding a lone police car on the desolate main boulevard of the Key. On the parts of the island that lie just above sea level, the storm surge takes its toll.

And nature’s creations are at the mercy of Eliza’s fury as well. The wetlands are particularly vulnerable. The delicate ecosystem that comprises a large segment of the south end of Crescent Key is again under a hurricane’s attack, and the fragile mangrove thickets that border the key will suffer irreparable damage. The creatures living in the woods and wetlands have scurried to shelter. The birds have vanished.

Eliza’s sustained winds rage in excess of one hundred miles an hour. Gusts reach one twenty.

Then suddenly there are blue skies and no rain or wind at all. But nature knows the tricks of the storm, and the creatures of the wetlands do not come out of hiding. The illusory peace lasts about fifteen minutes.

And then a new fury erupts, the wind now from the opposite direction, raking the ravaged island once again. The trees bend once more under the onslaught of the driving wind and shearing torrents. The sky goes dark, the sun obliterated. Branches, shingles, shards of glass and chunks of metal fly about, driven by the fierce velocity of the wind.

One tree in particular succumbs to the treachery of the storm. Against the wind’s relentless onslaught, a tall paradise tree in the wooded hammock at the island’s southern tip gives up its hold on the earth and begins to pull loose from the ground like a new sapling. Its roots, which have over the decades burrowed deep into the soil, begin to peel away under the tenacity of Eliza’s grasp.

This tree is unlike any other of its kind. This particular tree conceals a long-buried secret. And Eliza is about to unearth it.

Chapter One

The estate was worth $20 million. The man inside was worth twenty times that much.

I had agreed to meet with him, but I didn’t know the reason he’d summoned me. He’d been terse on the phone, a sensitive matter, he said. But when Henry Fitsimmons calls, one comes.

His secluded compound was tucked into five lush acres that hugged south Florida’s Atlantic coastline. An eight-foot stucco wall surrounded the inland side of the property, and a sturdy wrought iron gate guarded the entrance.

At 2:00 p.m. on a blazing Florida afternoon I pulled my middle-aged Land Rover up to a speaker mounted on a curved metal stand a few feet in front of the gate and punched the intercom button. A metallic voice took my name, made me wait a few moments, and then the gate began to retract. I had been granted admittance.

A winding brick drive led me through a dense jungle of palms, palmettos, and native grasses to a circular front portico. The residence itself was a long, low stone and glass affair, all angles and planes that seemed to go on and on. At first glance, the angular lines of the contemporary structure offered a stark contrast to the natural asymmetry of the setting, but once you got over being blown away by its size and distinctive design, the rambling mansion actually seemed to merge into the tropical paradise surrounding it. An optical illusion accomplished through strategic reflection and visual redirection, perfectly executed. I wasn’t seduced. I despised the implied arrogance that patronized nature and gave nothing back.

Six mature royal palms stood sentry to the portico, and the overhang was supported by thick stone pillars that reminded me of some ancient temple ruins I’d once seen in a Guatemalan rainforest. A Mercedes coupe the color of cash stood in the shade of the entry. I parked my own grown-up wheels nose to nose with the coupe.

The vicious heat and humidity slammed me as soon as I opened my door. August in Florida, a great time to be addicted to air conditioning. I took the ten steps leading up to the porch. I came to double doors, which were of great mass and stained a dark oak. I rang the bell and waited. In a moment one of the doors opened and the man himself stood facing me, his mouth drawn up in a hint of a smile.

Henry Fitsimmons cut an imposing figure. He stood even with my six-foot-three and carried his seventy years of age well. He wore khakis, a plaid short-sleeved shirt, and boat shoes with no socks. A full head of silver hair swept back from a high forehead and covered the tips of his ears. A craggy mass of laugh lines and crow’s feet lined his face. He had a strong, straight nose, and electric-blue eyes.

Thank you for coming, Mr. Landers. His tone, formal, but the little smirky smile lingered. Playful, as if he wanted me to think a normal guy hid behind all the trappings that went with his money. He said, It’s good to see you again.

You too, sir, I said. But call me Loot, or Samuel, if you prefer. Wouldn’t have missed coming for the world. My sarcasm betrayed my irritation with his aloofness, but I hadn’t meant for it to show. I couldn’t get a good read on him. I’ve learned to rely on the instant, gut-instinct reaction I have when I meet potential clients about a new job, but he wasn’t giving anything away. Well, two can play at that game.

