Captiva df-4

by Randy Wayne White

  "Tell me, goddamn it. No more games. No more secrets. Talk to me!"

  She wrestled out of my grip and stepped back, rubbing her arms. "I already told him everything I know," she said stubbornly. Meaningjackson.

  "Yeah? So now you're going to tell me."

  "You don't believe me?"

  "That's right. I don't believe you. The bad publicity might stall that precious money you're counting on from Tallahassee."

  Enough light came through the doorway that I could see the expression on her face: astonishment, a touch of disappointment, mostly anguish. She touched a hand to her forehead, stood poised for a moment . . . then stumbled forward and fell into my arms. I felt a convulsive tremor move through her body that exited as a sob. "He's going to die," she whispered. "You know that, don't you? I . . . should have seen it comin'. Maybe Tommy did see it—his powers were stronger than mine. But I didn't see it, and now he's going to die."

  I stood there holding her, feeling her tears hot on my face . . . but felt no emotion of my own, nothing, except for a mild surprise that a woman so strong could shatter so completely . . . and that she trusted me enough to allow me to see it happen.

  There was a leather couch against one wall—it was some kind of consulting room—and I steered her toward it, then sat, still holding her tightly. "If Tomlinson dies, he dies," I said. "Either way, I'm going to find out who did it—and you're going to help me."

  "I don't know who did it. You wouldn't believe me anyway!"

  "Maybe I will, maybe I won't. You're going to sit right here until you've told me everything. More than you told Jackson. With me, you're not going to leave out a single, self-interested detail."

  She sat up on her own, stripped the kerchief from her hair and used it to dry her eyes. Took her time, seemed very tired. I expected anger. Instead, her face only registered pain. Watched her take a deep breath, hesitate, then breathe out through her mouth. "Okay. I'm not sayin' they did it, but there are . . . some guys camped north of Gumbo Limbo. A little stretch of beach—we call it Copper Rim, but you won't find it on the chart. They're netters, but mostly outsiders: Georgia, a few from Texas, North Florida . . . like that. Friends ofjimmy's. His drinkin' buddies."

  "What makes you think it was them?"

  "Give me a chance, I'll tell you. The last few years, they've come down for the roe season and camped there. Copper Rim's got enough water for their boats, plus there's a little footpath through the mangroves out to the main road. I know they got in thick with a local man, Kemper Waits, and I think it's them that's been stealin' boats and stuff. Maybe Kemper was behind the bombing, I don't know—he talks real mean and he's about half crazy. But the boat stealin', I'm pretty sure about. They strip the engines off, hide them somewhere—I don't know where—then somehow ship them north to sell for parts."

  "Did you tell Jackson this?"

  She sat silently for a time, then said in a small voice, "No. Not the part about the boat stealing."

  "Where the tourist found Tomlinson—was it near the footpath that leads to Copper Rim?"

  She had her face in her hands. "That's why I'm not sure. They found Tommy way, way south. A lot closer to Curlew than Gumbo Limbo or Rancho."

  "But you suspect them."

  She looked up, made a helpless gesture. "I don't know. Yesterday, Tommy, he said something about how it sure would help our cause if we could stop them boys from stealin' boats, stringing cables. That kind of business. He said maybe somebody ought to go up and talk with them. Try to reason with 'em."

  I could hear Tomlinson on the telephone saying, Should the scientific observer ever allow himself to intercede?

  "Is that all he said?"

  "Yeah, that's all he said. He had my truck if he wanted to use it. That's the way he spent his days—writing away on my book, driving around and talkin' to the fishermen. He was . . . happy. Everybody he met on the island liked him. Nobody I ever talked to even hinted about him maybe bein' there to spy on us."

  I said, "When you went home and changed clothes tonight, was your truck still there?"

  "Uh-huh, that's how I got into town, but. . ." She paused for a moment, reflecting. "Now that I think about it, the truck wasn't parked the way we usually park it. We always back it in. I guess I didn't even notice, I was so upset about Tommy."

  "Someone involved with the attack on Tomlinson could have brought the truck back."

  "I guess . . . yeah. The keys were in the ignition. I looked all over the house, and that's where I finally found them."

