Tampa Burn df-11

by Randy Wayne White

  Yes, I knew what he meant.

  Checking my watch, I said, “He was supposed to give us until Sunday to get the medicine together. Now all of a sudden, he’s in a rush. It’s twenty till five now. It’s a two-and-a-half-hour drive from Sanibel to St. Pete, yet he expects you to get his message to us, then for us to pack and get on the road in time to be at the Skyway by sunset? That’s cutting it damn close.”

  Kong had a huge, dumb-looking face, but he had perceptive amber eyes that didn’t miss much. “You think he knows that you’re here? That we’re together?”

  “Maybe. Shoving the deadline up like this, he’s acting like something’s spooked him. I came up Bullfrog Creek by boat. I have a strong suspicion that Lourdes and my son have been staying somewhere on or near the creek. Are you absolutely certain you don’t know where he is? Not even a guess?”

  Kong got an ugly look on his face. “I ain’t tellin’ you again, buster. I don’t have a clue. Far as I know, I’ve never seen him, and don’t know where he is.”

  I said, “Then maybe he got a look at me when I was coming up the creek. Or maybe he’s got neighbors helping as lookouts. There are a couple of old trailer parks I came past. How easy would it be for him to get other carnies to help him out?”

  Kong said, “If they knew he was a kidnapper? Zero. But if he convinced them he was in the business, and if he gave them some bullshit story-his asshole ex-wife wants his car repossessed-there’s a kind of carney code. We don’t help outsiders get inside, and we protect our own from the outside.”

  “Then maybe that’s it. Someone saw me, got suspicious. Now he’s panicky.”

  “That doesn’t sound good for your son.”

  “No. Not good.” I had my billfold out. From it, I took the plastic key to my room at the Vinoy and slid it to him. “You’re working for me now. O.K.?”

  The huge man shrugged. “The idea of some kid getting burned alive don’t exactly appeal to me. So, yeah, I guess I don’t have much choice.”

  “Good. Then here’s what I want you to do. Call Lourdes right now and tell him that you made contact with me. Tell him that we’ve got everything, and we can deliver it tonight. But it’s just me and you making the drop. Also, tell him I want to know how we’re doing the exchange. I’m supposed to get something in return. I’m supposed to get my son-which you know nothing about, of course. Tell him I want to know how it’s going to work.”

  Kong said, “I can ask him, but I think he’ll do it like before. Tell us what to do step by step, over the phone, while we’re driving.”

  I said, “Call and ask anyway. After that, I want you to drive back to my hotel, get the money, pick up the medicine. You’re going alone. You’re going to pretend like I’m with you, because I’m staying in Gibsonton…” I paused, thinking it through. “Hold it, that won’t work-”

  Boats and cars. The logistics were always difficult. Plus, there was an additional problem.

  After another moment, I said, “That won’t work because the hotel isn’t going to give you anything from the safe, even if I call and tell them it’s O.K.”

  Kong had a bitter sense of humor. “You’re kiddin’. They’re not gonna hand over a suitcase full a money to a nice-lookin’ guy like me?”

  I stood, now in a hurry to leave. “Which means that you’re going to have to drive me to the Vinoy. Fast. Then drop me at my boat. You take the money and the medicine. You let Lourdes drive you all over town, jump through all his hoops. You’re still going to be consulting me-every time you make a move, call me on my cell phone. But don’t let him know I’m not with you. You keep him busy. That’ll give me a chance to take a close look around those trailer parks.”

  “But what if the guy really plans on swapping you the kid for the money? He’ll have your son with him. Or somewhere staked close by.”

  I said, “I hope he does. If that’s the way it goes, take good care of my boy till I get there. But I don’t see it happening that way. Not this early in the game.”

  Twenty minutes later, as we crossed the Howard Frankland Bridge in Kong’s black pickup truck with the silver-tinted windows and monster tires, country music blaring, he said after fifteen minutes of silence, “You gonna go off and trust me with a half-million dollars cash. Just like that?”

  I’d been thinking about that, too. “I’ve got a friend in town named Harris. I might ask him to ride along with you, just for the hell of it. But if he’s busy? Well, Kong, I found you once. I can find you again.”