We’d done business before. I’d designed a security system for his company headquarters and discreetly handled another, sensitive personal matter for him. Still, we’d never talked much face-to-face, and he’d never shown me anything beyond the practiced, friendly façade I saw now. The work I’d done for him in the past had given me entrée briefly to his world, but I really didn’t know the man at all.

Fitsimmons shook my proffered hand, his grip firm and warm, then stepped back and invited me in. I moved inside out of the thick heat, and the abrupt climate change instantly chilled my perspiration and raised goose bumps on my damp skin.

We’ll go into the study, Fitsimmons said. Would you like something to drink?

I declined the drink and followed my host through a vast sunlit plant-lined foyer blessed with golden light and a forest of potted ficus trees, then through a living room done in a Southwest motif— raw woods, colorfully patterned fabrics, Native American rugs and art on the walls–and into a corridor leading toward the back of the house.

All the glass in this place, your cooling bill must be enormous, I said, shaking off a shiver.

Not really. Insulated glass, solar panels you can’t see unless you’re flying over in a helicopter. I do whatever I can to conserve, he said. His smile disappeared briefly. He wanted me to believe he was serious about this.

Here we are, Fitsimmons said finally, taking a final turn off the hallway. I followed him into a breathtaking room that was all sunlight and open space. The far wall had been constructed entirely of floor-to-ceiling glass and overlooked a lush lawn, manicured shrubs and flowering bushes that led to a pool and to the Atlantic beyond. The landscape was easy on the eye, perfectly groomed, clipped, mowed and shaped. So much for Mother Nature.

The walls on my right and left featured built-in bookshelves finished in an extraordinary teak, and the volumes included a great number of paperbacks that looked well read.

A buttery tan leather couch and matching wing chairs occupied space to my right. On my left a massive oak banker’s desk stood, nicked and scratched by years of hard work. A haphazard pile of papers and files covered the desktop. A burgundy high-backed leather chair, well worn and cracked in places was positioned behind the desk, and behind that stood a credenza of the same scarred oak as the desk. A Macintosh laptop connected to about the largest screen I had ever seen sat on the credenza along with an extremely complicated looking telephone. Classical music played softly in the background. I felt disjointed, a bit out of time here, and certainly out of my world.

Fitsimmons took a seat in one of the wing chairs and motioned me to the couch. I sat, lowering myself into the embrace of the soft leather cushions. A lot of millions could buy a fine class of furniture.

By reputation, Henry Fitsimmons was an honorable man who’d made millions in the cutthroat and typically dishonorable world of high end land development. And I’d never experienced him to be otherwise, although he remained a mystery to me as an actual human being. I felt no apprehension sitting here across from him, but for reasons I couldn’t put my finger on, I didn’t exactly feel comfortable either. Nevertheless, I knew the man had asked me here because he had something important on his mind, so I waited. I knew he’d get to it when he was ready.

Chapter Two

I have a situation, he said, getting right to it.

I nodded, waited.

He went on. I’m sure you’ve heard about my plans for developing the south part of the Key.

I had heard, but until that moment had not fully appreciated the extent of the loss I would suffer at his success. Crescent Key is an island enclave just north of Palm Beach, and is home to some of the richest people in the United States. About a hundred and fifty acres on the south tip of the Key have never been developed. It’s beautiful. Primeval. And that’s where I live. It’s my haven, a place of solace and escape. Fitsimmons owns those acres and is essentially my landlord. My home is a renovated fishing cabin I pay nominal rent on, mainly, I suspect, because Fitsimmons may have felt a little sorry for me. That and the fact I had once gotten his son out of a potentially serious scrape with the law.

I’ve named the development Xanadu, Fitsimmons continued. From the Coleridge poem, it’s Kublai Khan’s palace in Mongolia, a place of great beauty and contentment.

I’ve heard about Xanadu, I said, both of them. I’ve also heard you’ve promised to preserve the existing wetlands and the native ecology. That’s a pretty big promise. Think you can keep it?

Fitsimmons nodded. Absolutely. For the first time, he avoided my eyes. He stood and walked over to the window, turning his back to me to take in the view.

I functioned as a serf in his fiefdom, and I really didn’t have any say in the way my world changed on his whim, no matter what a nice guy everyone said he was. And I sensed something about his grand plan bothered him, and that bothered me.

He made a vague gesture toward the outside. I really don’t like most of the homes on the Key, this one included. Everything is . . . artificial. There are walls where there should be open space, and lawns and neatly trimmed shrubs and carefully planted trees where our native plants once created a far more beautiful natural landscape. He shook his head. What a loss.

