Salt River

by Randy Wayne White

  The girl sat back and gave me that look again: Who are you? “Will it come back?”

  “If it does, try the math trick again. Your counselor was right—scary as hell, but it’s a response to false data. Absolutely harmless.”

  She wanted to believe it. “Did you learn this in therapy?”

  “It was more like a class,” I said as an evasion. “Fear management, high-pressure situations, that sort of thing. A practical approach to dealing with panic.”

  “Why would a biologist take a class on fear management?”

  That required a longer conversation. Terms such as breath control and trigger press mode could not be used. We talked on the way back to the hotel. Delia, as a precaution, also calmed herself with an occasional puff of cannabis oil from a vaporizer that she held like a cigarette.

  The doors to the ballroom were open. Inside milled a dozen people, a few with familiar Tomlinson-esque features. “Go have fun,” I said. “I’ll stop back later.”

  “You’d better,” the woman said with emphasis. And a very different type of smile.

  I made a slow lap around the hotel grounds. It was a security measure that also allowed me to skip the inevitable formalities. The group had had an hour to loosen up with a drink or three before I returned. In the corridor was a chair with a view through open double doors into the ballroom. It was an innocuous spot to sit with a Corona and observe before risking an entrance.

  Inside, thirty people mingled, half brothers or sisters, some with their partners in tow. Genetic similarities were not obvious. The partners were easier to pick out. They stood apart, shielding themselves with fixed smiles. A few spun off into small groups of their own. They weren’t part of “the test tube kindred.”

  Gradually, the siblings were separated, most near the bar, where Tomlinson held court. He wore baggy belted slacks and a sea-gray shirt, collar starched. His hair was tied back in a respectable ponytail. There was a lot of laughter, some raucous, most reserved. My pal appeared to be enjoying himself, but I could tell he was struggling emotionally. Around him were men and women, all in their mid- to late twenties, but with whom he had no real connection save for the salted flow of DNA.

  A father orphaned by his past—that was the impression I got. He was the mystic cult hero who had written a book between visits to a sperm bank. Now here he was, live, a brilliant but haggard clown on exhibit.

  The siblings knew the truth. Some resented it. They began to drift away to form their own group in this brightly lit space beneath crystal chandeliers. Among the disenchanted, there were no unifying flags. Expensive business suits mixed with blue-collar Levi’s, sandals, and just-off-the-golf-course attire. A man with bushy blond hair wore a Red Sox cap. A woman with Asiatic features was dressed as if her next stop was the gym.

  Delia sensed trouble. As hostess, she began to ping-pong between the various factions. A red-bearded man in a wheelchair also worked the room—the Baptist minister from North Carolina that I recognized from his church Facebook page. There was a brief, contentious exchange between him and a large woman with hibiscus blossoms woven into her hair—Imogen, I guessed, the holistic medicine practitioner from Arizona.

  Tomlinson realized the vibe was turning sour. He panned the room in desperation, then made a decision. He stood, grabbed two bottles of liquor, and turned them into bells by banging them together.

  The place went silent.

  “I’ve got an announcement to make,” he said. “No . . . Actually, it’s a confession. Let’s get down to the ugly bones of the matter.” Attendees cleared their throats while he struggled for words. “I’m . . . I’m not your father, not really. I never will be, and we all know it. So at least be kind to each other. You want to disagree with someone, choose me because I’m the most disagreeable goofball in this room.”

  Nervous laughter was the response.

  “Look . . . think of me as the guy who happened to live upstream of the great futures I hope you all have. You want the truth? Okay, here it is—I’m a selfish, egocentric asshole. A boat bum who didn’t realize how lucky I could have been all these years.”

  His audience began to warm.

  “I wish I could go back in time and somehow change what I”—my pal began to choke up, so I started into the room while he kept talking—“I really want to somehow make amends. And I’m gonna try, that I promise, in a way your kids and grandkids might appreciate.”

  In the corner of the ballroom, an isolated trio suddenly paid attention.

