Captiva df-4

by Randy Wayne White

  I retrieved one of the smaller fish and carried it back to where Garrett waited.

  "The marine patrol stops you, Doc, they'll take your boat. Snook are out of season."

  "I've got a collector's permit. I'm taking it back to the lab to see if I can find out how it died."

  Garrett made a grunt of contempt. "How? Shit, that's not obvious? The two guys in the mullet boat strung their catch wire, then carried up a couple of boxes of illegal fish and dumped them. Let people know who did it; show just how pissed off they are. A lot of sportfishermen live on Useppa. The mullet guys were just saying thanks for the net ban."

  I panned the spotlight once more over the rows of carcasses, switched it off, and backed out. Most of the way back to Cabbage Key, we both kept a glum, funereal silence. Then Garrett cleared his throat, said in a soft, musing way, "You know, I voted against the net ban. You believe that?"

  I knew a little bit about his background. "You come from a family of commercial fishermen, so it's understandable—"

  "Yeah . . . but that's not why. You know what it was? It was those fishing magazines, the way they preached for the ban, but still ran their ads for big engines and lorans and sonar. You know as well as I do, that's what destroyed the offshore fishery. Damn hypocrites. Least they coulda had the balls to admit it. Hell, I do. Anyone who runs a boat is a hypocrite, right?"

  He said, "You know what else? Those stupid commercials about the mullet fishermen netting dolphins and turtles and manatees—what bullshit. Nothing but lies. Hell, it was almost funny to people who really knew something about it. But you know what really did the trick?" Garrett paused, thinking about it. I got the impression he was trying to explain it to himself. "What really did it was this guy named Tullock, used to come down to the docks, this state guy, a marine extension agent. He's the one—"

  I interrupted. "Raymond Tullock?" It had to be—there weren't that many marine extension agents named Tullock around.

  "Yeah. Why, you know him?"

  It wasn't so unusual to hear Tullock's name mentioned twice in the same day. Florida's fishing community is large, but intricately connected. Still, I found the coincidence striking. I asked, "Tullock's the one who talked you out of voting for the ban?"

  "That officious little prick couldn't talk me into anything. He's the guy that lifted my commercial sticker because I told him I didn't have time to fill out his damn forms. What fish we caught, where we caught them, how much they weighed. He'd come around the end of the month if you didn't mail them. Hell, I about had my boat repossessed because of him. No, Tullock wasn't against the ban. He was for the net ban. He'd say, 'I shouldn't be tellin' you this, but—' Or, 'Don't tell anyone you heard this from me.' I figured whatever Tullock was for, I was against. But now. . . after seeing what we just saw. . . well, sometimes you have to throw out the good to get rid of the bad. Know what I mean? I kind'a regret not voting for the damn thing."

  I was beginning to feel the same way.

  When we got to Cabbage Key, I asked Garrett to write his name and number in my notebook. I wanted to talk to him when we weren't beer-bleary and sullen, and when it wasn't one o'clock in the morning. I watched him swing cat-footed aboard the Hatteras and disappear into the cabin.

  Then, just as I was pulling away, I heard a whoop and a holler, and turned to see chunky, blond Farrah waving at me. She was calling, "Is that your boat? I love that boat," as she hurried along the dock in her tight black dress, moving with the exaggerated self-control of someone who is very drunk. When she was close enough, she slowed to a dignified pace, flashed me a sloppy grin, and reached to steady herself on a piling . . . but missed. Then I watched her grin broaden into a wild leer of surprise as she cartwheeled off the dock into the water.

  The gallant thing to do would have been to leap into the water, scoop her up, and carry her to safety. But I am not gallant. I swung the boat to her, and as she came clawing her way up on the casting deck, I held her

  motionless until she answered some questions. Did her neck hurt? Any tingling sensation in hands or feet? Drunks have been known to hobble around sprightly while internal bleeding or the leakage of spinal fluid drains the life out of them.

  "Damn right I'm tingling, ya big horse. 'Cause I'm freezing. Lemme up!"

  She sat groggily. Used her fingers to strip the water from her hair as I tied the boat. I took my bomber jacket off, wrapped it around her, and helped her to her feet. She was weaving badly. I wondered how many more margaritas she'd had after I left.