  AT the Vinoy, Kong waited outside in his truck while I signed for the two gray photographer’s briefcases made of shockproof miracle resin and carried them upstairs to my room. I opened the smaller of the two just to make certain: looked at the neatly packed stacks of U.S. fifties and hundreds, each bound in paper sleeves that read Banco Nacional de Masagua.

  Early that morning, Pilar had bristled when I’d asked if she’d done even a rough count. Her friend Kahlil, she said, had already counted it, and that was good enough.

  With my son’s life potentially on the line, it wasn’t good enough for me, but I couldn’t take the time to count it now. So I snapped the case closed and began to strip off my clothes, while at the same time, I walked to the desk and used Tomlinson’s laptop to sign on to the Internet.

  Wearing only undershorts, I sat at the desk when I saw that I had a new e-mail from an address that was a random series of letters at Nicarado. org.

  I opened it to find a note from Lourdes. It had been sent less than an hour earlier.

  He’d written in English for the first time: Our Florida people want you to be at the north side of the Sunshine Skyway, St. Petersburg, at 7:30. Have everything. A person you will recognize will meet you. He’ll be in a black pickup truck. You’ll get your brat back in a week or so. After you deliver another half-million cash. How’s it feel to be the fuckee for a change! Here’s a couple of words from your brat.

  After a series of spaces was a very short note from Lake. It read: Dear Doc, The Cubs have been hitting like they have an extra eye, so maybe another World Series run? So you know this is really me, I was thinking about our talk concerning Charles Darwin when he discussed why only certain primates can talk and why other mammals can’t. Hope to see you very soon, Laken

  I reread the note several times, trying to control my breathing, trying to stay calm. It wasn’t easy.

  Lourdes’ note, I took mostly at face value. The exception was his threat to continue the extortion for another week. It was possible that he meant it, but my instincts told me it was a red herring. He was planning on moving. Planning to take off. Tonight, probably, after he got the money and the medicine.

  My son’s note was more subtle, but contained far more interesting information.

  If I thought about my trip up the river into Gibsonton, Lake’s words and references took on exceptional meaning. There was a key word and a key reference in those few sentences that were too telling to be coincidental.

  “Cub” was one of those words. That he referenced mammals that cannot talk was another.

  My brilliant son had done it again.

  I dug through my overnight bag and pulled on dark blue twill slacks and a black T-shirt. I jammed my old navy blue watch cap into a pocket as I grabbed the money and the medicine, and headed toward the door.

  I knew where my son was being held captive.

  But then I stopped. I made one more phone call.

  The World’s Strongest Tattooed Giant dropped me at the Tampa Yacht and Country Club on Interbay Boulevard, just north of Ballast Point Park, at 6:45 P.M. Harris Lilly was there waiting. He told me where my skiff was moored, then got in the truck with Kong. I watched them drive away toward the rendezvous in St. Petersburg.

  From the phone in my hotel room, I’d given my naval intelligence pal the short version of what was going on. By telling him, I’d broken my word to Pilar, but that meant nothing now. Rescuing Lake was all that mattered.

  Harris listened in silence, asked a c
ouple of good questions, accepting what I had to say without much emotion or comment. There’s a strong sense of brotherhood among the international intelligence community. Nothing he heard seemed to surprise him.

  I finished, saying, “When Lourdes was bouncing us around Miami, he did it by boat. It’s an easy way to orchestrate things and make sure your target’s not being tailed. I think he’ll do the same thing tonight. If I don’t find my son in Gibsonton, I think I’ll find him somewhere on Tampa Bay. I want to be on the water, waiting for him. That’s why I need you taking care of things on land.”

  Harris said he was not only willing to help, he was eager.

  “It doesn’t sound like I have to do anything illegal,” he said. “Just ride around in a vehicle and pretend like I’m you. That can’t be too hard. What about the guy I’ll be with, though. Do you trust him? Should I be carrying?”

  By that, he meant should he carry a concealed firearm.

  I told Harris, “I don’t really know him. He’s a huge guy, a muscle freak. And kind of a redneck jerk. But in a weird way, yeah, I think I do trust him. I think he’ll play by the rules.”

