by Debbie Burke
Tawny squinted. “Isn’t that…?”
“Yeah,” Tillman said.
Gabriel’s two henchmen, soaking and muddy, slogged along the riverbank and disappeared into the trees.
The bright beam from the roof turned off. A few seconds later, a biker appeared from around the corner of the building. He flipped his flashlight in a wave at Tawny and Tillman. “Guess the gators weren’t hungry,” he said then went inside the bar.
She slid her hand into Tillman’s. “Parrot meant business when he said he didn’t like strangers causing a ruckus.”
“Good thing he likes you. Even gave you extra ice.”
Insects chirped in the dark marsh. Humidity still hung heavy in the air but the temperature had dropped into the eighties. Below the dock, waves lapped against several motorboats tied to pilings. A glowing ember passed between a couple sitting in one boat, the smell of weed rising in the air.
Tawny leaned against the railing. “I’ve been thinking about something Nyala said.”
“What’s that?”
“Could he have fled by boat?”
“Into the middle of a hurricane? Doesn’t sound very smart and Smoky isn’t stupid.”
“But he’s desperate.”
He rocked slightly. “It’s possible.”
“He told me how much he liked being at sea, the salt air, the freedom, the peace.”
Tillman pulled on his chin. “If so, we’ll never find him. Unless his body washes ashore.”
The grim vision pinched Tawny’s gut. Finding the dead deer at the lake had been unpleasant. She didn’t want to imagine Tillman’s old friend like that.
Despite Tillman’s matter-of-fact tone, she knew if Smoky died, it would hit him hard. But to be left wondering forever if he was dead or alive would haunt Tillman without mercy.
Unfinished, unknown, unsettled.
She clasped his hand between both of hers and brought it to her lips for a long moment while she wracked her brain. “Should we start checking marinas?”
He snorted. “Yeah, we’ll go door to door. Hi, are you missing a boat that disappeared during the hurricane? That’s like asking a Montana rancher with a half-million acres, say, are you missing a cow?”
She sighed. He was right, of course. “Maybe we’re going at it from the wrong direction. How did he leave the house? You had his T-bird. Unless he had another car stashed somewhere, he’d be on foot. And he couldn’t have walked very far, right?”
“Hell, even in the car, I was fighting to make headway in ninety-mile-an-hour wind and rain.”
“So,” Tawny mused, “he had to call somebody to pick him up.”
“I found his phone under the mattress after Gabriel’s buddies tossed the place. The only recent calls in the log were to my cell when we were coming from the airport.”
“Just his phone? Not the pouch he kept it in? That Faraday bag to block tracking?”
“Phone only.” Tillman pondered a few seconds. “He probably had a second burner phone. Left the first behind, used the second to call someone then put it in the Faraday bag, and took it with him. No way to trace it.”
“Which brings us back to his address book,” Tawny said. “Who did he trust enough to call?”
“The three women I talked to didn’t sound like they knew anything. One said she’d told Smoky never to call her again because she was patching things up with her husband, didn’t want him suspicious. Sounded like she’d washed her hands of Ol’ Smoke.”
“So, we start calling the rest of his friends.”
“Until our phones run out of charge.”
Tawny heaved a sigh. “Living in the dark ages sucks.
Chapter 9 – Scent Object
Day three without electricity dawned hot and humid again. Tawny’s peeling sunburn was shedding like lizard skin. Growing stubble darkened Tillman’s face. Their clothes felt stiff, crusty, and smelled like a boys’ middle school gym.
While Tawny cooked eggs on the barbecue, Tillman sat on the back steps and used a putty knife to scrape God-knows-what from his sneakers.
“We’re going to contract jungle rot,” he muttered, “wearing shoes that never dry out.”
“Typhoid will kill us first.” She plucked toasted bread slices from the grill and turned off the fire. “Hope the propane holds out until the power comes back on.”
The jingle of dog tags caused them to look out in the back yard. Jessica’s black Lab galloped around the brush pile, spotted Tawny, and beelined for her, pink tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.
