Salt River

by Randy Wayne White

  Tomlinson came in, saying, “She’ll only freak worse if she sees Doc. Trust me”—he gave Chester a pat on the shoulder—“I’ve dealt with this too many times to count. Talk the freaking souls down gently, that’s the key.”

  “Hold on,” I said. Next to the microwave was a fire extinguisher. I snapped it free. “Take this just in case,” I told him, and he went clumping up the stairs.

  The Coast Guard response vessel was still several hundred yards away, coming toward us. “The first thing they’ll ask,” I said to Chester, “is, do you have weapons aboard? That will take up a whole lot of time. But they’ve got no reason to check my boat. So what’s our smartest move, you think?” I extended my hand, palm up.

  To my relief, the former Marine agreed with a shrug. He cleared his pistol and handed it to me butt first. Next came the magazine. I locked both of our guns beneath the console of the Pathfinder, then returned to the houseboat and asked about Delia.

  “She’s the one who felt it first,” he said. “They ate pizza on the way out—her, too, I guess, while she was topside driving. After we anchored, we met down here as a group.” He indicated a sitting area inside. “I had something important to say. I was telling them the hardest part. And she . . . Well, I’d already told Imogen, which was a big mistake. Then Delia got this weird look on her face. She started to panic, then Carlton puked. It was like dominoes after that. That’s when I knew what my sister had probably done.”

  “Your sister?” Until then, I thought I’d understood Donald’s message about multiple births. “They’re both your half sisters.”

  Chester shook his head no, and his attention shifted to what we would soon have to deal with.

  On the Coast Guard vessel, a spotlight flared and began to search. The duty officer used the PA to identify herself and asked if there was a Rev. Pickett aboard. Together, Chester and I waved the Coasties in. We were very busy for the next hour. A medic with a red gear bag came aboard, demanding, “Where are they?”

  I led him up the spiral staircase into a bizarre tableau of tiny staterooms, doors open, and a party deck. There, Carlton and two other men sat in their own upchuck. They had their arms around each other, giggling, as they stared at a bank of guttering candles.

  Behind us, Tomlinson exited a room and summoned the medic. “In here. She’s the worst, I think,” he called. “She might need to be medevaced.”

  He sounded panicked. And I was starting to panic, too.

  I got to the door first. Imogen lay on the bed, breathing, but deathly pale. My friend had turned the woman on her side to prevent aspiration. “Delia?” I asked, “Where is she?”

  Now I was worried that Delia had possibly leaped from the top deck. But no, she was in the captain’s suite, curled up in the closet-sized shower she had used that afternoon. There were more candles. I put them out and carried her to the bed. At first, she battled me. Then her eyes focused, but they were terror-crazed. “Oh, Marion, I tried and tried,” she wept. “We’re all crazy . . . I don’t blame you for not wanting me.”

  I pulled the woman close and made comforting noises. There was a long wait for the ceiling fan roar of a helicopter. A pair of EMTs in jumpsuits arrived. While they worked on Delia, they reassured me. Before they made me leave, I noticed writing inside the shower stall done with a Sharpie—a whole wall of cryptic figures.

  Math problems.

  On the aft deck, Chester was thumping his can of Skoal. I told him what I’d been told—Delia and the others would be okay. Imogen, though, would have to be airlifted. Tomlinson had found an empty bottle of Ambien next to her bed.

  “My sister couldn’t handle what her conscience wouldn’t let her do,” the minister reasoned softly, then explained.

  He, Imogen, and Alonso Arkham—a brother they had never met—were triplets. They’d been separated at birth by a disappointed couple who had demanded a refund from Mensal Cryonics. That was the tough news he’d had to share with Imogen. The psychedelic mushrooms, Pickett believed, was her misguided attempt to provide a bonding experience. When the night started to go terribly wrong, he told me, Imogen had freaked and overdosed on pills.

  “I don’t want Tomlinson to know,” he added. “Not about what I think Imogen tried to do, but the other part. It’s not his fault some rich people chose some guy named Deville from a catalog.”

  Touched by this good man’s kindness, I replied, “As far as I’m concerned . . .” and let the sentence trail off.

  He understood.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  That autumn, blocks of time passed by unnoticed—and they were good times indeed. I worked at being a responsible father. Days when Hannah chartered, I was there. Nights, too, when she would allow me to stay. This ended when we came close to reconsummating what had been a crazed chemical attraction.

  Close. That’s all.

  The celebrated fishing guide had been plied with a glass of wine. I had sent her mother, Loretta, to the guest cottage with a smuggled freshly rolled joint. The village of Gumbo Limbo was decorated for Halloween. It was a black, windy night with a moon. Hannah, in my arms, had caught herself just before teetering over the physical brink.

  “Marion . . . stop. I’m dating someone and you know it. I can’t do something that I won’t do with . . . Please . . .”

  Do with him. This was implied—that damn respectable orthodontist again. The widower. The saint with the medical ministry.

  While the woman gathered her blouse and bra, I had risked an ultimatum.

