Cooler Than Blood by Robert Lane

in the fading light I could still make out a lonely cabin peering between branches. A truck in its third decade pulled up behind mine, and a man in his seventh got out and sauntered over to me. He wore a pair of jeans and a cream shirt, both twice the size they needed to be. He was a slight man and stood under the massive trees.
    “Campground’s closed,” he said. The gentle float of his voice was incongruous with the implications of his words.
    “I know,” I said. “I’m only here for one night, and I heard this is a special place. Hoping I could just lay my mat in one of those cabins, if you don’t mind.”
    “From around here?”
    “Florida.”
    “Long way to camp for one night.”
    “It is.”
    “Where you off to in the morning?”
    “Airport.”
    “Anybody joining you?”
    “Just me.”
    “Take your pick. They’re all empty.”
    “What about that one up there?” I pointed to the high cabin that overlooked the others.
    “That’s Wyandot. She’s a good one. You can take your car up the road and park it there. Have a pleasant night.” He started to turn toward his truck.
    “Mind if I use a kayak in the morning?”
    He turned around slowly. “Help yourself. But the pool’s locked.” He skipped a few beats then continued. “Careful if you jump the fence.”
    As he drove away, I made out the bumper sticker on his fender—E VERYTHING A MAN NEEDS: AN OLD PICKUP, A YOUNG WIFE, AND A MAP BACK TO K ENTUCKY .
    I navigated my car up the narrow path and parked by the cabin. As I sat on the deck, twilight softened night’s arrival with the patience of a glider that took a mile to drop the last fifty feet. I poured some bourbon into a plastic cup. I unwrapped a cigar, smelled it, clipped the end, lit it, and took a deep drag. Those acts, coupled with the selection of the cigar, represented ninety percent of the enjoyment I receive from any cigar. The temperature went down with the sun, which rarely happens in Florida.
    I swatted bugs all night.
    At five thirty, a half hour before sunrise, seven million birds woke me.
    I took a kayak out and did cartoon circles in the stagnant pond. I beached the kayak where I had found it, scaled the pool’s fence, and stripped off my clothes. I dove in the unheated pool and nearly cryogenically froze my body. I did my forty-minute swim in thirty minutes.
    I returned to the munitions depot and left Lip Ring the simple provisions: a mat, thin blanket, and pillow I had purchased for my one-night stay. He asked if I would like my money back. I said the gear was his. He told me to come back soon. I made two stops on my way out of town.

CHAPTER 12
    I retrieved my truck at Southwest Florida International and headed to the Buccaneer Motel on the northern end of Fort Myers Beach. Several Buccaneer brochures in various stages of fading had been in the drawer—under the deranged silverware tray—in the Colemans’ house. Perhaps they frequented the joint. It was worth a stop.
    The one-story building was off the water and across from a closed oyster bar. The motel was likely built in the 1950s, but it was neat, clean, and recently painted. A few cars dotted the asphalt parking lot, where steam from a morning shower dissipated into the air. A pair of brightly painted metal chairs rested outside each room. The beach, bars, and restaurants were within a two-minute walk. The old gal had location going for her.
    A woman’s back was to me when I entered the sparse lobby and stepped onto the spotless linoleum. She turned as I approached the counter. “May I help you?” she asked.
    She wore a soft white shirt. A loose string laced the top in lieu of buttons. Several layers of necklaces dropped low on her freckled chest and rested on the top of her breasts. I wanted to drop low on her freckled chest. Strawberry-blond hair sprouted freely on both sides of her face.
    “Certainly.” I already had my phone out. “I’m looking for a couple of guys I believe may have stayed here in the