“Not much. Lots of times I stop the car and sit on the hood and watch the sky. Jack, you wouldn’t believe it. You can cruise those back roads at night and not see another soul. You stop the car and turn off the headlights and get out and above you are stars like you’ve never seen, stars like I haven’t seen since I was a kid in the Jersey sticks, when the air was still clean enough to see the Milky Way smeared across the top of the sky. It’s breathtaking.”

“You always drive the same route?”

“Pretty much. There aren’t many roads to choose from out there.”

“So you have a pretty set pattern?”

“I guess so. Why are you asking?”

Jack took a sip from his bottle. “Just trying to put some pieces together. Since there’s no one out there, do you bother to stop at stop signs?”

“Well, yes. Of course I do. It may not make sense but…I guess it’s just habit. And it’s not as if I’m going anywhere, or in a hurry to get there.”

“The cops think you might have blown through a stop sign and got tagged by something speeding along South Road. Something big.”

Tom shook his head. “I wish I could remember.”

It disturbed him no end that a piece of his life was missing—an important piece, one that had put him in a coma for days. It scared him a little…no, it scared him a lot not knowing any of the details. That was why he couldn’t stay in the hospital. If he had to be in the dark as to what had happened to him, he’d rather be in the dark here, in familiar surroundings…where he felt he was in control. Or felt he had at least some modicum of control, even if illusory.

“Do you remember a woman attacked by pelicans last year?”

“Sure. Adele Borger. Terrible thing. I heard she was walking with two other women whom the pelicans ignored. They attacked just her. They say she was a terrible mess.”

“And the guy bitten by the snakes?”

“Ed Neusner. Where’d you hear about him and Adele?”

“From Carl.”

Tom had to smile. “Telephone, telegraph, tell Carl. He’s the Gateways gossipmonger. Not the brightest bulb in the box, but a good man. Hard worker. He’s got some wild ideas, though. Has he told you his theory about the angry Everglades yet?”

Jack nodded. “Yeah. Maybe it’s not so far-out. What about the guy killed by spiders?”

“Joe Leo? What about him?”

“Hasn’t anyone noticed a pattern to these deaths—like every three months?”

“No.” Was he right? Every three months? “No one’s ever mentioned it. But why would they? It can’t be anything other than coincidence.”

“Do you realize your accident falls right into the pattern?”