Captiva df-4

by Randy Wayne White

  He was nodding his head, confirming something. "The people I talked to, that's exactly what they said. You're kind of bookish and straighdaced, everything's work work work. No, I can't see the motive. Everybody over there likes you, so why blow up their boats? See, what I'm doing . . . I'm trying to neaten things up, get them straight in my mind. It was bugging me. But the way you told about it—it makes sense now."

  Fine.

  He tried to parry my sudden coolness by being conversational. "You ever get to Central America?"

  "Once or twice."

  "Yeah? I almost went there with my wife on vacation. Costa Rica, Panama, Colombia—one of those cruise ship deals? But all the stuff you read, the violence and stuff. I asked this guy I knew, if we went, should I maybe pack a side arm. He worked for one of the federal agencies. Least, I'm pretty sure he did. Know what he said? He said, 'You take a gun down there, make sure you file off the front sight before you leave. That way, it won't hurt so bad when the guerrillas stick it up your ass!' "

  I had gone to the screen door, was holding it open. "I think of anything else, Detective Jackson, I'll call you."

  "And your buddy—"

  "He'll call you too."

  "Those were his last words; the last thing he said to me. Practically the only thing he said."

  I asked, "What? His name?"

  "His name? He never said his name. Man, he could hardly speak. The ER doctor said the vacuum—from the explosion?—it forced this intense heat down him. His pharynx, his lungs, everything. I know there's perfect symmetry to every event, every little thing that happens, but that is one shitty way to go, man. No, the last thing he said was, 'Take care of Hannah for me.' He told me that. 'Take care of Hannah.' Said it about three times, the name. Hannah. I was holding his hand. By then, the ER doctor said that contact, the risk of infection . . . well ... it just didn't matter."

  Tomlinson was flopped down in the reading chair by the north window. I was on my bed, head propped up with pillows. Crunch & Des, the black marina cat, was down by my feet, projecting enough lazy indifference to create his own space. I had been trying to read my new BioScienceJournal but kept dozing offuntil Tomlinson rapped at the screen door. It was a little before six p.m. The chemical stink of melted fiberglass, charred wood was still in the air.

  "Who's Hannah?"

  Tomlinson shrugged. "Jimmy Darroux's daughter? His wife? I don't know. Maybe his one true love. He didn't say." Tomlinson looked exhausted, shrunken, all the joy sucked out of his eyes. He was wearing green physician's scrubs. Apparently the sarong had seemed out of place in an emergency room, even to him.

  "That's what I was asking you. How did you find out his name?"

  "One of the cops gave me a lift to the marina. Mack told me. A detective told him."

  I got up on an elbow and looked out the window to see if Detective Jackson was still around. There were a few gawkers milling near the site of the fire, but they couldn't stray into the area because of the yellow crime-scene tape. There were a couple of policeman in uniform and a couple of men wearing blue windbreakers, ATF in white letters on the back. The feds. But no one wearing a green, checked sports coat like Jackson's.

  "Did Mack also tell you the guy probably blew himself up with his own bomb? That's what the police are working on. He was a commercial fisherman, probably mad about the net ban. That mullet boat you and I heard—they found it tied over in the mangroves. He'd apparently waded in, had the flats boats targeted. They got his name through the registration."

  Tomlinson put his face in his hands and made a wincing noise, like pain.

  "That poor, poor fool."

  "Jimmy Darroux isn't getting much sympathy around here. Two of the guides are out of business because of him. Nelson and Felix both. They'd just gotten those boats, a new Parker and a Hewes. The one just like mine."

  "He was carrying the bomb?"

  "I don't know. Carrying it, trying to put it someplace. That's what they're working on."

  "But they're not sure."

  "They didn't confide in me, but it's not that hard to figure out, Tomlinson. Renegade commercial guys have been vandalizing marinas up and down the coast, stealing engines, electronics. Setting boats on fire, trying to even the score. They blame the sportfishermen for pushing the vote."

  "Revolution, man, right on. That's how it starts. I thought they'd been stealing stuff just for the cash."

  They'd been doing that, too.

  Tomlinson paused. "So now I've got to find Hannah."

