Seduced

by Randy Wayne White

  It was a safety precaution that only a man like Marion Ford would understand.

  That’s what I was thinking about—Ford’s unwavering eyes, his competence on the water, when another competent man came to mind.

  I checked Previous Calls and pressed Redial.

  • • •

  Earlier in the day, Sabin Martinez had asked insightful, sometimes pointed questions about Larry Luckheim’s intimidation tactics. “I’ll look into it,” he’d said, which is the sort of help people often offer but seldom follow through on.

  Not true of Martinez. This time when I called, he answered, saying, “Guess who I’m watching haul his boat out of the water? Yeah . . . your favorite stalker. At marinas, he goes by the name Buddy Luck. But his luck’s about to run out, according to a source I have at . . . Well, the less you know, the better.”

  I was flabbergasted. “You found him already? You must be in Placida.”

  “Harney told me to look after you and that’s what I intend to. You sound surprised . . . Captain Hannah.” It was playful, the way he added my name, and his operatic voice was pleasing to the ear.

  “I’m . . . I’m flattered. But I hope you don’t think I called to pressure you. This has to do with a boat trip I’m taking. Tomorrow; early in the morning. It’s supposed to be freezing cold, and it’s not an easy place to get to. I’ll tell you that in advance, but I’d prefer not to go alone. The reason is . . . Well, maybe you heard about Reggie. If you didn’t, I’ve got some bad news.”

  “He was a good little guy,” Martinez said. “I’d prefer to believe good men don’t take their own lives, but I know better. On the other hand, I’ve got my suspicions.”

  “Me, too. That’s why I called. Is there a chance you’d be willing to go with me tomorrow? We don’t know each other well, but I’m good with a boat, and I know the area. I figure I can trust a man who was Mr. Chatham’s confidant.”

  “Now I’m flattered,” Martinez said. “Unfortunately, I have meetings all day, one in Orlando, then I fly to Lauderdale. I could use a tough trip, though. And you’re right to think Reggie might have been murdered.” He paused to think. “Give me the details. I doubt it, but maybe I can shift things around.”

  I summarized my plans, then mentioned Placida again. “Larry supposedly charters out of there.”

  “Nope, we’re closer to Arcadia, some little waterfront dive. Don’t ask me why, but he’ll tell me soon enough. Same with whoever’s paying him to harass you. We’re meeting for drinks after his boat’s trailered. See, I’m a wealthy developer who’s interested in building a fishing resort on Andros. That was my pitch—I need an experienced pro like him to run the operation.”

  I said, “I hate you having to spend so much time on this. How’d you find him? Arcadia . . . he must have run his boat up the Peace River.”

  “Now, now, that’s another delicate point. As a private investigator, you’re aware it’s illegal to plant a GPS on someone’s car. In this case, a bright orange pickup truck. You ever see The Dukes of Hazzard? Don’t worry, dear, I enjoy this sort of thing. Especially the egocentric types. Did you know Larry has a marketing degree from Penn State?”

  “I don’t believe it. Not unless he means the state prison.”

  “Would a man who calls himself Buddy Luck lie? Claims he graduated top of his class. That’s why ESPN wants him to host a fishing show, but only if he doesn’t make the final cut for Dancing with the Stars. Until now, producers have failed to appreciate Larry’s marketing genius.”

  After a riff of baritone laughter, Martinez became serious. “Your instincts were dead-on. The guy’s a freak. And he is dangerous. I’d say either coke or speed. He sniffs a lot, and his bubba accent is atrocious. I don’t doubt he’s from Florida, but I’m thinking he spent a lot of time outside the country.”

  “I’m the same way. His accent, I couldn’t place it. Germany came to mind. Harsh, you know?”

  “Not harsh enough. Basque, could be, or Portuguese. That’s guesswork, but I know for certain he’s wanted for questioning in Pennsylvania. Actually, the cop term is a person of interest, but that might be all the leverage I need. It has to do with the disappearance of a teenage girl a few years back. The pattern makes me think that Larry Luckheim isn’t his real name, either.”

