Salt River

by Randy Wayne White

  The leather bank portfolio wasn’t so easily explained.

  “Doc”—Hannah stared at the amount—“this can’t be right. Where in the world did you get so much money?”

  For a woman who’d grown up on Gumbo Limbo and fished for a living, a dollar sign followed by six figures was an astronomical sum.

  There’s a lot more where that came from is what I wanted to say. Instead, I told her, “I set it up as an LLC and created a trust fund in Izaak’s name. You’re the signatory officer, though. What that means is, the money is yours to use whenever needed. Not just for him, for yourself.” I made a show of cleaning my glasses. “I want you and Birdy to enjoy yourselves in the Bahamas. When do you leave?”

  Thursday, she said, two days from now, because it would give Birdy a couple of extra days off.

  “Buy yourself something nice,” I suggested, “a dress, whatever. You can wear it to dinner when you get back. Hannah, I want you to use this account.”

  I’m not sure what I expected. In this new century, there are very few Hannah Smiths left in the world. Tears and a kiss would have been nice. Another long, sad look of concern, though, is what I received. Her expression communicated affection, gratitude. Better yet, respect, when she said, “You’re a good man, Marion Ford, and you’re a great daddy. We’ll always love you for that.”

  We hugged. Again, Hannah’s sudden tenseness sent a message. On the boat trip back to Dinkin’s Bay, I weighed, argued and reargued the subtleties, but could not dent the truth.

  The woman I had asked to be my wife was already gone.

  FIFTEEN

  The next night, when the marina was asleep, I waded out to the end of my dock. A buoy there marked a chunk of submerged mooring anchor that had been cast from Dutch and Spanish artifacts. Maybe because of a big, bright full moon, my dog confused the mission with playtime. He galloped along the shore, barking. Roosting birds—herons, cormorants—bawled and hammered the water with wings and excrement.

  I whistled. Sound carries over water. On Tomlinson’s boat, a light came on. Somewhere at the marina, a door opened, then closed.

  The dog kept going. It was a quarter to midnight on a Monday. If fun was to be found, I reasoned, Pete would have to track it down on his own.

  I returned to the lab with a wedge of gold. On the scale, it weighed slightly more than two pounds—thirty troy ounces. Using a surgical saw with a jeweler’s blade attached, I portioned the wedge into thirds. Next, I unveiled a desktop smelting furnace. I dialed it to fifteen hundred degrees centigrade and put on leather gloves. When the furnace was ready, welder’s goggles were needed. Gold filaments, one by one, went into a carbon crucible, which was lined with a thin coat of borax. The crucible went into the little furnace.

  It didn’t take long. When the contents resembled a molten egg yolk, I poured the liquid into a grid of shallow carbon molds. Each mold was about two inches in length and an inch wide. After a few minutes for the rack to cool, I dumped it onto a black cloth.

  Dazzling, the color. More lustrous than the copper moon floating outside the laboratory windows. Before me lay a dozen untraceable gold ingots. At two troy ounces each, they were more easily converted into cash than the four- and eight-ounce bars I poured next.

  The precision demands of the work took my mind off Hannah. The moon and a cold beer helped. On such a night, a fanciful linkage was forged with alchemists. In medieval times, alchemists had attempted to meld science with religion in the hope of creating gold, as well as antidotes for imperfections of the human soul.

  An argument could be made, I decided, that neither science nor religion had advanced a hell of a lot since then.

  This, and a third beer, dulled my awareness of what was going on outside. A sudden, polite knock at the screen door—tap-tap-tap—caused me to spin around like a thief who’d been caught in the act.

  Delia peeked in grinning, perhaps a little drunk. “Isn’t the moon crazy tonight?” she said. “I’m glad I’m not the only one who can’t—” She noticed my guilty reaction. “Hey . . . what’s wrong?” Her eyes moved to the counter and the neat stack of bars. “Oh my god, are those real? No . . . can’t be. What are you doing, making costume jewelry? Let me see.”

