Mangrove Lightning
Page 26
Important topics required a legal pad and a pencil. Five pages were filled before he stood to leave. One point was worthy of re-confirmation.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
Hannah had never been confident about her size, or her looks. It took some effort to look into the face of a man who’d saved her life and only nod.
“You’re welcome to think it over. What with the painkillers and all, maybe you’ll—”
She shook her head no. The decision she’d made was her own.
Ford had a way of smiling that brought to mind a boy who’d rather be alone in the woods than exchange social pleasantries. “May I?” he asked.
She presented her lips for a kiss, then held him tightly for what seemed a very long time, but, watching him drive away, realized, It wasn’t long enough . . .
—
The next evening, June 21st, a full moon marked the summer solstice. The Earth’s western hemisphere had orbited into opposition, so the bright lunar rim appeared huge when it crested the mangroves of Dinkin’s Bay.
It was Thursday, 8:37 p.m. The sun had set twelve minutes earlier. Many of the marina’s liveaboards were at Mack’s beach cottages, a former nudist colony, watching the solar fireworks, not the lunar drama, when Tomlinson entered the lab carrying a cardboard box.
“I should train that dog to bite anyone who doesn’t knock,” Ford said. He was calibrating a new spectrometer, holding it up to the light, until he noticed the box. “If you found more bones, I don’t want to hear about it. I’ve never lied to the police so consistently in my life. Well”—he adjusted the spectrometer’s focus ring—“not in this country anyway.”
Tomlinson was scratching the ears of a yellow-eyed retriever, which was okay until he started cooing, and jabbering baby talk. The dog banged its tail a couple of times, then nosed the door open rather than put up with more nonsense. A heavy splash followed, causing screeching seagulls to rocket past the laboratory windows.
“Wow, you two are in a funky mood today. Wait ’til you see what I brought—and, no, it’s not what you think.”
Ford, in fact, felt better than he had in a while. His discussion with Hannah was a factor, as were recent plans made to spend a week bonefishing at Flamingo Cay in the Bahamas. He watched his pal place a heavy ceramic jar on the table, the lid sealed with paraffin that had outlasted a rusted wire stopper. “A gift from your friendly madam in Key West?” he asked.
It was a reference to Tomlinson’s recent work for the Chinese Consolidated Benevolent Association. With the help of Lia Park, the commercial pilot and Zen student, they had reinvigorated efforts to find China’s forgotten immigrants, and repatriate their remains for formal burial.
“Could be,” Tomlinson said. “A present from the grateful spirits of our newly mourned dead. I was hunting around behind Tootsie’s cabin when they—or something—led me to what must be an old root cellar. It wasn’t far from the pond, but you wouldn’t know the place. The thing’s hidden in the weeds, all lined with—”
“Limestone blocks?” Ford interrupted. “Please tell me you weren’t nosing around Chino Hole. Not since you got back from Key Largo anyway.”
“How’d you know?”
“About Tootsie’s memorial service?”
“No, the root cellar.”
“I saw it. It’s about five feet deep, rock-insulated, and big enough to hold several cases of these things.” He hefted the ceramic jar.
“Why didn’t you say something?”
Ford had to laugh. “You’re unbelievable, you know that? I didn’t tell you for the same reason the state put my contract on hold. No trespassing. Not you, or me, or anyone else, until the feds are done. There’s no statute of limitations on murder, and the crime scene folks aren’t going to buy your story about channeling a family of serial killers.”
“Killer,” Tomlinson corrected.
“Either way, they’ll arrest your ass,” Ford said. He didn’t want to hear any more theories about the behavior of abused feral children, so he carried the jar to an epoxy workstation and switched on a lamp. “What’s in here, you think?”
Tomlinson knew. “You’ll need a screwdriver to get that bastard open. I’ll be back with some ice and a couple of glasses.” At the screen door, he paused. “I heard you drove Hannah home from the hospital. Did she say anything about her . . . condition? Guys around the marina keep asking, especially the women.”
“She did,” Ford said. “I’ll meet you on the deck.”
—
Alcohol distilled from sugarcane, aged ninety years in earthen jars, should have been translucent as rain when poured by the light of a rising full moon. Not this stuff. It was tannin-stained as if dipped from the mangroves.
“Cripes A’mighty,” Ford said, making a face. “This shit’s awful.”
“Gotta let it breathe, man. It’ll grow on you. Seriously, it helps if you pretend Prohibition wasn’t repealed. Here, watch me.” He swirled the liquor and chugged it down. “Wow.”
He could only mouth the word, so poured another glass while waiting for his voice to return. “Yeah . . . now we know where the name comes from. I sorta like the salty taste. Gives it a margarita flair, you know?” He snapped his fingers. “Limes, man. That’s exactly what we need. I’ll be right back.”
While he waited, Ford stared at the moon and thought about Hannah, and others he knew and had known. Often, he marveled at the day-by-day courage demonstrated by so-called average people, their relentless endurance as well, yet was prone to dismiss those qualities in himself as motivated by doubt, or the fear of failure.
It was time to ask himself the same question he’d posed to Hannah: was he sure?
No . . . but taking action, moving on, was always preferable to inaction. On the other hand . . . ?
The subject was something to bounce off Tomlinson, the social scientist, when he returned with three key limes freshly wedged. “To be or not to be,” he summarized. “Where’ve you heard that before? Man, I’ve written papers on that very conundrum, so don’t get me started.”
He launched into the subject anyway and, one glass of moonshine later, was still talking, then suddenly stopped. He sat back. He scratched at his bandaged ear and re-focused on his friend. “Hey . . . does this have something to do with you and Hannah? In the house, I saw your fly rods, your gear, and travel bag all packed.”
“It does,” Ford said.
“Both of you?”
“In a way. She got good news from the doctors. They were worried about something called placental abruption because of the beating she took. They wanted to be sure; now they are. Her baby’s fine.”
Tomlinson closed his eyes to savor the unexpected news, then had to wipe them when he got to his feet. “Hot damn—this is something to celebrate,” he beamed, then began to pace. “Doc, look, we’ve been friends a long time. I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but what you should do—hear me out, now—you should get in your boat, haul your stubborn ass over there, and ask that woman to marry you.”
Ford had asked her. That’s why he’d held off until tonight before agreeing to meet Lady Gillian and members of her family for a week of bonefishing on Flamingo Cay. It was their way of thanking him for a job well done.
“I’ll think about it,” Ford said. He tilted his head back and finished a second drink that, foul as it was, freed him to say, “The worst that could happen is, she’d say no.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Randy Wayne White is the author of twenty-four Doc Ford novels, most recently Deep Blue and Cuba Straits; the Hannah Smith novels Gone, Deceived, Haunted, and Seduced; 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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