  I told him what Birdy had discovered, then said, “He plays the role of a Southern hick, gets this wild look in his eyes. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s killed more than one girl.”

  “Odds are good.” This was said in a way that suggested Martinez knew more, or suspected more, than he was willing to say.

  “Is that what you’re going to do? Threaten to contact the police if he doesn’t back off? I’d just go ahead and turn him in, if you think he’s dangerous.”

  Sabin Martinez warned me to back off, saying, “Harney was smart in a lot of ways. He’d give me a project—protecting you, for example—and that was the end of it. He never said another word as long as I got the job done.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “You’ve done a lot for my mother and me, and I appreciate it. I won’t pry again, Mr. Martinez.”

  “Call me Beano.”

  “I don’t think I can do that.”

  “Okay, Sabin will have to do. Tell you what”—he became confidential—“you’ve got your PI license. I never bothered with that, but I’ll share a trade secret: I’ve been doing what I do for thirty years and I’ve never threatened a man or fired a warning shot in my life. Know why?”

  I said, “Because it’s illegal?”

  Martinez laughed at that. “It gives the other guy an advantage. Do you stomp your feet before casting to a fish? If I’m not there by six a.m., that means I couldn’t rearrange my schedule.”

  It took me a moment to comprehend his meaning. “That would be great.”

  “But don’t count on it,” he replied. “I’ll either be there or I won’t.”

  • • •

  That evening, I was dressed, ready and waiting, but there was no sign of Kermit, who was almost an hour late. After a lot of seesaw indecision, I decided it was better to cancel than to spend another minute worrying I’d been stood up. We could meet tomorrow night, preferably someplace public. A dozen times I’d reached for the phone, intending to say this, but had lost my nerve.

  I touched Redial. Kermit’s phone rang and rang before it, too, went to voice mail.

  “Hi, it’s me. Are you still coming?” I heard myself say. “I’m open tomorrow night, if that’s better.”

  I held the phone up, glared for a moment, then slammed it on the bed. If I’d tried, I couldn’t have combined three more needy-sounding sentences, two of which seemed vaguely suggestive when I replayed what I’d said over and over in my head.

  My bedroom is the bow on my boat: a V-berth, with drawers for storage beneath, a tiny closet, and pleated curtains over the portholes. It was a poor choice as a place to contemplate being stood up by a man I shouldn’t be alone with in the first place.

  I strode barefoot into the main cabin, switching on lights. On the settee table was a long-sleeved blouse from Target. It was a size too large, made of earthen-brown cotton. Beneath was a heavy plaid pullover with welted pockets and three-quarter sleeves—the ugliest garment I own. I scooped them up and hung them where they belonged.

  I was disgusted with myself. Reggie, whom I had cared about, was dead, yet I had spent the last hour changing in and out of clothes for a man I barely knew and was only beginning to trust. I didn’t want to encourage his advances. On the other hand, I didn’t want to look like a bag lady, either.

  Now I was wearing stonewashed jeans, ankle-cut, which made me look taller, even in deck shoes. Kermit, who was an inch shorter, would notice. Over a collared shirt of utilitarian tan, my cardigan sweater only hinted at what my guest might be tempted to explore.

  What guest?

  At nine
-fifteen, I flipped on the dock lights and went out to find that a cold north wind had settled beneath a cloudless sky and cold, cold stars. My breath plumed. A bulkhead thermometer read forty-four degrees. This gave me an emotional boost. No wonder Kermit hadn’t appeared. He was too busy. All over Florida, citrus farmers would be awake, using giant fans, or helicopters they’d hired, or old-fashioned smudge pots, to save their crops if the temperature dropped near freezing. Without clouds as insulation, or a strong wind to blow the cold front away, this was a possibility.

  I felt better about the evening, and myself. Disappointment and relief are not an uncommon mixture, in my experience.

  The question was, what about tomorrow?

  Don’t go alone. How many times had I been told that? Didn’t matter. If Sabin Martinez couldn’t rearrange his schedule, I’d find someone else. Or not. What I’d told Kermit was true. I’ve spent much of my life alone in small boats, and it is the rare waterman whose knowledge exceeds my own.