I agreed with him. The land on the south end of the Key where I lived was flush with paradise trees, palms, Australian pines and gumbo-limbos, with an undergrowth of palmettos and climbing vines and native grasses. In at least a third of the area stood protected hammocks and wetlands and shoreline–cypress roots and mangroves–and swampy lowlands that could never be developed, even by Fitsimmons. On the Atlantic side a narrow strip of white-sand beach led into some pockets of marshland, but then the terrain sloped up to higher and firmer ground. Rocks and jetties marked the south tip. The sun-dappled and tangled shoreline of the Intracoastal Waterway, an area of superb fishing for snook, reds and bonefish distinguished the inland side. Toward the interior were areas of dense terrain interspersed with lowlands. This solid ground, these higher elevations, could be developed, but on all the high-ground acreage only twenty or thirty sites were suitable to build on. The homes would feature the latest energy-saving technologies and designs that blend in with the natural environment. Or so went the marketing verbiage. There were many folks who thought the developers were pushing a great deal of hype. I leaned in such a direction myself.

You called me here to help you save the wetlands? I said. Easy. Don’t build anything out there.

He kept his backed turned. You disapprove.

I might, said. I would need to know more.

Many do disapprove, he said. But they just don’t have any idea . . . He cleared his throat then went on. About a year ago, I began to make plans to retire. I didn’t need any more money, and I sure didn’t need any more headaches. I looked forward to filling my days with fishing and my evenings with Florida sunsets. My brother Edmond dragged me to a local trade show where I got introduced to a young woman—a builder—who had showed up there to talk about green buildings and environment. Unusual, a woman in this business. He sighed, turned and returned to his chair. He finally looked me in the eye.

Her name is Danielle Hemmings. She has a Ph.D. from Harvard. She’s won awards here, and in Australia and in Great Britain for her projects. She’s smart, Samuel. She’s an expert at green building and low impact environmental development, and she’s got all these terrific ideas—she got me excited about my work for reasons having nothing to do with making money, and by the time I left the trade show, I’d completely abandoned my plans to retire from the business.

Sounded like she got him excited about something else, too. And Xanadu was born, I said.

Yes. With Danielle’s talent and expertise, Xanadu is my chance—our chance—to prove you can have both–beautiful homes and natural beauty. I want to break new ground, influence how people envision their homes and neighborhoods for generations to follow.

Clearly, Fitsimmons saw this project as his legacy, but I still didn’t see what his plans had to do with why he had called m here, and I told him so.

Xanadu’s as good as dead, Samuel. I had to cancel it.

What happened?

Danielle quit.

Why?

Fitsimmons took a look around his impressive room, scanned the outside horizon. Then he leveled his gaze back at me.

That’s what I want you to find out.

Chapter Three

I know it’s not what you do, Fitsimmons said. I also know you’re good at doing it.

We stood by the pool now, watching the beginnings of afternoon thunderheads begin to develop out on the horizon. The bright blue sky was beginning to build with a deepening mix of clouds, and the sun’s rays painted the tops of them with shimmering shades of pink and rose.

I briefly tried the too busy argument, followed by the out-of-practice argument, and then the there-are-others-better argument. Fitsimmons was having none of it.

I tried once more. I’m not a private detective, Henry. I’m a security consultant. You know that.

You have a license, he said. And you helped me before, with my son. It’s you I want. I know you. I trust you. Hell, you’re my neighbor.

Helluva bind. Personally, I’d be glad to see Xanadu die an untimely death and leave my happy homestead intact. On the other hand, not taking the job could seriously injure my bank balance, and likely my ability to get more work on the island.

So finally, when I saw my arguments weren’t having any effect, and when I saw saying no might have an extremely negative effect on any future referrals I might get on the Key, I relented and said, Tell me more.

Fitsimmons sighed. She simply pulled out. Suddenly. Never breathed a hint of anything untoward to me before I heard of her decision. One day we had a viable, fast-moving project and the next day we were dead in the water.

I heard the vaguest rumble of distant thunder. In the west, the sky began to get increasingly dark, and now flecks of lightning broke behind the dense thunderheads. An offshore breeze began to pick up and drop the temperature a few degrees. In a little while, I thought, we would have our usual afternoon thunderstorm that whipped through with its wind and rain, lightning and thunder, coming and going quickly and leaving the evening fresh and clean.

What has the lady had to say since then? I asked.

