“Well, it’s like when you do an office building: you run in the lines they’ve ordered to a central box, then they complete the installation. They’ll buy a phone system from somebody like Lucent or Panasonic, and the supplier’s people will run all the lines and extensions.”
“And that’s what you did at Palmetto Gardens?”
“Well, yeah, but it was pretty elaborate. They ordered something like two thousand lines.”
“That many?”
“Well, you figure they have a few hundred houses, and what with fax machines and computers they might have, say, four lines each. Then you’ve got all the common lines—the clubhouse, shops, maintenance, security, all that. It adds up. In the case of Palmetto Gardens, the company had to open a new prefix, just for them. Nobody had ever asked for two thousand lines before. It’s like they built a small town, from scratch.” He screwed something together and placed the new phone on her desk. “There you are. All hooked up.”
“Thanks, A1.”
He went on his way.
Holly called Jackson. “Okay, I’ve got a private line.” She gave him the number.
“Does this mean I can talk dirty on the phone now?”
“Certainly not, you pervert.”
“Then what’s the point of having a private line?”
“Oh, all right, you can talk dirty.”
“Wish I could, but I’m due in court,” he said.
“Promises, promises. See you tonight.”
“Oh, I talked to my buddy at the airport. He’s shooting our pictures today, and for only twelve hundred bucks.”
“A bargain. See you tonight.” She hung up, called Ham and gave him the number. “How’s Daisy?”
“She’s okay. I think she misses you, though.”
“I’ll come out there and get her later this afternoon,” Holly said.
“Maybe I’ll get a dog of my own.”
“Good idea.”
“This one is kind of spooky.”
“How so?”
“Well, she brought me a beer yesterday.”
“She does that. You just say, ‘Daisy, bring me a beer.’”
“I didn’t say anything, she just did it.”
“Maybe you looked thirsty.”
“Probably.”
“See you later.” Holly hung up and looked at the map again. Maybe it was time she saw Jungle Trail.
CHAPTER
She drove slowly down the dirt lane, occasionally passing a jogger or someone on a bike. There were sometimes views of the river, or, looking east, pasture land or citrus groves. She crossed small bridges over creeks leading to the river. She passed a number of developments to her left and an occasional golf course or stable. The air was warm and muggy, with any breeze captured by the trees. Then, after several miles, she drove around a sharp bend and came hard up against a high chain-link gate. A large sign read:
PALMETTO GARDENS
PRIVATE PROPERTY
STRICTLY NO TRESPASSING
She got out and looked. The gate was set into a ten-foot chain-link fence, and along its top was a double roll of not ordinary barbed wire, but razor wire. She peered through the fence and saw, perhaps a dozen feet away, another, equally high fence, trimmed in the razor wire, and this fence had signs saying DANGER—HIGH VOLTAGE. The ground between the fences had been denuded of vegetation and run over with what appeared to be a shallow harrow, leaving long, unbroken grooves in the dirt. Whoever breached the first fence faced electrocution at the second, and if he chickened out between the two, he would leave sharply defined footprints behind for some passing security officer to see.
Holly walked along the fence toward the river, but gradually, the vegetation made progress difficult, then impossible. The double fence went as far as she could see. She went back to the car and looked at the planning commission map. Jungle Trail ran through Palmetto Gardens and out the other side; she assumed that an identical fence closed off the south side, as well. There was nowhere to go but back, so she turned around and drove north on the trail. Back on A1A, she took the north bridge to Egret Island and Ham’s new house.
She picked up the microphone of the police radio she had had installed and called dispatch.
“Yes, Chief?”
“I’m done for the day. You can reach me on my cell phone.”
“Roger, Chief. There was a message for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Call Jackson.”
“Thanks, over and out.”
She dialed Jackson’s office number on her car phone.
“Oxenhandler.”
“Hey, it’s me.”
“Hi. I’m going to have the photographs in an hour or so. He’s dropping them off at the office.”
“Why don’t you bring them out to Ham’s?”
“Okay. What time?”
“Whenever you finish work. Bring some steaks, too, and a decent bottle of wine. All Ham ever has is beer and bourbon.”
“Will do.”
As Holly drove up to Ham’s house, Daisy bounded out to meet her, making yelping noises and laying her head onto Holly’s body, which was Daisy’s version of a hug. Holly knelt next to her and let the dog lick her face. “Hi, there, girl,” she cooed. “Yes, I’m glad to see you, too.” Daisy had spent several days with Ham.
Ham came out of the house. “That dog has really missed you,” he said.
“I’ve missed her, too.”
“I guess you two have really bonded. She wasn’t exactly unhappy with me, but it always seemed like there was something I was supposed to do or say that I wasn’t doing or saying.”
“I won’t leave her for so long again,” Holly said, rubbing the dog’s flanks and accepting the outpouring of affection. “Got a beer in there?”
“Sure, come on in.”
“Jackson is coming over and bringing some steaks; I hope that’s all right.”