  It took a moment for it to register—Darroux's last words. "If he and Hannah were close, I'm surprised she didn't show up at the ER."

  "I told you, no one knew who he was. By the time I left, they still didn't know. If they did, they didn't tell me."

  "So, you find her, what are you going to do?"

  "I don't know—ride the Karmic Highway. Nothing happens by accident, man. There's no such thing as coincidence. I ended up with Jimmy Darroux for a reason. At first, I thought it was to heal him. Use my hands to fill him full of universal energy, take away the pain—"

  "It didn't work?" I wondered if Tomlinson would admit it.

  "Well... his dying sort of put the nix on the whole approach. So now I've got to find Hannah."

  "Look, that guy ... his bomb, he could have killed one of the guides. Tell, if the fire had gotten to the fuel storage tank, he could have killed as all."

  "He was a human being, man. I'm not here to judge him. And I'm not saying the vibes weren't bad. There was a darkness in him, I sensed that, but let's face it: he'd just gotten blown up. A thing like that will definitely darken the mood ring. The man died holding my hand, Doc. It's what we call a karmic obligation."

  I stood up, stretched, returned the magazine to the bookshelf "Terrorism is what I call it. I don't share your sympathy."

  "I'm talking about the girl. The woman, whatever. You need to help me find her."

  "His last words to me were about Jesus—"

  "See? At least he was a religious man—"

  "That he could see Jesus. Nothing about a woman. I don't understand how that obligates me."

  Tomlinson was out of the chair, some of his energy returned. He still looked tired, but he was as serious as I have ever seen him. "Come on, Doc. You were the first one to him. No coincidences, remember? You're good at this stuff, finding people. Me, I'm a concept person. In all the years we've known each other, have I ever asked you for a favor before?"

  I almost answered truthfully—seldom a day went by that Tomlinson didn't ask me for something. Instead, I said, "They know his name, where he lived—Sulphur Wells. You don't need me for that. Check the phone book, under D for Darroux. Someone at his house will know."

  "See? You're already getting things figured out. What would it hurt to hop in your boat and run over there? A ride, that's all I'm asking for. Then I'll buy you dinner. Find a place at Sulphur Wells or stop at Cabbage Key. You name it."

  "The guy dies and we just pop in, start asking questions."

  Tomlinson made an open-palmed gesture—he was going. "I'd ask to borrow your truck, but you have to drive halfway up the mainland, then way south again to get there. Two hours minimum by road but only about in hour in a fast boat. Or I'll take my dinghy . . ."

  I pictured Tomlinson pulling into the commercial fish docks at Sulphur Wells, all those rednecks staring at him, probably wearing some beer by this time of day. And already pissed off about losing one of their own.

  "It'll be dark in an hour."

  "Then I'll need a light. Can I borrow your spotlight?" I swung open the door and stepped out to see if my bomber jacket was dry—the norther had slipped through, but it would still be cold out there on the water. "I'll go, I'll go. We'll take my boat."

  I made a stop before we got under way. After my talk with Ron Jackson, I'd found Janet Mueller out by the front gate loosening up to run, so we'd jogged a couple of miles together before I broke away and headed to the beach to finish my workout. A
s I left her, I'd suggested that we get together later for a beer and something to eat.

  Now I had to cancel the date.

  Marina communities are gypsy communities—boats are, after all, built for travel. If you're sailing the Intercoastal north to Texas or Mexico, or south to the Keys or Yucatan, Dinkin's Bay is just off the main channel, Marker 5 on the chart. The cruising guides list it as a "quaint" back bay marina hidden in the mangroves, electrical hookups, showers, laundry, and ground transportation available . . . but not recommended for vessels over forty feet or that draw more than six feet. So we get a steady turnover of small cruisers and gunkholers. Usually couples, often retirees—"When the kids were young, we always dreamed of buying a boat,"—but almost never women traveling alone.

  Janet Mueller was an exception.

  She'd come chugging into the marina a couple of weeks earlier in a little Holiday Mansion houseboat that was so beaten up that the bright blue paint job couldn't disguise the misuse . . . unless you were an absolute novice—which Janet was. She'd banged the docks, fouled her lines, then banged the docks some more. By the time we got her tied up, her hands were shaking, she seemed near tears. She kept saying, "I just bought this. I don't know anything about it!" She continued to apologize, even as we said our goodbyes.