  "You bazzard, you went off and lef' me. Tol' you not to go, but did you listen? Nope, nope, nope, nope." She was wagging her finger under my nose. "Don' lie to me. Do-o-o-on' you lie to Farrah."

  I looked around, hoping to see her girlfriends, hoping to see Charlie. But the big Trumpy was quiet at its mooring. I looked up the mound toward the bar: no movement, no music, no noise. The party was over.

  "Hey! You know what I wanna do? Less go for a ride in your boat. How 'bout it." She banged her hips against mine. "Scooch over. I'll drive. Don' you worry. You ever hear of the Miss-pippi River? I drove boats all over the Miss-pippi."

  It took maybe ten minutes to talk her out of the boat ride. You can't reason with a drunk, you have to barter with them. Yes, I would take her for a boat ride. Yes, I had heard of the Miss-pippi, and yes, she could drive. But first she would have to go back to her cabin and get into some dry clothes.

  "We ga' lots of boats in Illinois," she said solemnly, just before I hefted her up onto the dock.

  The Trumpy was about a sixty-footer. We entered through the main salon. It smelled of marine varnish and synthetic fiber. There were courtesy lights glowing from behind the mahogany bar. I tried to turn Farrah loose, but she stumbled as she was going down the companionway steps, and insisted that I help her.

  Her stateroom was forward, just behind the master stateroom. I looked at the door of the master stateroom, all the brass fittings, and wondered if Charlie was in there with the aloof brunette. If so, I wondered if the aloof brunette had bothered to take off her wedding ring.

  "See! Just me, all by myself." Farrah had the door open, a light on. It was a tiny cabin with bunks. There was a collapsible table, a stainless steel washbasin, and a combination shower and head. The layout reminded me of an Amtrak sleeper. I guessed it was designed to be the children's quarters, handy to the master stateroom.

  "No, don't you leave! I'm keeping you with me till I get that boat ride." She had me by the hand, trying to pull me into the cabin. Then she stopped suddenly, touched fingers to her forehead, and said in a softer, more articulate voice, "Whew, I feel a little dizzy. Don't go. Please? Not till I feel better."

  I sighed, shrugged; stepped into the room. Turned around to pull the door closed, and when I turned back, Farrah was stripping the wet dress over her head . . . found a hanger . . . had to arch her back to reach the simple white pearl necklace she wore . . . placed it on the vanity.

  "You mind waiting while I jump in the shower? I'm freezing," she said.

  "So I see."

  "You do?"

  I did. Very clearly. Farrah wore only a transparent nylon bra and blue bikini panties. The wet material clung to her, showing the mounds and pink circles and curling pubic folds of her body. She was not nearly so bulky as the tight dress had made her appear. She held the pose for a moment, grinned, then hip-wagged her way into the tiny head, and closed the door. I took a seat on her bunk; sat there breathing in steamy, fragrant odors, telling myself I should leave . . . wondering why I didn't.

  A friend of mine once made me stand back and look at a wall map of the United States. "Do you see it?" she kept asking. "Do you see the subliminal message? Students grow up staring at a map just like this." Her theory being that the testicular and penile shape of Florida caused those students, as adults, to suffer a feverish subconscious libido on their Florida vacations. Over the years, I had observed enough tourist behavior to believe that her weird theory had merit. Maybe Farrah was another exam
ple. Or maybe hers was a drive more complicated.

  Whatever Farrah's reasons, they weren't good enough—that's what I told myself. I had no interest in one-night stands—right? Why intentionally diminish myself—right? Nor did Farrah strike me as the type to engage in that kind of destructive behavior. She had been drinking, I told myself. Her reasoning was fogged—right?

  Well. . . right.

  Even so, I sat there debating it, wanting to stay, trying to ferret out an acceptable excuse. . . . Then I didn't have to debate or rationalize anymore because Farrah came stumbling, naked, out of the head, a towel clutched in her hands, her face as pale as her milkmaid breasts, saying, "I . . . feel . . . sort'a sick."

  Then she was sick. Not just once, either. I helped her as much as I could. Helped her get cleaned up and into bed; then I sat there patting her back, making comforting noises, feeling old and far more chivalrous than I actually am. I also felt relief. . . and a curious sadness, too. Farrah was one of the winners. Her employer had acknowledged that. She had a nice car and nice apartment. She had the dental and medical and retirement plans. She had a fitness program and vacation getaways. She had joined the team, so the corporation was providing for her every need. Lately, I had been meeting more and more team members—but fewer and fewer individuals. It was beginning to worry me.