  I stood there like a dope. I, a man trusted by some as a security pro, had been caught in a situation that, by rights, should have gotten my butt kicked just for being so dumb. She came toward me, onyx hair agleam. She wore shorts over black yoga leggings and a white hoodie shawled across the shoulders. Her balance seemed wobbly. It was too late to throw a towel over sixty grand in gold bullion. And I was fresh out of lies.

  Fortunately, three empty beer bottles in the sink snagged the girl’s attention. She stopped and leaned against the counter. “Have you been drinking? I didn’t even know you drank.”

  “One beer more than usual,” I admitted. “Want one? Come on.” It was an attempt to lead her next door to my cabin.

  “Good,” she replied, “I’m stoned.”

  “You’re . . .”

  “Earlier, yeah, but I’m okay now. I got high with Capt. Bio Daddy.” She motioned outside to where No Más was anchored. “I asked if I could vape on his boat. We’d made lasagna for dinner—vegetarian, of course. He went into this whole routine, old-school stuff about reverence for the sacred herb, not my propaned artificial crap. Later—I was in the forward berth—he snored like a grizzly, so I thought, Screw it. I left a note, told him I was going back to my cottage at Mack’s place.” She talked a little more about Tomlinson, his eccentricities, then asked, “Got anything to eat?”

  I sensed a reprieve. But no, she gave my arm a friendly pat and went straight to the gold ingots. “Damn, I was hoping these were Nestlé’s Crunch bars. The ones wrapped in foil? They were my favorites at Halloween.”

  The little smelting furnace still radiated heat. The weight of a single ingot surprised her. She dropped another two-ounce bar into the palm of her hand and the leaden clink convinced her.

  “Holy shitsky, these are real. Where did you . . . Or maybe I shouldn’t ask . . . What do you do, collect old jewelry or something? I’ve read about people, they go to yard sales and stuff. Like, a hobby.”

  Delia had kindly provided me an out. After dealing with Hannah, however, more hypocrisy was distasteful. “Nope. What you see there, it was all stolen.”

  She smiled. “Sure it was. I mean, really? Do you buy stuff on eBay?”

  “It’s the truth,” I said. “A few years back, there was a treasure hunter who was also a thief. He salvaged a wreck—I’m not going into the details or the amount. Now part of what he took is mine. Can we leave it at that?”

  The girl sobered, her attention on the ingots. “Oh my god. Well, sure. Wait—you stole these from a thief?”

  “Indirectly. He dumped what he’d taken and I found part of it.”

  “Like, Spanish doubloons and stuff?”

  “Nothing that romantic. Tomlinson knows, but I’d prefer no one else does. I’m not a thief, it just fell into my lap.”

  “Of course not,” she said. “Really, I’m not judging. In fact, it’s sort of exciting. My god, what’s an ounce of gold worth now, a couple thousand dollars?” She raised a single ingot to the light. “The only reason I know is, a few months ago Phil proposed and complained about the price of a ring compared to the price of gold. I totally turned him down. He really is a pompous jerk. Oh . . . he hates you, by the way.”

  “The people the gold belonged to,” I replied, “died in a shipwreck more than a hundred years ago. The legalities are sort of foggy.” With a towel, I moved to cover the ingots. “I’m done working for now. Need a ride to—where are you staying tonight?”

  “A shipwreck.” Delia was savoring the word. “Wow! That is exciting. In the Bahamas? It just makes sense, since you’re going there. Seriously, I’m certified for nitrox, and I’ve always want to do that. Dive a wreck.�
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  I replied, “I can make you a sandwich, then we’ll take my truck,” meaning End of discussion.

  I finished putting things away and we went out the door.

  “The world’s most interesting man,” the girl murmured, speaking to herself. Not flirting or convinced. Just surprised.

  * * *

  —

  All I had at home to eat was dried beef and MREs, so we drove to the all-night 7-Eleven on Periwinkle. Delia was chatty because of the weed. Tomlinson had shared the story about how I’d reeled him in with the fiction about our church wedding. She thought that was hilarious, wanted each nuance of every detail. “He actually believed you?”