  “On the other hand,” he continued, “I can’t file this away as just another one of my major-league screwups. Not now. Not after having met you all. My god, I’ve never seen a more beautiful collection of people in my life. You could paint freakin’ Disney World with the far-out auras in this room.” He gazed and grinned.

  Delia, the guy in the Red Sox hat, and a few others smiled back in response.

  Tomlinson continued talking, shared some of the dumb mistakes he’d made in his life. A story about getting lost in a Key West cemetery with an escapee from a Cuban psych ward—Figgy—got a pretty good laugh. Then, tears streaming, he clanged the bottles together again. “No one gets to choose their genetics. But free will gives us other choices. Great choices, and tonight the choice is between rum and tequila. So let’s drink up and have some fun.”

  The speech didn’t win everyone over. Several couples left. But it did get the party started. I joined in for a while. Delia wanted to dance—no thank you. Imogen wanted to debate politics after a snide comment about my clothes and the length of my hair. Up close, she was an oversized woman in a gauzy, gothic gown bejeweled with stars. And she was wearing ruby red heels. Her offer was declined.

  I gravitated to the minister and the guy in the Red Sox cap. I liked them. They were smart. They stood back and took it all in. Chester—“You can drop the ‘Reverend’ stuff,” he instructed me—and Carlton, a financial adviser from Boston. Their questions about Tomlinson were general, at first, then more pointed. Mental health was a concern, since Chester already had a child and Carlton was engaged to be married.

  I told the truth—a polished version—and they seemed to deal with it okay.

  “Guess there’s a bomb of some kind buried in most people’s heads,” the former Marine reasoned with a Carolina accent. “Or maybe some talent, a genius—could be—waiting to pop up like a flower. It’s all about choices, like Daddy Tomlinson just said. That’s the way I see it.”

  The mention of a bomb caught my ear. I also suspected that beneath the minister’s baggy, unbuttoned shirt there might be a gun. A decorated combat vet with a prosthetic arm and a wheelchair had every right to take precautions. Even so, I stuck around until the room was cleared so the bio siblings could meet privately. By then, I was convinced that Chester knew a lot more about his internet kindred than he was willing to share with me, a stranger—a reticence that was protective, not threatening. He’d even come to Imogen’s defense when I had asked about their confrontation.

  “Don’t blame her,” he replied. “That girl’s had a harder time than most of us. She’s got a good heart, I’m hoping, and that’s about all I can say for now.”

  His abruptness did not invite questions.

  At 11, I did another security lap, then jogged up the stairs to my room.

  * * *

  —

  A lively tapping on my door got me out of bed around 1 a.m.—Tomlinson stood there, grinning. “Hermano, did I wake you up?”

  I replied, “Don’t be silly. I had to get up and answer the door anyway.” The irony went right over his head.

  “Staying busy, that’s my ol’ pard. Got anything to drink in here?” He shuffled past me and began rummaging around in the honor bar. “What about ice? You mind calling room service?”

  “How drunk are you?” I was pulling on my shorts in case there were stragglers.

 
“You kidding? I was on my best behavior tonight. Rationed myself to two beers and four tequila shooters. Dude, that Imogen can drink. Challenged me to a chugging contest. No way—not dignified, you know? She’s still down there in the bar with a couple of the staff she took a shine to. What I’m afraid of is, that girl inherited one of my other weaknesses, too.”

  “It’s a long, dangerous list,” I agreed.

  He stood, holding a handful of mini bottles. “Hey, tell room service to bring some kosher salt and a couple of limes, while you’re at it . . . No, have them send it to my suite.” Then fixed me with a pointed look. “She’s in love with you, you know.”

  “Imogen?” The thought made me grimace. “She accused me of being a war criminal. Well, implied it anyway. Those tequila shooters—were you drinking them out of a beer mug?”

  “Not her, numbnuts. Delia. She’s head over heels.” Mini bottles clattered as he placed them on the desk where I’d been studying a chart of Tampa Bay. “I know sensitivity isn’t your strong suit, but have you gone batshit blind, too? The poor kid gets all moony-eyed. I saw the way she pressed up against your arm—you know what I’m talking about. Want me to spell it out? Elbow tit. There, I said it. And it’s damn disgusting, you ask me.”