This time, she was prepared, lifting her knee to block the dog from jumping on her. “Down, Churro.” He wagged his tail and bounced on his toes. She pinched a scrap of scrambled egg and showed it to him. “Sit.” His butt hit the ground instantly. “Be gentle.” She offered him the egg, which he nibbled with a soft mouth. “Good boy.” She ruffled his velvety ears.
“Who’s this?” Tillman asked, rising.
Churro lumbered over and plunged his nose hard into Tillman’s crotch.
He jumped back. “Whoa, easy on the family jewels.”
“Churro!” Jessica’s voice rang out from a distance. Seconds later, she came running from next door. “Churro, bad dog! Don’t run away!”
The dog smiled, wagged his tail, then faced Tawny and plopped his butt on the ground again, staring hopefully at the eggs.
She held the pan out of reach. “Jessica, this is Tillman. Remember I told you the other day that Smoky used to be his coach?”
The girl looked nervous, craning her neck up at the towering man, but Tillman squatted low and offered his hand. “Hi, Jessica. I have a son about your age.”
She tentatively took his hand. “Is he as big as you?”
“Not yet, but he’s growing.”
Tawny’s heart warmed at the uncharacteristic softness in his deep voice. She said, “Jessica is training her dog to search for lost people.”
The girl brightened. “Did you find Smoky yet?”
Tillman shook his head.
“Well, me and Churro will help you. It’ll be good practice for him.”
“That’s a great idea,” Tawny said.
Tillman straightened and rolled his eyes at Tawny, out of Jessica’s sight. The rambunctious pup had made a lousy first impression.
Jessica’s tone turned earnest. “First thing, you have to give him a scent object.”
“What’s that?” Tawny asked.
“Something that smells like Smoky. Y’know, like dirty socks or underwear.”
Tawny and Tillman exchanged a look. “There’s plenty of dirty socks around here,” he said wryly, “but they don’t belong to Smoky.”
“Well, see if you can find something. Then seal it in a baggie and give it to me. Churro sticks his nose in the bag, gets a big sniff, and I tell him to go find Smoky.”
“OK, we’ll look.” Tillman winked at Tawny. “Now, it’s time for our breakfast. See you later.”
The girl and dog skipped off.
Tillman held the door as Tawny carried the eggs and toast into the kitchen. “Her heart’s in the right place,” she said.
He rolled his eyes again. “Shee-it. And you gave that damn dog some of my eggs.”
After breakfast, Tillman called his office in Billings while Tawny worked through the names in Smoky’s address book. An hour later, she’d reached almost every listing, her cell battery had dropped to twenty percent, but no one knew anything about Smoky.
Discouraged, she went into the bathroom to slather more aloe on her face. The sunburn pain had decreased but peeling skin itched down her arms and legs. She sighed at the pile of dirty clothes on the floor. This morning, she’d put on her last clean panties. Because they conserved water only for necessities, the bathtub remained half full. Maybe she’d splurge on a bucketful to do laundry.
She heard a knock at the door and came out of the bathroom to find Tillman talking with Raul. Tillman looked elated as he clapped the neighbor on the shoulder. “Th
at’s great. I’ll follow you.” He lifted his chin toward Tawny. “Shipment of generators just arrived at Raul’s store. We’re heading out to get one.”
“Wonderful! Muchas gracias, Raul.” Gratitude overwhelmed her.
Raul shrugged apologetically. “They only send us small generators, like suitcases. Not much capacity. They run a refrigerator and TV but not big enough for the air conditioner or water heater.”
“A refrigerator is a huge luxury.” A luxury that almost dissolved Tawny to tears. The strain of the past several days caught up with her. She sank into a chair and bit her quivering lip.
Raul said, “Maybe I ask you to keep some food for Jessica and me until the power comes back on. It’s hard to get enough ice for the cooler.”
“Of course.” Her voice choked. “Whatever you want.”
“I leave soon.” Raul flicked his hand goodbye and headed outside.
Tillman gazed down as tears welled in Tawny’s eyes. She buried her face in his belly and hugged him tight. He laid a light hand on her shoulder. “If I’d known you’d get this excited about a refrigerator, I’d have bought you one a long time ago.”