  I told him that I’d carry the gun anyway, though.

  So now I watched my naval intelligence buddy ride away with Kong before I walked toward the club’s modern marina, past a complex of tennis courts-which reminded me of Dewey. She’d almost certainly played here many times during her years at the tennis academy in nearby Bradenton.

  I felt a genuine longing for the girl. I missed hearing her voice. Missed being able to tell her what was going on in my life.

  I wished I could now take the little rental cell phone that was in my pocket, dial her number, and say, “I think I finally know where he is.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The wind had calmed, as if suctioned through a hole in the earth’s atmosphere by the westwarding sun. It was orbiting low in the sky astern as I ran my skiff at speed across Hillsborough Bay, the sun’s color the smoldering yellow of a tropic moon. Its starburst rays touched the Tampa skyline-a random geometric, like a Wyoming geode-and it set ablaze canyons of tinted glass and steel.

  I kept my eyes focused to the southwest: the tall navigational towers that marked the channel into the Alafia River, and the entrance to Gibsonton.

  Earlier, during my trip up Bullfrog Creek, I’d paid attention to detail. I remembered what I saw there. I remembered the old trailer park where a woman had watched us while sweeping in her yard. Remembered that a large man had stared at us from the shadows. And I remembered the carnival wagon with the gaudy marquee that advertised a bear with three eyes and a dog named Dezi who could talk.

  My son had written that the Cubs were hitting as if they had a third eye.

  He’d also invented a discussion that he and I had never had concerning something Darwin didn’t write: the inability of certain mammals to talk.

  That would include a dog named Dezi.

  Lake was being held somewhere within the vicinity of that carnival wagon. Maybe in that very trailer. He couldn’t have described it to me more plainly.

  Did he know that I’d been nearby? Had he seen me? Or had he somehow read it in Lourdes’ behavior?

  I wondered.

  I checked my watch: 7:15. There was still slightly more than forty-five minutes until sunset. I didn’t want to start searching the trailer park until after dark. But if Lourdes had a boat somewhere up Bullfrog Creek, I knew there was a slim chance of getting a glimpse of him exiting the mouth of the creek, heading for the Sunshine Skyway.

  I’d be able to see if he was alone, or if he had my son with him.

  I was running at a comfortable 4700 rpm, which is around 50 statute miles an hour. I trimmed the big 225-Merc slightly and ran it up to 5700 rpm, flying across Hillsborough Bay at close to 60 miles an hour, blasting a rainbow-colored rooster tail.

  At 45 mph in an open boat, the eyeballs begin to flutter. At 55, they begin to get teary. I turned my head away slightly to spare my vision. Off to starboard, I could see a decrepit-looking freighter, rust-streaked, green paint peeling beneath a dusty coat of phosphate. It was riding low in the water, outward bound. It had just exited the Alafia River Channel. What Harris called the scariest three miles of commercial water around.

  Two muscle-bound tugs had just released the vessel, from the looks of things. The tugboats Colonel and Tampa had their sterns to me, heading north toward the port as I planed closer to the phosphate ship.

  All freighters have descending numbers painted vertically like measuring sticks on the outside of their hulls, a strip located forward, another amidships, and a third just forward the stern. These 6-inch numerals are called “draft marks.” Water was waking midway along the faded “29” on this vessel, so I knew it was drawing twenty-nine feet or so of water. I also noticed a pilot ladder hanging off the side of the ship-a solid-looking rope ladder with wooden rungs. Every fifth rung was a spreader, which is an extra-wide rung to prevent the ladder from twisting.

  One of Harris’s Tampa pilot colleagues was aboard. It was his job to navigate this ship several miles offshore, and then, without the freighter stopping, he would skitter down that ladder and onto a local pilot transport boat, which would take him home to Egmont Key, an island five miles to the west of the Sunshine Skyway Bridge.

  I crossed behind the freighter close enough to read the big gray letters on its stern: REPATRIATE MONROVIA, LIBERIA

  An appropriate name, considering that country’s history. Maritime companies who own unsafe, outdated commercial vessels usually register them in countries like Liberia, where inspectors are more easily bribed-if there are inspections at all.