  I said, "Do you think there's any chance that Raymond Tullock was behind it?"

  That surprised her. "Raymond? Why would he . . . ?"

  "Come on, Hannah. Tonight can't be the first time Tullock's behaved like some jealous freak."

  "Well, no . . . he's always jealous of me. Every man he ever sees me talkin' to, he's jealous. He's in love with me. He says he wants to marry me. But I don't think he could do something like—"

  "Was he jealous of Tomlinson?"

  "Course he was. He hated the idea of Tommy sleeping there under the same roof. Tommy and me were never lovers. Not that I would've told Raymond. What business was it of his? But aside from some real sweet. . . stuff, Tommy and I never—"

  I didn't want to hear it. "What about Arlis Futch? Was Tullock jealous of Arlis?"

  She was shaking her head. "Raymond never knew about Arlis. You're the only one I ever told about that. He knew Arlis and I were close. He didn't trust Arlis, but he had no reason to be jealous."

  I thought: Arlis Futch is still alive. "So why do you keep Raymond around, Hannah? That's the part you're leaving out. Because he found a better market for your fish? Because it's a chance for you to meet some contacts in Asia? That's bullshit. Tell me why."

  "Because I was using him, that's why!" Hannah yelled it, as she yanked her arm away, then stood. "I was using him just the way he planned to use me! Is that so hard to understand?" She crossed the room, felt around on the wall . . . and the shadows were suddenly flooded out by a sterile glare of neon light. She closed the door and turned before saying in a calmer, more controlled voice: "Raymond wants the land, Ford. Him and some of his Tallahassee buddies. They want Arlis's fish house and his pasture acreage so they can build a marina and a condominium village to go with it. They knew the net ban would put us out of business. That's the only reason Raymond ever came sniffm' around Gumbo Limbo. Yeah, he's been makin' money brokering our fish. But he'll make a hell of a lot more brokering our land."

  "Does he know you realize that?"

  She made a fluttering sound with her lips. "Raymond's too busy bein' tricky to worry about what anyone else knows. Now the poor bastard wants me as much as he wants the land. Hell, me and the land, we've come to be 'bout the same thing in his mind. So Raymond's been real careful about what he says. He kind'a hinted around to Arlis and me that yeah, since we had to give up mullet fishin' anyway, why not let him handle things? See if he could sweet-talk some investors into taking all that property off our hands. Or maybe the investors would let Arlis and me keep a little percentage. Like he's doing us a big favor." Hannah smiled—not a very nice smile. "So Arlis and me, we played along with it. Raymond says, 'I fought hard against that net ban,' we say, 'Sure you did, Raymond. You're a good ol' boy, just like one of us.' "

  I said, "I don't see how that's using him."

  "The men Raymond's got as backers? They're what he calls 'professional environmentalists.' What they really do is all the surveys and studies so developers can get their state permits. They're old buddies of his from the Fisheries Conservation Board. We told Raymond we might be willing to include them in some kind of corporation, but first we wanted them to go ahead and get the zoning changed on our land from agricultural to commercial. Like about seven or eight thousand dollars' worth of work—just to show their heart's in the right place."

  "But Arlis's fish house is already zoned commercial. It has to be—"

  "The cattle pasture across the road isn
't," she said. "Arlis's fifteen acres and my three acres. Where they want their condominium project to go."

  "Did you sign any sort of contract?"

  "You keep thinking I'm dumb, Ford. I'm a lot of things, but dumb is not one of them. Besides, the only contract Raymond's interested in is the one I keep between my legs. Nope, no contract. I want the zoning changed so I can get my fish farm goin'. That and maybe a little marina. Just Arlis and me. We couldn't afford to get it changed on our own—even if we do get our money from the state." She was shaking out the bandanna, retying it in her hair. "So now I guess you think I'm a sneaky little bitch, using Raymond the way I am." She was looking at me, expecting an answer.

  "Would it matter to you if I did?"

  She made a small noise of exasperation as she opened the door, then stood in the doorway, studying me with her dark eyes. "Know what, Ford? It would matter to me. It'd matter a lot." As she turned to leave, I heard her say, "But you probably wouldn't believe that, either."

