Swamp Bones Read Free Page B

the airboat jounced across the water, still unsure how I’d been talked into the excursion. On board with me with me were Yellen, Lundberg, and Pierce. A uniformed Miami-Dade officer was piloting the craft.
    Yellen’s phone call had brought news of more human remains. I’d explained that I was in Florida on vacation. That I’d only stopped by Lisa’s lab to pick up a key. I’d practically yanked my bikini and Picoult novel from my suitcase as Exhibit A. Fruitless.
    Yellen had waved off my objections. He had a dismembered human body. Evans, his forensic anthropologist, was on the wrong side of dirt and I was not. Before I knew what had happened, I’d been deputized.
    While I was being driven to the dock, Lisa had headed out for lunch. My empty stomach did not appreciate the irony.
    Our boat was a flat-bottomed aluminum six-seater with an elevated driver’s chair at the back. Behind the driver’s platform was a large propeller engine enclosed in a protective metal cage. The thing looked like an oversize desk fan.
    “You have to use an airboat in the Everglades because a submerged propeller won’t work in shallow marshes,” Lundberg shouted, close to my ear.
    I nodded, unwilling to bellow. Even with mufflers, the propeller was incredibly loud. The upside: no one could hear the protests coming from my belly.
    “This is called the Shark River Slough.” Lundberg’s arm arced to take in the scenery. “It’s the primary source of water to Everglades National Park, and lies both inside and outside the park boundaries. You’ve probably heard it called the river of grass.”
    Though I hadn’t, the description was apt. A sea of brown and green saw grass stretched as far as the eye could see, here and there carved by the occasional meandering waterway. The sky was an immaculate Carolina blue, dotted low above the horizon with fluffs of cumulus cloud.
    Having no need to stick to the cuts, our boat whizzed unimpeded across the top of the vegetation. Despite the grim task that lay ahead, I thoroughly enjoyed the feeling of flying.
    “We’re headed to Hardwood Hammock.” Lundberg seemed compelled to continuallyexplain. “It’s just beyond the park to the north. Where the hunt is taking place.”
    “The hunt?” That got my attention.
    “The Python Challenge. It’s a contest run by state Fish and Wildlife. Prizes for the most killed, for the longest, that sort of thing.”
    Yellen, to my right, overheard and shook his head. “Idea right outa the mind of a hormone-addled fourteen-year-old gamer.”
    On that point, Lundberg appeared to agree with Yellen. “The hunt goes for thirty days and draws participants from all over the country—this year there are sixteen hundred. Two categories, professional hunters in one, and anyone that can pay twenty-five bucks and sit through a thirty-minute video in the other. In 2013, the amateurs and pros together caught sixty-eight snakes. Majority by the hunters.”
    That surprised me. I thought the total would be in the hundreds. “How many snakes are out there?” I yelled.
    “Twenty-five hundred Burmese pythons have been removed from south Florida in the last ten years. Our best guesstimate is a current population numbering in the thousands, maybe the tens of thousands. And breeding rapidly.”
    Holy shit, I thought.
    “The funny thing is these guys are endangered in their natural habitats of Southeast Asia, because of illegal poaching.”
    “No shortage here.” Yellen’s clipped comment was almost blown away by the rushing air.
    “Definitely not. The federal government is desperately scrambling to control the population explosion in south Florida. In 2012, the Burmese python was added to the species list covered by the Lacey Act.”
    At my questioning look, Lundberg said, “It’s the federal act used by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service to prevent and manage invasive species. It bans importation and interstate commerce of listed species, like the pythons.”
    The boat