  “Darling, I’m the father of our son. You’ve got to make up your mind.”

  Hannah is one of the independent ones.

  She did—a third refusal to marry me.

  That winter, the flow of day to day was interrupted by a few memorable parties, a booming holiday season, and a second reunion of the bio siblings in late December. The event was held in St. Pete at the Vinoy Hotel. I didn’t attend. Five additional Tomlinson heirs did attend, along with the original seven, including Imogen.

  Why are you avoiding me? Delia had demanded in a voicemail message from the bar. Doc, you can’t just go off and disappear.

  Actually, disappearing is part of my trade. On that night, I’d been packing to leave Nassau. As Morris Berg, I had spent several days brokering a deal with an all-too-eager Rayvon Darwin. Revenge is not part of my trade. Nor is exacting justice.

  But Delia was right. I was avoiding her. The girl’s persistent phone calls, her unexpected visits to the lab, had become too much to deal with. We had been confidants, not lovers—aside from one single and all-too-memorable kiss.

  Even my tattered sense of morality knew that such a relationship was wrong. I feared that Delia’s determined dependency on me, a much older man, was an unhealthy tangent that might stunt the future she deserved.

  Or so I told myself. This rationalization became a handy excuse to escape to the Bahamas and tie up loose ends.

  Five days after I left Nassau, Rayvon was intercepted at Palm Beach and charged with drug trafficking by U.S. customs. They’d found ten kilos of cocaine in a bogus diplomatic pouch. The drugs had been paid for in advance with untraceable gold ingots.

  My conscience was clear. As Tomlinson had said, when big money is involved, even the best people can turn dangerous. This was a warning that I repeated to my pal on a cold, windy night in January, a few weeks after the party in St. Pete. We were alone in the parking lot and had just returned from the rum bar. Down the shoreline, the marina was buttoned up, the temperature a frigid fifty-some degrees.

  “They know you plan to leave them a bundle in your will,” I said. “And I still don’t trust Imogen. What makes you think she’s not lining up a bunch of deadbeats to take advantage of your millions?”

  I blew into my hands for warmth. The marina’s Christmas lights gave the illusion that it might snow. I was eager to get going. Via text, Hannah had requested tha
t I deactivate the lab’s alarm system so she could wait for me inside, but I wanted to impress upon my friend the danger he was inviting.

  Unlike me, Tomlinson’s idea of “personal protection” did not require a holster.

  He replied, “I don’t care if they take advantage. That’s what I want to do—give every penny away. Doc, you don’t appreciate the big picture. This all fits in with my ultimate goal—to one day disappear without a trace. Like, you know, man”—his fingers opened to illustrate a wisp of smoke—“just vanish without ties of any sort. You’d have to study Buddhism to understand.”

  I countered, “What did the Buddha have to say about getting robbed some dark night by a methhead who claims you’re his biological father?”

  “Oh, the big guy was all over that,” Tomlinson assured me. “Uhh”—he turned inward for proof—“people can only lose what they cling to. How’s that? Or, wait, this one’s better. When you realize how perfect life really is, you will tilt your head back and laugh at the sky.”

  My pal did just that. Threw his head back and laughed.

  “Give Capt. Hannah a big kiss from me,” he added, walking away.

  “Unlikely,” I said, “but I’ll try.”

  The path to my lab tunneled through mangroves to the water. Dinkin’s Bay was a windy mirror of stars. My stilthouse, a genial silhouette, cast a rickety reflection. Hannah’s boat was moored there. Window lights showed dimly in the cabin, and I could smell woodsmoke.

  She had lit a fire. I had insisted that she drive my brand-new pickup truck home because it was too damn cold, after her all-day charter, to return across the sound in a boat. Loretta and the new nanny were taking care of Izaak, so there was no reason for Hannah to rush home. Perfect.

  Yes, I had ulterior motives. Yes, I had purchased a bottle of wine. And yes, I had loaned out my stinky, bullheaded dog for the night to her nephew, Luke.

  The warning gong had been deactivated, so I called, “Hello, the house!” as I crossed the boardwalk.

  There was no need for a response. And I didn’t expect one.

  I went merrily up the steps. The cabin door was shut tight against the cold. I straightened the collar of my jacket. With a cupped hand, I tested the minty scent of the gum I was chewing. The gum needed to go. And so did I.

  Rather than waste this private moment, I unzipped my pants and walked to the railing. Nice stars to gaze upon on this winter night. The gum had been jettisoned, and I was in midstream, when the door behind me opened.

  “I’m writing your initials,” I joked over my shoulder. “Done in a minute.”

  “Marion!” Hannah’s voice screamed from inside. “He’s got a gun!” This blended with the bang of the screen door crashing open.

  I spun. A huge silhouette was there, coming toward me, arms extended as if about to pull a trigger, the glint of a chrome gun barrel visible. My response required no thought. Muscle memory. It had been hardwired into my brain during close quarters combat drills, over many years and many tens of thousands of rounds fired under stress.