Nothing, Fitsimmons said. Nothing at all. She won’t talk to me. She won’t return my phone calls. How I found out about it, she left a short voicemail message late one night about a week ago. Said she had made a decision to quit, that Xanadu just wasn’t viable anymore. Next day, when I went by the office at the construction site—no sign of her or any of her crew. The place had been completely shut down. Edmond, who’s in day-to-day charge of the project, has tried the same thing, with the same lack of success.

The thunderheads were building now and moving toward us, and the sky had darkened considerably. The sun in the west had dropped behind the towering clouds and rays of sunshine radiated from beyond the edges of the blacker sky. I thought about what Fitsimmons had told me while he stared off toward the storm.

Breaking up is hard to do, I observed.

You think that’s why she quit? He chuckled. I wish to hell that was the reason. I could handle that. But we aren’t involved the way you’re implying.

Maybe she doesn’t see the situation the same way you do. Has this kind of thing ever happened to you before? I asked.

Another chuckle. You mean has a woman ever dumped me? Hell, yes. He grinned.

I’m specifically referring to the business end of things. Has a partner ever dropped out like this before?

He shook his head. Never. I’ve had disagreements come up on projects, of course. One or twice I’ve even had large deals go south on me. But not without a lot of warning flags raised ahead of time. There are always telltale signs. This time, nothing.

When’s the last time you actually saw Dr. Hemmings in person?

That’s strange too. I had breakfast with her at Lindy’s two days before I got her voicemail. Everything seemed fine. She exhibited a great deal of excitement, talked about the plans for Xanadu like she was gung ho.

Nothing that gave you the slightest clue she’d jump ship?

Not at all. We spoke about work and a made a little small talk. She’s a single mother, likes to talk about her daughter.

Puzzling, but one woman’s change of heart shouldn’t mean the end of the road for Fitsimmons’ utopia. Since I had no experience in the business of high-end land deals, I had no idea where to take this, other than to keep asking questions. So I did, as the storm moved inland.

There is one thing you need to know, Fitsimmons said. There’s a fellow by the name of Darby Creighton who might figure into this.

Fitsimmons paused, leaned back. Then he said, Creighton’s fucked up, startling me with his sudden vulgarity

What’s Creighton’s position? I asked.

Stubborn, intractable, wouldn’t budge off his anti-development position. He’s a member of the Earth Liberation Front, an organization like the PETA of environmentalism. Their goal is to retaliate for a lot of federal policies related to natural resources and animals. They’re attempting to coerce government agencies into changing those policies. They call what they do ecotage. Federal sentencing guidelines in ecotage cases can add up to 20 years in prison.

So Creighton is capable of breaking the law for his beliefs, I said.

He is. He’s been arrested quite a few times.

Do any hard time?

Fitsimmons shook his head. I don’t think he’s been in prison. He might have done a little time in the county jail.

Did he have any success changing or slowing down the project?

He did, some, through some sit-ins, but he hasn’t advanced to extremes—yet,

I veered away from Creighton. How far along were you on Xanadu?

Fitsimmons took a moment to consider. Virtually all of the environmental permits are in place, and that’s the hard part. Most of the site plan had been completed, surveyors had been all over the place. Danielle had been working with her architects on the designs for the homes. We weren’t that far away from moving dirt. His expression betrayed his desolation, like that of a child who had lost his favorite toy.

But then he looked at me, flint in his gaze. This is not acceptable, he said. I simply will not have my work undermined this way. On an irresponsible whim.

One way or another, I suspected Fitsimmons would make sure the admirable, irreplaceable Danielle Hemmings would pay for her mutiny.

What is Danielle’s financial stake in Xanadu?

Not small, Fitsimmons said. I own the land, of course, but she has an equity stake in the project. And of course there are the hundreds of man-hours her designers and work crews have already spent on the planning and preparation.

Obviously she’ll take a significant financial hit by pulling out now.

Absolutely. Significant.

Can’t you get another builder? As I said it, I knew it was a stupid question, something Fitsimmons had already considered. But he answered me patiently anyway.

I could, but not of Danielle’s caliber. Finding someone with her talent and knowledge. He shook his head. Nobody—there’s just nobody else. He considered for a moment, then looked at me. Even if I could, the project could easily be set back at least a year, and God knows what that would do to costs. No, losing Danielle will kill Xanadu.

I doubted Fitsimmons would be satisfied with simply knowing why his lady builder pulled out. Answers alone would not bring his project back to life. And I had a nagging suspicion, despite his disclaimers, that there was more to the relationship than he let on. Was he tasking me with more, with bringing his wayward partner back