  When her breathing became a steady series of soft poofing sounds, when I could feel the involuntary muscle-twitch of legs and hands, I stood and found a blanket. Covered her from toe to head, tucked her in tight. Leaned to kiss her forehead and, as I turned out the light, said, "Have a good life, lady."

  Then, as I snuck out of her stateroom, I nearly collided with what turned out to be Charlie. He was in the process of sneaking out of his stateroom, headed for the main salon to get a snack. I followed him up the companionway, prepared for the chummy locker room winks and nudges that he would offer. Hey, we got laid, buddy! The aloof brunette was none of my business, but I felt an unreasonable animus toward him because of her.

  Instead, Charlie said, "These corporate junkets, they can wear you out, you let 'em. Lot of craziness down here in Florida."

  I said, "Yeah, Charlie, it's just a crazy mixed-up world."

  He seemed a little surprised by my tone, but pressed on. "So what I did this time, I had the wife fly down. Just. . . missed her, I guess. So I called her up, had her book first-class."

  Wife?

  Charlie was beginning to think me dense. "You didn't meet her? The brunette I was sitting with. My wife!'

  I left berating myself for being presumptuous and judgmental and cynical, but heartened that, for some, maybe the world wasn't such a crazy place after all.

  Chapter 8

  The next morning, late Friday morning, the phone woke me. I was talking into the handset before I was even conscious of being out of bed: "Sanibel Biological Supply."

  Silence.

  I said, "Hello?"

  No reply—but there was someone on the other end, listening to me. I could hear a distant strain of music, an old song: "Everyone's Gone to the Moon."

  Was just about to hang up when a gravelly, muffled voice said, "You asshole, you tell the hippie to get the hell off'a our island. He snoops around, we'll cut 'is nose off."

  Click.

  I stood looking at the phone dumbly, then replaced the handset. Like everyone, I get my share of crank calls. Usually from kids having fun while Mom and Dad are away, dialing randomly, acting tough. But this call had a specific message, and the voice—though obviously disguised—had an edge of crazed intensity that cut to the animal core. I crossed the room, heart beating faster than normal, and checked the clock: 10:17. Very late in the day for an early riser like myself. Even so, I felt as if my body needed a few more hours of sleep. My eyes burned and my head throbbed. I had a hangover that seemed out of proportion to the seven or eight beers I'd had. Felt more like a minor bout of the flu. My stomach was making gaseous rumbling noises. Each rumble produced the residual taste of Hannah's sulfuric tea.

  Not a nice way to start the day.

  I turned on the stereo and spun the scanner until I heard the last, fading refrain of "Everyone's Gone to the Moon." It was a local FM station. I turned it up a little before lighting the propane stove and putting coffee on. As I did, I made a mental list of people who knew that Tomlinson was on Sulphur Wells. I came up with only two who had an obvious reason to make threatening calls: the mullet fishermen, Julie andJ.D. But why call me? And how could they have gotten my name?

  As the coffee perked, I got the phone book and found the listing for Sulphur Wells Fish Company. Dialed the number and, when an unfamiliar voice answered, listened carefully for music playing in the background: Garth Brooks. My station was now playingjohn Lennon.

  No match.

  I asked, "Is Julie or J.D. around?" The unfamiliar voice said, "Nope, and they ain't gonna be around, neither," and hung up.

  I found Raymond Tullock's number, dialed it, and got an answering machine. I found Tullock Seafood Exports in the business pages, dialed the number, and got his answering service. I didn't leave a message.

  The only other people I could think of who might have a motive were the marina s two guides, Nels Esterline and Felix Blane—but they couldn't know that Tomlinson had remained on Sulphur Wells. Also, I'd known both men for several years. Angry or not, they weren't the type to make anonymous calls. Even so, I tried their home numbers, listening for music in the background as I told their respective wives, "Sorry, wrong number."

  No match.