  We were both laughing. “Just long enough. Where I screwed up was mentioning the women in your family—the big age gap. Told him if he play his cards right, he could end up being my grandfather.”

  A Styrofoam cup was to her lips. She coughed rather than spray iced tea through her nose. This added to the hilarity.

  “He claimed . . . He claims . . .” The girl waited until she was under control. “He says you have no sense of humor. But he’s the one with a stick up his butt. I pictured—because of his book?—what I imagined was this brilliant Zen Buddhist saint. You know, a halo almost, a man who’s at perfect peace with the world. Can you believe how jealous he is? Totally a dweeb, sometimes—especially when it comes to you and Figgy.”

  “Figueroa?” I asked.

  “Figgy Casanova, yeah—isn’t that a cool name? The good-looking little Cuban guy. He’s fun.”

  I let that go. “Tomlinson’s protective, that’s all,” I said. She had bought a basket of nachos loaded with cheese and salsa. I reached, dipped, and crunched, before I hit the blinker, then turned left on West Gulf.

  Delia, enjoying herself, argued, “As if Tomlinson doesn’t have a whole string of women in that bed of his. But he plays it, like, Hey, sex is a very serious decision. Not these days, it isn’t, and sure as hell not for him.”

  I countered, “The man’s been around long enough to be selective. Plus, he’s single and lives alone. A ‘whole string’ is taking it a little too far, I think.”

  “Now who’s being protective?” she laughed. “On his boat, I was looking for a towel and found a drawer full of swimsuits, bras, underwear—you name it. Every size, from mini string bikinis to double X-L. Huge, you know? Almost bloomer styles that a woman in her sixties might wear. I’m not criticizing, understand. Phil’s seventeen years older than me. Who cares about age?”

  I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. My frozen smile was a reminder not to do anything stupider than I already had in the last twenty-four hours.

  So I asked the girl about her parents. There was an immediate mood shift. Her father was enjoying what might be his last few weeks of remission. It was a bittersweet time. Delia’s mother had booked a cabin near Asheville where they’d honeymooned almost thirty years earlier.

  “He can’t stand the heat this time of year,” she explained. “It’s terrible to say, Doc—I love them both, I truly do—but I needed a break. That’s why I’m spending a few days here. For the last six months, since Dad started going downhill, Mom and I took turns looking after him. Us and a nurse. We all know what happens next—home hospice.” Her voice caught. “Life can be so damn unfair, you know?”

  I switched to a lighter topic. “How’re plans for the reunion going?”

  Delia told me that four of her seven bio sibs had already committed to a gathering the week before Labor Day. Mack had offered a special rate for the cottages. Tomlinson was all for it, but she was still concerned about their kidnapper, Jayden Griffin. If he and Deville were not the same person, the guy was still out there.

  “What I suggested,” Delia continued, “is that we rent a trawler or a big houseboat. There’s a marina in St. Pete that rents both. I’d prefer a sailboat, of course. But something that size would require a crew, and my bio sibs aren’t sailors.”

  She mentioned two names that were becoming familiar. There was Imogen, from Arizona, and the minister from North Carolina, Chester. The three of them had become the planning committee.

  “An overnight for eight people, max, should do it. Inshore, never far from land,” she said. “If the chemistry’s not right, we’ll cut it short and say At least we tried. Imogen’s the wild one, she’s fully stoked and all in. Chester, he’s a lot more conservative. Know what’s been fun? Finding out how much we have in common. Totally a genetic link. The whole nurture-versus-nature deal. Seriously, it’s not what our prof preached in psych class.”

  A mile down the road, the Grin-N-Bare-It signage at Mack’s cottages had been changed to

  PLAYA DEL TEMPTATION

  AN INTERNET-FREE REFUGEE

  Syntax and spelling suggested that Figgy had lent a paintbrush and his creative hand. My headlights swept across several cars with out-of-state plates, each cabin with its own sandy parking space. Not bad, for this time of year. Apparently, the no-internet angle had produced results.

  “Which cottage?”

  Delia pointed to the last one on the left, set off by itself among mango trees. No lights. I parked but left the truck running. “Where’s your car?”