  “Don’t be crude,” I warned.

  “See?” he said. “There you go again. Doc, you’ve got to stop acting so noble around that girl. A few examples of what a tight-sphinctered dweeb you can be ought to set her straight. Is that too much to ask?” My pal sat on the bed I hadn’t used, slapped at the desk, and caught the phone in midair.

  “She has a crush,” I said. “Nothing has happened. Nothing will.”

  Tomlinson had already moved on. He ordered a bunch of stuff from room service, instructing with a flourish, “That’s right . . . Presidential Suite. Don’t bother knocking, someone might be on the throne. No, using the head, amigo. The toilet.” He hung up and his attention shifted to the chart of Tampa Bay. “What do we have here?”

  “The houseboat party tomorrow night,” I said. The chart had been folded to show a collage of islands off the southern tip of St. Pete. The Skyway Bridge separated the islands from the shipping channel and the bay, with the mouth of the Manatee River to the southeast.

  “I know this area pretty well,” Tomlinson said.

  “Then tell me what you think. Delia wants to run the houseboat—just her and a couple of others aboard—from the Skyway Basin and meet you and the rest of the group here a couple of hours before sunset.” I touched my finger to Madeline Key. “It’s only about four miles. What bothers me is, why leave the dock so late?”

  “You kidding? Hangovers,” Tomlinson replied. “Besides, they don’t want me along. Not really. And I don’t blame them. You and me, we’ll make an appearance, then split.”

  He hunkered closer to the chart. “It’s a great area. Fort De Soto Park—yeah, man. Madeline Key is the entrance. It’s a gunkholing paradise. A thousand acres of some of the most beautiful beaches in the . . . And I don’t know how many islands . . . The kids will really get off on all the places to—”

  I interrupted, “Yeah, but there’s car access from the mainland. A road and a boat ferry. There’ll be RV campers and tents. Not many people this time of year, but still . . .”

  “So?”

  To explain, I opened my laptop to a new chat page that Delia hadn’t mentioned until tonight. Already, the page was loaded with party photos taken earlier in the ballroom. I ignored them and went straight to something else she or Imogen had recently posted.

  “A calendar of events,” I said. “Anyone can go to this page and find out when and where your group is meeting tomorrow afternoon. I didn’t even realize until I got back here.”

  Tomlinson gave it some serious thought. “Deville—yeah, I get it. The worst of my bad seeds—Alonso Arkham. But he’s still in a federal pen somewhere, isn’t he? Unless you know something I don’t.”

  I had yet to hear from my intel pal, Donald Piao Cheng, but I’d kept tabs on Arkham. “They had him at Wildwood Federal—that’s up by Ocala. Yesterday, they shipped him to maximum security in Atlanta. He’s gone for good. You would’ve been notified if there was a problem.”

  Tomlinson relaxed visibly, but agreed, “Still, yeah, potentially bad juju. The calendar of events—it needs to be deep-sixed. Too many prying eyes in this crazy ol’ world.” He glanced up. “Did you try calling Delia?”

  “At this hour?”

  “Why not?” The Zen guru bio dad fumbled around for his phone. He dialed and gave me an adolescent grin as he said to Delia, “Hello, beautiful lady. Are you awake and sober? Well, that’s to be expected. Here—Mr. Excitement wants to speak to you. Say hi to Doc.”

  He pushed the phone into my hands, Delia, already midsentence, saying, “. . . so funny, isn’t it? I was hoping you would call.”

  I replied, “It’s me, Marion, not your . . . Not Tomlinson.”

  “I know. Where’d you disappear to, you strange man? Get your butt up to the Presidential Suite. Really nice marble floors, where, you know, a person can just stretch out and stay nice and cool.”

  Her speech was slurred.

  “It has to do with your new chat page,” I said. “Something needs to be removed, but it can wait until morning, I guess. What time are you leaving for the houseboat?”

  The woman made an unpleasant mewing sound. Then she burped. “Ooooh, yuck. When I get up off the bathroom floor, I guess. Where are you?”

  “In my room,” I said. “You’re not really laying on the floor, are you?”