She laughed through sniffles then turned her face up to him. “Raul said he wanted a generator but he’s saving his money to send to his wife who’s stuck in Puerto Rico.”
He stroked her hair. “In that case, I’ll pick up two, one for us and one for him.”
She rose and hugged his neck. “You’re sweet.”
“No, I’m not. I’m an asshole.” He held her, rocking gently. “When I called the office, I told Esther to pay you a hazardous duty bonus.”
“If you keep doing nice things, you’ll never convince me you’re an asshole.”
He leaned away. “Raul’s probably waiting for me to follow him. Want to go?”
She shook her head. “No, generators are guy things. I’ll stay here and do girl things like wash clothes.”
“No starch in my underwear.”
She mock-punched his hard belly.
***
Tawny scrubbed mud-caked socks, filthy shorts, and t-shirts in a bucket of soapy water that quickly turned brown. She squeezed them out and rinsed them in a second bucket. When delivery trucks could run again and stores were restocked, she resolved to buy new clothes and throw away these dingy, stained ones. She hung them over the shower rod to dry.
In Smoky’s room, she tackled the mess Gabriel’s men had left. In a tipped-over wicker laundry hamper, she ran across socks and remembered Jessica’s request. Doing a quick sniff test, she found the grimiest sock. Holding it between two fingers, she went to the kitchen and sealed it in a baggie then washed her hands.
Back in Smoky’s bedroom, she hung up Hawaiian shirts that had been ripped out of the closet and searched through duffels and boxes. What were Gabriel’s men looking for? She gathered scattered magazines that had been yanked from a bookcase. She flipped through pages of baseball history books and sports physiology texts, searching for hints. Finding nothing, she replaced them on the shelves.
What did the old coach have that Gabriel wanted so badly?
Smoky admitted to a gambling addiction and implied he owed money to Gabriel. Yet the strange, smiling man in the fedora had rebuffed Tillman’s offer of cash to settle the debt.
As her fingers fluttered through a magazine, a full-page ad made her pause. It featured sports memorabilia and collectibles, like trading cards, autographed game balls, and World Series rings. The company also offered full-service auctions, appraisals, and authentication.
She thumbed through, finding more ads for similar businesses. Gabriel had mentioned he operated a sport memorabilia business. Was his shop featured in one of these ads?
She carried the magazine to the coffee table in the living room where she opened Tillman’s laptop. Wearing her readers, she typed on the search bar: “Sports memorabilia business in Florida, Gabriel Marquez Garcia.” Pages of listings appeared. Slowly, she pored through but his name didn’t appear in any of them. Odd. It was almost impossible to fly below the radar without popping up somewhere in Google.
She continued to search for a business name, a location, any thread that might lead to the mysterious, well-dressed man in the fedora. Nothing obvious jumped out.
She scanned Smoky’s address book again, looking for Gabriel’s name. Nothing. But she did find a pencil notation for Sports of Yesteryear. She entered the name and phone number on the search bar and tapped enter.
Images of old team photos and hundreds of historical news articles about sports were listed from the early 1900s to the 1990s. She scrolled through. On the seventh page, she found a business named Sports of Yesteryear in St. Petersburg. The address yielded a street-view photo of a small storefront secured behind folding burglar bars. She clicked on it.
Interior pictures of the store showed glass display cabinets of collector cards and autographs in plastic sleeves. Players’ jerseys hung on the walls. Off to one side, the camera had inadvertently caught a man crouched over a box, apparently unpacking it.
His build looked familiar. Tawny zoomed in for a close-up. Although his face was fuzzy, she made out his features.
One of Gabriel’s bodyguards. The big guy who’d kicked Smoky’s ribs.
This had to be Gabriel’s business.
She went to the Florida Secretary of State website and searched business registrations for Sports of Yesteryear. The corporation showed as inactive, with a different address. Its last annual report had been filed four years earlier.
When she scrolled down to the registered agent’s name, her breath caught.
Nyala Obregon.
Smoky’s landlady and sometimes girlfriend. How did she connect to Gabriel?