  Chapter 15

  That morning—a winter-bright early Wednesday morning—I bolted the door after entering my house, and I hunted around through the desk until I found two small stainless steel keys. One key fit the bottom drawer of my fireproof clothes locker. I used the key to open the drawer, then removed the neat stacks of clothing therein. Also unlocked and removed the drawer's false bottom—which revealed equally neat stacks of folders, two bogus passports, some clothing, and other detritus from a life I thought I had abandoned long ago.

  I took out a manila envelope that had OPERATION PHOENIX stamped on the cover. Took out another envelope that had the words "Direccion: Blanca Managua" written on a label in red felt-tip pen. Fought the urge, once again, to burn the envelopes—and some similar files—in a private little fire. I lingered over the image of that, enjoying the freedom those imaginary flames produced . . . before reminding myself how unwise it would be to destroy my only wedge against potential legal problems from which no statute of limitations would ever protect me.

  Set the envelopes aside. Squatted there staring, for a time, at the nine-millimeter Sig Sauer P-226 semiautomatic handgun that lay, in its shoulder holster, atop a black navy watch sweater that I had not worn in years. Removed the Sig Sauer from the holster, feeling the weight of it. Popped the clip, flipped the slide lock, and removed the barrel. The weapon had an industrial-black finish ... the spring and metalwork still mirror-clean beneath a layer of oil.

  I lifted up the sweater and found the leather case within which was a six-inch custom-built sound arrestor. Screwed the silencer onto the barrel, admiring the precise machining . . . swung the weapon in a fast arc, retesting the once familiar balance of it. . . recalled the amplified blowgun noise it made when fired: THOOP-ah. Then paused, considering the wisdom of carrying it. I had no intention of using the Sig as an offensive weapon, but everyone in America was carrying firearms these days, from frightened housewives to feral children gone wild in ghettos . . . and probably itinerant mullet fishermen, too. What if they heard me and were idiotic enough to start plinking away at unidentified sounds?

  Then I thought: But they'll never hear me.

  I sprayed another coat of oil onto the Sig and its sound arrestor before putting them away.

  Ultimately, the only articles I removed from the drawer were the watch sweater, some well-worn Australian S.A.S. field pants in dark battle pattern, a black silk balaclava face hood, leather gloves, a thin-bladed knife in a plastic scabbard that had been given to me by a Israeli friend assigned to the Mossad, and finally, a small, weighty waterproof bag. I opened the bag and removed a set of Starlite goggles and placed them on my bed. With its twin monoculars and padded face frame, the Starlite unit resembled a gadget that might be used by a mad scientist more than the sophisticated—but outdated—second-generation night-vision system that it was.

  I had to go into the lab to find the double-A batteries I needed. Unscrewed the power tube, mounted the batteries, then checked to make sure the rubber lens covers were tightly in place before switching the Starlite goggles on. I held the goggles to my face, then strapped them tight. Even with the lens caps on, the photo cathode within the Starlite's optical tube reassembled the light electrons efficiently. The room became a stage of green and eerie, sparkling elements—bed . . . stove . . . Crunch & Des, the black cat, peering at me . . . the bolted door.

  I took the goggles off, relieved that they still worked.

  When I was finished, I neatened the drawer—I am compulsive about such things—then placed the articles under my bed. Finally, I unlocked the door, went to my outside storage locker. My ancient jungle boots were there in a box. A spider had built her home in them. I shooed the spider away. Found my old Rocket swim fins, a good dive mask plus snorkel. . . and assembled a few other bits of hardware that I might need. Also got my hated contact lenses out of the medicine cabinet, and put them with the other things.

  I wouldn't be able to wear my glasses tonight.

  When I had everything ready, I stripped down to my underwear and lay down to sleep . . . and had just started to doze when I felt the vibration of someone walking up my dock. I glanced out the window—it was Janet. Checked the clock: 6:30 a.m. sharp.

  The woman was punctual. She had stayed with Tomlinson at the hospital only a few hours less than I.

  Lay back down and gauged Janet's movements by sounds that came through the screen door. Heard her stop at the fish tank. Heard her struggle momentarily as she opened the heavy lid. Then: "How we doin' this morning, Green Flag? Where's . . . where's. . . ? There you are. You're looking handsome this morning. Ready for breakfast?"