  A sense of freedom and confidence are a less common mixture. That’s the attitude I embraced. I had a window of one, maybe two days. Come hell or high water, I would go. It was sixty miles to what I thought of as Choking Creek. The wind had settled, but the Gulf would still be rough. It was wiser to trailer my skiff, drive to Marco Island, and use the public boat ramp. I—or we—would have to be on the water by sunrise. There was no guessing how long it would take to clear the tunnel my uncle had cut years earlier. The same was true of finding an orange tree on an island thick with catbriers and vines. By noon, the sun would be high. Reptiles would be on the move. I wanted to be long gone by then.

  Such a trip required preparation. First, though, I needed socks and shoes.

  My lord, it was cold standing there barefoot on that dock.

  • • •

  A little before ten, my phone beeped with a text. I’d given up on Kermit so was pleased to see it was from him.

  Sorry worked late, then home. I always tell Sara a bedtime story. U mad?

  Not after reading his excuse. This began an exchange that felt oddly comfortable. Texting negated the tension of speaking face-to-face yet ensured privacy. Secrecy—another way of looking at it.

  Back and forth we went after I wrote:

  Not mad. Sarah comes first, business second. Will it freeze tonight?

  Probably not. Forecast low is 40 degrees. U on for boat trip?

  Think so. Seems smart what you suggested.

  Is that a yes?

  Yes.

  Tomorrow morning?

  Very early. I’ll tell you how it goes.

  Not without me. What time R U leaving dock?

  Kermit had bypassed my indecision. He was also my only choice unless Martinez showed up. So far, not a word from him.

  I wrote, I’m trailering my skiff to Marco Island. Hang on.

  In the Marlow’s galley, the propane oven was lit for heat. Atop the table was a nautical chart, a tide table, and a list of Florida boat ramps. The tide table provided information that I passed along.

  Sunrise is 7:01 a.m. I want to be on water by then. You don’t have to go.

  I WANT to go. Meet U on Marco at 6:30? Will bring doughnuts and coffee.

  There. It was settled.

  I sent directions to the public boat ramp on Collier Avenue, a mile inland from the Marco Island Bridge. There were a few things I suggested he bring: gloves, heavy boots, a machete, but omitted firearms. It was better he didn’t carry a gun if he’d had no training. After a pleasant, easygoing exchange about the weather, smudge pots, and how pretty the stars were tonight, the man signed off abruptly, writing, Sara is up. Bye.

  That was okay, too. Family first. Always.

  Or was it . . . ?

  I reviewed our texts. His daughter’s name was spelled with an h. I’d seen it on her sketchbook, yet twice he’d spelled it S-a-r-a. Children, girls especially, were fickle about such things. It was possible she had added the h as an affectation. It was also possible that texting has made us all lazy and inarticulate. Kermit’s many shortcuts proved it, as did my own.

  On the other hand, an adoring father wouldn’t do that. No . . . the h had to be an embellishment from Sara’s imagination. It’s what I wanted to believe, but the inconsistency nagged at me.

  It was quarter after ten. Outside, my skiff was already trailered, secured with straps, and hitched to my SUV. Sandwiches, drinks, an emergency kit, were packed and stowed. My destination had been entered into a Garmin GPS mounted on the boat’s console. A handheld VHF radio was charging. I needed fuel, but the tank could be topped off on the drive to Marco Island.

  I went inside, bolted the cabin door, and showered. This took courage. The Marlow’s “water heater” consisted of a few heating elements built into the cabin’s AC. The system is impotent as a cheap toaster. I was shaking before I got my hair rinsed well.

  Cocooned in sweaters, sweatpants, and a blanket, I checked the thermometer a last time.

  Thirty-nine degrees. Already, colder than the married man had predicted.

  I should have slept fairly well after seeing that, but I couldn’t. After midnight, I was up again, the galley propane stove on high. The warmest spot on the boat was at the helm, where the cabin roof is elevated. Warm air rises. I sat in the captain’s chair, lights off, looking at stars while more details nagged at me regarding Kermit Bigalow.