She googled “Nyala Obregon.” Few women had similar names. She found an address in Land O’Lakes, Florida. Following that trail led to a real estate broker’s license, tax statements for several properties in New Port Richey, and a Facebook page with photos of the cool, attractive woman.
When Tillman returned, he’d have hard questions for Ms. Nyala.
In the kitchen, Tawny dropped a few precious ice cubes into sun tea and drank a tall glass. Through the window, she spotted Jessica next door in the yard, throwing a stick with Churro eagerly retrieving it.
Tawny grabbed Smoky’s sock and carried it outside. “Jessica,” she called and held up the baggie.
The girl ran to her, long legs graceful, the dog bounding beside her. “Is that the scent article?”
“Yes.” Tawny handed the baggie over. “No school?”
Jessica shook her head. “Still closed. Churro and me will work on finding Smoky today because, if the electricity comes back on, I have to go to school tomorrow.”
She ordered the dog to sit, opened the baggie, and held it to his nose. “That’s Smoky’s sock. Smell it.” Churro snuffled, tail wagging. She resealed the bag and stared into his eyes. “Go find Smoky.”
The dog zigzagged around the yard, nose to the ground. He paused and looked back at Jessica then galloped toward the lake, tail high. He stopped abruptly, sniffed, and pawed the dirt. Soon he was digging, throwing up muddy clods. Then he flopped down and rolled on his back, twisting this way and that.
Jessica heaved a big sigh. “He’s probably rubbing in poop. Disgusting habit he has.”
Tawny pressed her lips together and kept silent. She didn’t want to discourage the girl’s aspirations but Churro didn’t show much promise as a tracker.
“Smoky keeps a little fishing boat at the other end of the lake,” Jessica said. “He likes to go out to the Gulf and catch flounder. I’m gonna take Churro and see if the boat’s still there. Maybe Churro can pick up Smoky’s scent.”
“How does he get from the lake to the Gulf?” Tawny asked.
“The channels around here all connect up to the river. You can get lost easy but if you know the right canal, it takes you out to the Gulf.” She skipped toward the swamp. The dog trotted ahead to the trail that bordered the wate
r’s edge.
As Tawny watched them move into the cypress trees, she remembered the snake she’d nearly stumbled over. She worried about the girl going into the jungle alone. “Jessica, wait!” She hurried to catch up. “Is that a good idea?”
The girl made a face. “Me and Churro explore all the time.”
One missing person was enough for Tawny. “Listen, how about if I go with you?”
“Sure, if you want to.” A shy smile signaled she was happy for Tawny’s interest.
Back home in Montana, Tawny would take her revolver and bear spray on a hike. But she didn’t have either with her to venture into a Florida bog full of unknown dangers. “Might be a good idea to have a weapon.”
“Papi has a machete.”
“Let’s bring that.”
While Jessica ran to her house, Tawny checked her cell. Only fifteen percent charge left. She texted Tillman: Looking for Smoky at lake with Jessica.
The girl came back moments later, swinging a machete like a pirate, the curved blade whooshing through the air.
The reckless slashing made Tawny nervous. “Let me carry that.”
“If you want. It’s kinda heavy.”
“I don’t mind.” Besides, it was much safer in Tawny’s hands than Jessica’s. She grasped the wood handle.
Jessica and Churro scurried ahead, Tawny walking behind. The trail wound around the irregular lake, some areas swampy mud, others spongy duff. After a half mile, they reached a little inlet. Scraps of a collapsed wooden pier floated near the water line, planks bumping the shore.
“This is the dock where Smoky used to tie his boat up, at least what’s left of it,” Jessica said. “Boat’s gone. Maybe Churro can find it.” She opened the baggie and gave the dog another sniff of Smoky’s sock.
Tawny wondered if Smoky had taken the small craft or Irma had blown it away. Seemed crazy to venture out in a hurricane in a boat but walking out of his house during the storm was crazy, too.
Churro lifted his nose high while he paced back and forth along the shoreline. He waded into the lake and began to dog-paddle toward a little island. A tree had fallen on the mud hump, roots splayed in the air.