  Finally, I tried to find a listing forjimmy Darroux. There was none. Had to leaf my way through a couple of pages of Smiths before I finally found H. S. Smith, Gumbo Limbo. Dialed it, let it ring and ring before Tomlinson finally answered. He told me he wasjust on his way out—Hannah was in her truck waiting for him. "Can't talk, man! When she wants to go, she goes. Innocence without patience—can you imagine that combination?"

  "She's going to have to wait," I said, and I told him about the call I'd gotten.

  "Cut my nose off?" Tomlinson said. "Why would anyone want to cut my nose off? I'm not one to brag, but I think I've got a pretty nice nose."

  "He was talking metaphorically, for God's sake. It was a threat. Maybe it was a crank, maybe it wasn't. But you need to be careful. Have you been out this morning, met anyone new?"

  "Yeah, bunches of people. Hannah s had me all over the island already. I stayed up till three reading her notebooks; then she had me on the road at six, visiting the fish houses. Completely screwed up my meditation schedule. But she said I needed to get to know the place before I start work on her book. I agree. The ambience—you know? Tone? This island has a whole different feel."

  "Did you mention my name to anyone you met?"

  "She's honking out there, man. I don't get out the door quick, she'll leave me. She'd do it, too."

  "Did you mention—"

  "Maybe. I don't know. Hannah, she could have mentioned you. Seriously. You're like one of her favorite topics."

  I felt an unreasonable surge of pleasure at hearing that. "What I'm saying is, you need to be careful, Tomlinson. That's all I'm telling you." I hesitated. What I wanted to ask, I couldn't ask. So instead, I said, "She's bringing you back to Sanibel tonight, right?"

  He said, "I don't think so. Whatever she wants . . . hey . . . Jesus, she's—" His voice suddenly contained the flavor of panic. Maybe Hannah was pulling out of the drive. Heard him yell, "HOLD IT! I'M COMING!" before he said into the phone, "Gotta go, man! I'll call you. Okay?"

  I said, "One more thing—"

  Tomlinson said, "Can't. The magic bus is rolling. Manana!" Then he hung up.

  The coffee didn't help my head or my gurgling stomach. Decided what I needed to do was sweat my system clean.

  So I put on the Nikes and ran down Tarpon Bay Road to the beach and did five killer miles on the soft-packed sand. Ran east along Algiers Beach almost to the golf course and back, forcing the pace, ignoring my swollen toe, ch
ecking the watch, making myself sprint two minutes, then stride three minutes, never allowing a peaceful anaerobic moment.

  The last lingering chill of the cold front was gone. Clear, sun-bright January morning. Heat radiating off the sand. A mild tropical breeze huffing from the south, out of Cuba. Vacationers already out with their beach towels and tanning goo, eager to bake in the first summer-hot day Sanibel had presented them in more than a week. Around the hotel pools, the uniformed staff members were busy shuttling towels and drinks, renting sailboards and paddle pontoons and jet skis. Scattered all along the beach were little strongholds of oil-coated flesh; some, truly spectacular women in their thong bikinis or sleek one-piece suits. 1 didn't linger. Didn't let myself pause, or even slow. Kept right on hammering away at the sand, through the lotion stink of coconut oil and Coppertone, lungs burning, sweat pouring, until I was back to my starting place just off Tarpon Bay Road.

  After that, I did an ocean swim. Twenty minutes up the beach, twenty minutes back—more than a mile. Swimming is so deadly boring that the brain, in defense, compensates with an alluring cerebral clarity. That's what I like about it. While swimming, I could think intensely and without distraction. Thought about the anonymous phone call: He snoops around, we'll cut his nose off. Idle threat or not, it took a lot of anger to generate a call like that. If the call came from Sulphur Wells—which seemed likely— Tomlinson had already added two or more enemies to a life list that contained no enemies anywhere. It was precisely because Tomlinson had so little experience in dealing with personal menace that he was so vulnerable. The question was: How could I make him believe it?

  Also thought about Hannah. Still felt the familiar abdominal squeeze when I pictured her eyes, that long body, but the symptoms of obsession had faded. I was relieved, because there were things about Hannah Smith which I found unsettling. Her judgment, for one thing. She apparently believed that Raymond Tullock, her prospective business partner, had worked hard to prevent the net ban. But Garrett Riley's story was more convincing: Tullock had actually lobbied hard to get the net ban passed. He was lying to Hannah and the other commercial fishermen to protect his own interests.