  “What room number?” she replied.

  “Me? I’m on the second floor. Don’t worry, Tomlinson is on his way.” I pointed my friend toward the door.

  Delia groaned a sleepy groan, asking, “But Doc, how are you going to hold my head out of the toilet from way down there?”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Spend the early-morning hours with a mop, a bucket, and a beautiful female drunk, any diversion at 5 a.m. was a welcome relief after standing guard over a woman who was finally sober enough to no longer be defenseless.

  So I went for a lonely walk—or intended to. But across from the hotel entrance, in the shadows of the park, sat the Baptist minister and former Marine in his wheelchair, unattended.

  It was two hours before sunrise. I would’ve kept going had he not spotted me first.

  “Morning, Chester,” I called out as I approached. “Are you up late or out early?”

  The man waited until I was closer to speak. In the silence of a distant street sweeper, this struck me as odd. He didn’t want to be heard for some reason. Even odder was his response after a quick glance my way. “Morning, Doc,” he said softly in his Carolina drawl. “How’s Sister Delia doing?”

  I was surprised he knew where I’d spent most of the night. “She’ll have a headache,” I said. “I ordered coffee and some tomato juice for her.”

  “V8 and Advil.” He nodded. “Lord, I don’t miss those days—’shrooms and beer used to be my weakness.” I stopped to Chester’s left as he noted my baggy, unbuttoned shirt. “Ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “At the party, I wanted to, but we both know it’s breaking the rules. What are you carrying? Glock woulda been my first guess—until I had a sit down with Tomlinson last night. Now I’m thinking Sig.”

  His attention returned to a dark stretch of sidewalk that separated the park from Van Gogh swirls along the waterfront. Boats were moored there in a grid beneath a gaseous halo cast by the city across the bay, Tampa.

  I answered, “And I’m supposed to say, ‘What makes you think I’m carrying a gun?’ Chester, what are you doing out here at this hour?”

  He had inherited Tomlinson’s gauntness, but his nose was more Lincoln-esque. Up close, facial scarring beneath the beard was more obvious. I wondered if the man had stepped on an IED.
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  “Watching her,” Chester said. Someone had just appeared from the shadows and was walking away. “Come on. Pretend like you’re pushing me.”

  “Well . . . okay.”

  “No, dummy, just pretend. Get your hands off my damn chair.”

  The man pivoted the wheels around and took off in pursuit. I had to trot to keep up. Only two possibilities came to mind—“Is it Imogen? Or did you have a fight with your wife?” I’d gotten only a quick look at his spouse in the ballroom. She was a thin woman with a good smile, but whose outdated clothing had added to her discomfort in an already awkward situation.

  “Mama and me don’t fight,” he hooted. “We’re too busy makin’ love.” Laughter, his voice low. The minister was enjoying himself. Gloves on both hands, he had found a rhythm on the chair’s racing wheels—slap-slap—glide—slap-slap—glide. “Hurry up, Ford.” This went on for a while. Then he hissed, “Okay . . . Stop, stop, stop!”

  The man braked so abruptly, I nearly stumbled into the back of him. We had traveled the length of the park by then.

  It was Imogen. For an instant, a streetlight colored her gown and ruby slippers. She crossed into the shadows, backdropped by the glass wall of a museum. Within a lighted room, an antique biplane was frozen in midair, suspended from the museum’s ceiling. Imogen took a seat on a bench beneath a massive banyan tree as if waiting for the next flight out.

  “Why are you following her?” I whispered.

  “’Cause that girl’s in trouble and my wife’s plane doesn’t leave until seven” was the reply. “Good—see there? She snuck out for a smoke. That’s all.” He made a clucking sound as Imogen lit a cigarette. “Crazy girl, she was all over my butt last night for dipping snuff, yet there she is. Gave me a lecture on vitamins, herbal cures, too—she really is a doctor, you know.”

  Chester sounded genuinely proud. He added, “From what I heard, she took a dislike to you, too, the moment you met, God bless her little heart.”

  Imogen flicked something off her tongue. She crossed her legs and blew smoke toward the stars.