  I guessed she was talking to the tarpon she called Red Threat.

  Heard her coming up the steps to my house. Thought about getting up to greet her . . . but decided I didn't feel like talking to someone as nice as Janet Mueller. Didn't want to risk softening the cold, cold mood I was in—a mood I would need to keep and protect through the day and well into the night.

  Heard her stop at the screen door. I kept my eyes closed. Knew that she could look in and see me lying there, a blanket pulled across my hips. Hoped she would see that I was asleep and return to her work with the tarpon. Instead, I heard the door creak open . . . felt her pad across the room . . . sensed her standing next to the bed, close to me.

  "Sweet dreams." Words whispered so softly that I barely heard them. Felt warm lips touch my forehead . . . nothing else for several seconds . . . then felt her fingers on my chest, a touch so light, so hesitant that it seemed experimental. . . then felt her lips On mine . . . briefly, very briefly . . . and then she was gone, out the door.

  I waited awhile before opening my eyes and to look through the window. Janet was out there in khaki slacks and the same brown sweatshirt, feeding my fish. She was making a cheerful little whistling noise, lips pursed, while she worked.

  I awoke just after one p.m., dreaming of Hannah. It was a restless, troubled dream, rife with frustration. I sat up grcggily. The details had already faded. Something that had to do with chasing a bus that roared away each time I drew near. Maybe Hannah was on the bus. Or maybe she was chugging right along behind me. I couldn't remember.

  The phone rang. I got up, a little surprised to realize that I hoped it was Hannah calling. Give me a chance to make amends—I'd been way too rough on her. But surely she would understand. . . .

  It wasn't Hannah. It was a Dr. Wesley Evans calling from the University of Minnesota, wondering if I could ship four dozen fresh cannonball jellyfish to the biology department. I told Dr. Evans that come August, I could ship him four thousand fresh cannonball jellyfish, but none at all in January.

  Tried to sleep a little more, but kept thinking of Hannah. Her voice drifted in and out of my mind: I like the way you look, the way you move. I like the way your brain works.

  Lay there and admitted to myself that the feelings were reciprocal. I did, indeed, like the way Hannah Smith looked, the way she moved. . . and was intrigued, at least, by th
e way her mind worked. Also admitted that the feelings were real. They had nothing to do with that herbal tea concoction she had fed me—a stunt that still made me mad when I thought about it. Hannah was . . . different. No doubt about that. But . . . damn if I didn't like her anyway. In fact, that was precisely why I liked her. A big, strong woman who was wild and hard-tethered with confidence; a woman who didn't hesitate to tell you exactly what she wanted and when she wanted it. The kind who would keep things . . . private. Heard her say: I'll have my place, you '11 have yours . . . like secret partners.

  Heard Tomlinson's voice say: You and Hannah are both extreme people.

  Which is when I threw the covers back and dialed Hannah's number. On the push-button phone, her number sounded like an abbreviated stanza of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."

  I let it ring and ring. No answer. There was another thing I liked about her: She was one of the two or three people remaining in America who did not use an answering machine.

  I dressed and went outside. I used my mooring pulley-system to haul my flats skiff close enough, then mounted the White Shark trolling motor on the bow—just in case I needed to move quickly and silently through the night. Afterward, I idled over to the marina to top off the fuel tank; then I got in my truck and drove into town to visit Tomlinson.

  Something new had been added to Tomlinson's retinue of tubes and wires: an electroencephalogram monitoring system. While I listened to the respirator do his breathing—keesh-ah . . . keesh-ah—and listened to the heart monitor echo the pulse of his heart—bleep . . . bleep . . . bleep—I could now watch Tomlinson's brain waves track across a green CRT screen. They had wheeled him over beneath an oblong window. Light from the window washed over him, and he looked very tiny, paper-thin, and frail.

  I stood there for an hour or more watching the screen, eyes fixed to the monotonous flow of oscillations. For long stretches of time, the waves drifted along incrementally. Small, even bumps that were widely spaced. But every now and then the man would reward me with a fast series of snow-cone shaped peaks, letting me know that he was still in there, still alive beneath all the gauze and damaged skull bone.