  Because marinas are gypsy communities, the cruisers and the marina regulars usually mix easily. Not Janet. She stayed to herself; spent a lot of time above deck in the heat of the day, scrubbing, polishing, studying manuals. Sometimes she would throw off the lines and chug around the bay. My impression was that she did it so that she could practice docking. I liked that—she seemed determined, independent; a stubborn lady.

  But Janet Mueller also had the shell-shocked look of a person who is trying to recover from some debilitating event. You see it often in Florida: the introspective stare, the weighted shoulders, the slow declination of chin. They don't say much, they sigh a lot. They seem to have trouble concentrating, as if some private chord echoes in their ears. They are traveling, they say, or on sabbatical. It's not true. They are in flight; trying to escape the divorce or the death or the bankruptcy that has dismantled their lives. They come down hoping the beaches, the sunsets will provide a curative—just like the brochures suggest. Yet, all too often, the abruptness of the change, the neon glitz and ocean space of Florida only add to the shock of being untethered. You can escape everything by leaving home . . . except yourself.

  The only thing I knew about her was that she was from a place called Montpelier, Ohio—she told me that—and she liked oldies rock and roll. I could hear it coming from her boat when I walked past on the dock. Also, she knew a great deal about computers—Tomlinson told me that. She was a plain-looking woman. Not unattractive, just plain. She was probably in her early thirties, had short brown hair, a round face, a body prone to plumpness, legs, hips, and torso not constructed for the cargo shorts and pullovers she usually wore. I could picture her sitting at the back of the classroom, not saying much but getting good grades. I could picture her in business clothes, neat, punctual, indispensable at her work. She had that aura of steadiness. But, in the very few times we spoke, I also got the impression that had I clapped my hands unexpectedly, she would have dived "or cover or burst into tears. Post-traumatic stress syndrome is not the exclusive province of war veterans. Women, particularly the quiet ones, the plain ones, can suffer it as well.

  In a small community, romance segregates, so I've made it a rule not to date women who live at the marina. But that morning, Janet had been among those in the water with Tomlinson trying to help Jimmy Darroux. She hadn't been shy or timid then. We had the explosion in common now. and suggesting that we get something to eat had seemed to provide polite closure to our run. It was an offhand invitation, innocent, but I didn't want her to think that I'd simply forgotten it.

  As I idled over to the marina, Tomlinson jogged over by land to see if anyone knew where, exactly, Jimmy Darroux had lived. It wasn't his idea, it was mine. Sulphur Wells is a big island. There are several waterfront settlements; five or six commercial fish houses, and unlike Tomlinson, I didn't trust karma to steer us to the right one. I nudged my skiff around the oyster bar off the T-dock, then along B-dock where Janet's houseboat was moored. She had it bumpered nicely, stern to, curtained pilothouse windows clean, lines coiled. I glided in and caught the safety rail, calling, "Hello the boat!"

  I felt the little houseboat's trim shift slightly; then she poked her head out of the pilothouse door, grinning. She was wearing a terrycloth robe, scrubbing at her hair with a towel. She had just gotten out of the shower. For absolutely no logical reason, I had the terrible feeling that she had washed her hair and was about to get dressed up just for me. She said a little shyly, "I didn't know you wanted to go so early. You want to come in for a drink? Or I can . . . geez, just give me ten minutes and I'll be all ready. I promise. I'll put on some music."

  I said, "Well, that's not exactly why, uh . . . Something's come up, you see and ... I know I said earlier that we would, uh . . ." the whole time wondering how a grown man could sound so stupid.

  Her smile began to fade. "We're not going?"

  "Sorry, can't. I have to do a favor for a friend."

  The smile disappeared. "Oh. Well ... I know you're awfully busy."

  "It's not that. It's just that this thing came up."

  "Honest, don't worry about it." She said that in a soothing way, as if more concerned with my feelings than her own. The smile was back in place, but she had withdrawn, eyes avoiding me, casting around as we continued to talk; those green eyes reminding me of some shy small creature that had retreated to the safety of its cave, peering out.