  Holstered against the small of my back was the little 9mm Sig Sauer pistol. The pistol was up, level, and locked in my hands. Trigger pressed soundlessly. A double tap—pop-pop—two shots fired, yet I heard nothing, my attacker so close that a chunk of his skull stung my face.

  Jesus Christ. “Hannah!” I yelled. “Are you hurt? Where are you?” Gun ready, I moved sideways, my eyes seeking threats to the right and left.

  No one there. Just me and a grizzly-sized body at my feet. A man. Black boots. BDU military pants. A black leather motorcycle jacket. His left leg spasmed, contracted, then lay still. The back of the man’s head was gone.

  The porch lights came on, and there was Hannah, holding a kitchen knife, ready to come to my rescue. “My god,” she whispered, staring. “Oh dear Jesus, is he . . . Do you know him?”

  I rushed to her. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

  “No . . . Well, I don’t think so. He came in just now, less than a minute ago. I thought it was you. I tried to make him . . . But he had a gun.” She looked at me, then averted her eyes.

  With a finger, I tilted the woman’s face to get a better look. Her cheek was starting to swell, the skin already bruising. “What did he hit you with? Did he—”

  Hannah pulled away. “Doc . . . we’ve got to do something. Is he . . . Do you think . . . Oh my god, he has to be dead. Who is he?”

  It was Rayvon Darwin. A nickel-plated revolver, large-caliber with ivory grips, lay nearby. As Leo, the IRS agent, had said, Ray was dangerous. And he liked shiny objects. Leo . . . I wondered if the man was still alive after revealing my true identity?

  I said to Hannah, “You can’t be any part of this. Listen to me! Take my . . . No, take your boat and get out of here.”

  “Absolutely not!”

  “You have to.”

  I had shifted into plausible deniability mode. If I called the police now, the mother of my son would have to give evidence. Later, Bahamian attorneys might be allowed to hammer at her testimony. And there was my own future to consider. Why had a decorated Nassau customs agent come gunning for a low-profile marine biologist?

  I paused. I looked toward the mangroves. Beyond was parked the very expensive Ford Raptor truck that I had ordered in June on a lark. Submerged beneath the dock lay more than two hundred pounds of stolen gold.

  “Turn out the porch lights,” I decided. “Let’s calm down first and get some ice for your face.” I was thinking, Maybe no one heard the shots.

  Inside, I put a kettle on for tea. Hannah couldn’t sit still. She paced, she fretted—an unnerving sight—a frightened woman with an ice bag to her cheek. I said, “The smartest thing for you to do is to go home.” We argued about it back and forth. “Forget everything,” I insisted. “Pretend you weren’t here and let me take care of it.”

  “You’re going to lie to the police?”

  My silenced caused her to stop pacing. “Doc . . . you are going to call the police?”

  I nodded vaguely and shrugged. It had been twenty-five minutes since I’d fired two rounds. No sirens. No sudden flare of lights at the marina on this cold, cold windy night.

  Now on my mind was the vehicle that had carried Rayvon to my doorstep. A motorcycle, I hoped.

  I plopped down in the reading chair of my tiny library—the best place to think. Hannah came closer, knelt, and put her hands on my knees. “Marion, please! Why did that man come here to kill you? My Lord, after all we’ve been through, you still don’t trust me?”

  Maybe it was time, I decided, to trust someone other than myself.

  “If he came here on a motorcycle,” I said, “I’m not going to call the police. To tell you anything else would be stupid. Hannah, darling”—I touched her face gently—“go home to our son. Please, pretend this never happened.”

  Why do most people find the concept so difficult to embrace?

  But Hannah Smith was not most people. I watched her eyes widen, then narrow, cat-like, with understanding. “You’re going to hide his body?” she whispered. “Marion, you’d better have a damn good reason.”

  “I do,” I replied. “I’ve got four million dollars’ worth of reasons hidden under this house. In gold. All stolen.”

  “Holy shitfire,” Hannah murmured. Fear had vanished. She was a practical person who had not lived an easy life. It was time to get up and pace again. “Loretta got away with worse,” she reasoned after a while. “I guess we can, too.”

  The decision was made. She took my hand and pulled me up. “Come on. Hurry. Check the parking lot for his motorcycle. I’ll grab some bags and start cleaning.”

  It was 3 a.m. when we started across the bay in my heavily laden boat. We rode in a determined silence until the mounds of Gumbo Limbo came into view, the citrus grove with its buried secrets out back.

  Hannah huddle
d close to my shoulder. She was wrapped in a blanket on this frigid night. Suddenly, as if startled, she pulled the blanket away and remarked, “Doc, know what I just realized? Oh my Lord, honey—now I guess I have to marry you.”

  The celebrated fishing guide didn’t sound too thrilled with the idea.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Randy Wayne White is the author of the Doc Ford series; the Hannah Smith novels; and four collections of nonfiction. He lives on Sanibel Island, Florida, where he was a light-tackle fishing guide for many years, and spends much of his free time windsurfing, playing baseball, and hanging out at Doc Ford's Rum Bar & Grille.

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