  Back at the marina, she explained. “I can get it in the morning. The idea of coming here alone was sort of spooky, this time of night . . . Another nacho?”

  I declined. She munched, in no hurry to get out, and returned to the subject of the Bahamas. When was I going? Where? For how long? She was a lip-reader, I had to remind myself. Then asked again, “Is that where you found the gold? What I don’t understand is, why do you have to melt it down? Or maybe I shouldn’t ask about that either.”

  My responses were as polite as they were vague.

  I noted a girlish awkwardness when she continued, “Thing is, my parents will be in Asheville for another eight days. I’m . . . Well . . .” Her face, in half-light, turned toward me. “I’d like to go . . . as a diver . . . your assistant . . . whatever . . . There’s not a boat I can’t learn to handle, and I can take care of myself. With that bad arm of yours, you’ll need an assistant.” Her tone switched to caregiver mode. “No strings. And there’s no shame in needing help.”

  No strings? No idea what she meant, so I asked her to explain. As she tried, I looked for cars with out-of-state plates. A few gooseneck lamps, old-style, were a new addition to the walkway that wound across the grounds. Those, with the help of a high white moon, helped identify an SUV from the Tar Heel State and one car, possibly two, from Georgia. For a clearer look, I cranked down my window.

  “Did you hear what I said?” Delia asked after a long silence.

  “Uhh . . . sure. About the Bahamas, yeah,” I responded.

  “Fine,” she said, miffed.

  Clearly, I had not been listening.

  I took a last look at the vehicles, then consulted my watch. “It’s late,” I said. “Mind if I come in for a minute?”

  The question startled the girl. What did not compute was her eager nod. We got out. I asked for the key. She followed me into the cabin through a creaky door. A wall switch illuminated gaudy rattan furniture. I went to the tiny kitchen and searched. A folding door revealed a food larder. The next closet contained a washer-dryer combo and spare sheets.

  “If you’re looking for beer, it’s in the fridge,” she said. “Or how about a glass of wine? But first . . .” She switched off the kitchen’s bright neon in favor of a soft coffee table lamp. “There, that’s better. Do you prefer red or white?”

  I nodded toward an open door down the hall. “Is that the bedroom?”

  Again, she was startled. “Uhh . . . Or we could split a bottle of water, if you’re in a rush.”

  “Mind if I take a look?”

  “Fine . . . Wait. Hold on, I don’t think I made the bed.” The girl hurried ahead of me. When I came in, she
was holding balled-up towels and the top of a swimsuit—or a bra, possibly. I pretend not to notice. She watched me go into the bathroom and throw the shower curtain back, then open the closet. Next, I searched under the bed.

  “All clear,” I said, out of habit.

  “What’s clear?” she demanded. “It might be clear to you, but it’s not to me. How many beers did you say you had?”

  “Three,” I said, “but I’ll take one for the road. It’s been kind of a tough day.”

  “The road? What do you mean? You’re not leaving.”

  “I won’t get any work done in the morning if I don’t,” I said. “Bolt the door and use the chain. You’ll be fine.”

  Delia dropped the ball of laundry on the floor. She did a slow side step to block my passage. “Marion, you’re still not paying attention. I want you to stay.”

  There were a couple of ways to interpret this, but I chose to respond, “Oh, that’s too bad, but I understand.”

  “My god, I would hope so. Wait—what do you mean too bad?”

  I said, “That you don’t feel safe here. The only reason you’d want me to stay is because of Deville.”

  “No . . . I mean, yes.” Now the girl was embarrassed. “Why else would I . . .”

  “How about we sit down and talk for a while?” I suggested.

  “Sure, why not?” she answered. Her attitude had changed, as in, To hell with it, I don’t care one way or the other. Next came sarcasm. “We can talk about your kid, or the fishing guide you’re apparently in love with, and I can bitch about Phil. We’ll be drunk buddies, right?”

  Delia’s icy manner warmed halfway through a glass of wine. And that’s the way it turned out. We became friendly confidants after a quiet hour, voices low, and some nice moments of laughter.