  "We'll do it another time."

  "Sure we will, Doc, sure. Or maybe just go for a run."

  When her door closed, I punched the throttle, wheeling my skiff around on its own length. Looked up to see several of the fishing guides— Jeth Nicholes, Nelson Esterline, Felix Blane—staring at me, probably wondering why I was kicking up a wake. Jeth used his hand to signal me, and when I'd swung into the dock, he said, "You muh-muh-mad about something?"

  "Yeah, I guess I am. Have you seen Tomlinson?"

  Nels said, "What'a you got to be mad about? They didn't burn your boat. I'm the one's got a right to be mad. Me and Felix both. Jesus Christ, I've got charters booked and my wife, she just bought a new washer-dryer!"

  I'd meant to talk to them about losing their boats. "How long before you get your checks from the insurance company?"

  "They said two, but it'll be more like four. Weeks, I mean. A whole damn month at least, which will ruin a big chunk of the prime season for us."

  I said, "I don't have any orders right now. Well. . . I've got one for sea horses, but I can catch them with my drag boat. What I'm saying is, any way you two want to split it up, you can use my skiff for a while."

  Jeth looked at Nels. Said, "See? People don't loan their boats, buh-buh-but here's Doc doing it."

  Which seemed an odd thing to say, until I took a look at the faces of Mels and Felix and several other men who had gathered around them in a tight little pack. A kind of physical hostility emanated from them, directed it me. I couldn't understand it. We were all friends, Jeth a close friend. Just :wo months ago, Nels and I had placed our boat orders together to get a setter price: each buying a twenty-foot Hewes Light Tackle flats skiff, a kind of maximum-length fishing sled, beautifully designed and built, huge live wells and plenty of storage, rigged with jack plate, power trim, and a big Mariner outboard. Mine was gray. Before the explosion, his had been teal green.

  I looked at Felix, then back to Nels. "You guys want to tell me what's going on?"

  Felix shifted from one foot to the other, stared at my skiff for a moment before he said, "That's up to you, Doc. We got something we want to ask."

  "Yeah?"

  Nels said, "What we're wondering is where you stand on all this."

  "All this . . . what?"

  "Those goddamn nette
rs, that's what. They think they can come over here and screw with our livelihood, they bit off more than they can chew. The voters kicked them out of their jobs, that sure as shit don't mean we're gonna stand around with our thumbs up our ass while they take it out on us. They want a war, they got it."

  "As of tonight," Felix said, "we're doing shifts. Guarding the place. It's the same with the other marinas on both islands, Sanibel and Captiva. I didn't get into the guide business to carry a gun, but that's what we'll be doing, by God."

  What the hell were they talking about? "I'm going to ask you one more time: What's this have to do with me?"

  "We know you spoke at some of those meetings," Jeth said softly. "That's what it's about. Some of the guys think you were on the nuh-nuh-netters' side. And Tomlinson was just over here asking about the guy who buh-burned up, where he lived, saying you two were goin' up there to help his family, some woman."

  "We're asking how you voted," Nels said. "That's what we're asking. Whether you're on our side or theirs. That's what we're talking about."

  I was in my skiff; they were on the dock. I looked up at them: big men in fishing shorts, ball caps, pliers on their belts, their faces scorched black from three hundred days a year out there on the flats, burning up their lives to make a living. You don't try to manipulate this kind of men and you can't finesse them. Not that I would have tried. So I did exactly what they expected me to do—I told them the truth. It wasn't a question, I said, of me being for the netters or for the sport fishermen. Yes, netting was an indiscriminate and destructive method of fishing. And yes, the netters were their own worst enemy. They had used spotter planes to exterminate the king mackerel. Once snook and then redfish had been protected, the netters—pushed into a corner—had competed to exterminate the mullet. Each winter, migrant netters came down and trashed the beaches, trashed the islands, and trashed the canals, outraging equally hardworking home owners. I knew all that too.

  But had the state legislature done anything to stop it? No. As usual, legislators shied from making the tough decisions. They could have implemented a lottery system to control the fishery and drastically reduced the number of netters. Or they could have legislated riparian rights, allowing netters to fish only where they lived.