  That afternoon, while helping load plants into his Silverado, my eyes had seen the truck bed as empty, save for a detritus of hay and straw and a few other things commonly carried by ranch hands. But Kermit wasn’t a rancher. He grew citrus. He had no livestock to feed or stalls to muck. Straw might be useful around the base of a tree, but why had he been hauling hay?

  My imagination moved to the Chatham ranch, where, that afternoon, I’d heard a truck start. The doors of an amber barn opened. Lonnie was there, straightening her collar as if she’d dressed in haste. Within was a hidden space, redolent of clover hay freshly cut. And freshly delivered, Lonnie had said.

  The scene switched to the boathouse, the day I’d surprised Kermit swimming. This was only minutes after he’d witnessed Lonnie with a lover, or so he claimed. But it was Kermit’s clothes hanging on the railing . . .

  Stop it, I told myself. The prospect of a woman like Lonnie seducing a common citrus grower was absurd. Mean-spirited jealousy had launched my suspicions, not reality.

  Jealousy.

  There it was, the truth. I was jealous of a man who wore a ring and adored his daughter. Was that where my life was headed?

  At the helm, the captain’s chair is stabilized by a locking lever. I disengaged the lever and spun to see the star-glazed windows of the house my grandfather had built and where my mother lives alone. Always alone. Echoing within an empty porch, Loretta’s claims about no regrets, of loving a man purely for love’s sake, rang with the timbre of hollowed bone.

  It was the way she was. A tactic. Loretta was not above manipulating me into an affair after pretending to warn me of the dangers. Guilt, like pain and loneliness, is more bearable if shared.

  I slipped from the chair and went down the steps into the cabin. My phone was on the table. Next to it was the nickel-plated Devel pistol and a box of 9mm cartridges. Speer Gold Dot hollow-points. My friend Birdy had split the cost after a fun day at the range. They were expensive, highly rated for personal defense.

  Staring at the phone, I released the magazine and cleared the pistol. Several times I dry-fired, pressing the trigger with a familiarity once reserved for the clarinet I played in high school.

  How often, since those years, had I spared my hands the hazards of familiarity? And the allure of restless wanting; a longing to touch and be touched.

  I could not deny it. For the same reasons, I could not continue a theater of innocence as if unaware of the outcome.

  This was me, who I am.

  Finally, my mind was
made up.

  I exchanged the pistol for my phone. It was late, too late to contact a man who was probably asleep beside his wife. I texted anyway, rationalizing Kermit could use smudge pots and the threat of frost as an excuse if his wife heard the ping.

  Must cancel our business meeting tomorrow. Will reschedule when appropriate. Capt. Smith

  The decision regarding how to sign the note took a while.

  I hit Send and went to bed.

  TWENTY-ONE

  An hour before sunrise, I exited Interstate I-75, toward Marco, on a road that darkened between islands of neon. My phone rang. The car’s Bluetooth screen showed Kermit’s name, so I touched Accept.

  “You’re up early,” I said. “You saw my text, I hope.”

  A woman’s voice demanded, “Who the hell are you? How do you know my husband?”

  I was stunned. Guilt makes no concessions to fantasy or imagined events. It was several seconds before I could say my own name. “I don’t,” I said. “Not in the way you’re thinking. I apologize for texting so late, but I had to cancel an appointment we’d made—”

  The woman, Kermit’s wife, said, “Where is he? For god sakes, if you know, tell me. I don’t give a damn what he does anymore. Take him, for all I care, but my daughter cried herself to sleep last night. Is he with you now?”

  In the background, I heard a man say, “Mrs. Bigalow, I asked you not to touch anything. Is that your husband’s phone?”

  Kermit’s wife, speaking to me, said, “Tell me! I know you were together yesterday; that he called you in the morning, then again in the afternoon. It was after midnight when you sent that text, so don’t pretend—”

  “I have no idea where he is,” I said, “I truly don’t, but I’ll help if I—”

  A man came on the phone, saying he was Arnold-something with the sheriff’s department, meaning Sematee County, not the department my friend Birdy works for. “Who am I speaking with?” he asked.