  I waved at the wheelhouse just in case the American pilot was looking. A fellow pilot of his was doing me a hell of a favor.

  I steered sharply east again, quartering the freighter’s long, rolling wake. Ahead, in the far distance, was a small sailboat, its sail a gilded ivory in the late sun.

  It was about the size of No Mas, but I knew that it couldn’t be Tomlinson. It was much too early for my purist sailor friend to be arriving in Tampa Bay.

  But it brought his image to mind. Brought back the talk we’d had early that morning, the two of us walking the beach toward Sanibel’s Lighthouse Point.

  It gave me something to think about as I crossed the last three miles of open water to Bullfrog Creek.

  Our talk had been more like a confession. Tomlinson’s confession.

  He was right. What he had to tell me put our friendship at serious risk. Knowingly, what he told me also put his own freedom, even his life, at risk.

  “We should have had this conversation months ago, Doc,” he said. “I feel guilty as hell, man, because I’ve been putting it off. I know it’s cowardly, but it’s because I’m scared. I know that what I have to say might change everything between us. Forever.”

  It had to do with the realization that he’d suffered a severe memory loss earlier in his life. Tomlinson told me that no one seemed to take him seriously when he said he couldn’t remember writing One Fathom Above Sea Level, but it was true.

  He said, “Look man, I realize I’m a figure of fun around the marina. That’s fine. I dig the role. Hell, I play the role. But when I read One Fathom, I went into a kind of identity shock. Some of the stuff I’d written all those years ago, it was so powerful. Some of it was so pure. It scared me. How could I possibly have created something so beautiful, yet have absolutely zero memory of doing it?”

  Tomlinson added, “I began to wonder, and fret: What other important events in my life had totally disappeared from my memory. And why? It had to be more than the drugs, man. Not even I used that many drugs.”

  As we walked the beach, he told me about it. He was so troubled by the mystery that he began to do research into his own personal history. Finally, as I knew, early the previous winter he disappeared from the islands without telling anyone where he was going, without saying goodbye. He’d was gone for nearly four months, and then returned without
explanation.

  “I went to try and find out what happened to me,” he said. “I went back to my old university. Hung out with some of my old friends. I wanted to pick up the trail because it was during college, during that time of my life, that I lost my own personal trail. I lost my path, and I also lost great big chunks of my memory. It didn’t take me long to figure out what’d happened.”

  On the beach, he had stopped abruptly, lifted his scraggly hair, and pointed to a burn scar on the side of his head. The scar was shaped a little bit like a lightning bolt-ironic because he’d gotten the burn as the result of lightning.

  “Electricity did it to me. Wiped parts of my memory bank clean, and it also screwed with my personality. Maybe for the better. Because, from what I discovered, I was a serious candidate for Asshole of the Decade before it happened.”

  I said, “Before you got struck by lightning? That was only a few years back.”

  “No. The memory loss, the personality change, were both caused by the electroshock treatments. I’ve told you about it. The ones I got a year or so after writing One Fathom. It was just after the bomb that killed the sailor at the San Diego naval base.

  “The guilt, man, seeing those smoking bodies on TV. I went insane. No other way to put it. They gave me shock treatments when my father had me institutionalized. Strapped me down on the table every day for weeks. I think they way overdid it. I was so screwed up, I’d write letters and sign them ‘Sincerely as a fucking loon.’ And I meant it.”

  He continued, “It took me a while, but I tracked down the physician who’d administered the shock treatments to me. The zapper. The guy went on to become a brilliant psychiatrist, a great healer. I have something I want to show you. To explain what happened to me. He wrote me this letter.”

  Tomlinson handed me two pages typed on the personal stationery of a California physician. We were standing on a section of dune near the Sanibel Beach Club. This early, people were already up there playing tennis, hanging out by the pool. I adjusted my glasses and read the letter quickly, skipping some of the more detailed portions: Dear Mr. Tomlinson: I must have administered electroshock to at least a thousand patients as a resident. I detested doing it. I apologize to you now. I wish I could apologize to them all individually… The nurses would bring the patient in on a rolling cot, get an I.V. going, and I would put in sodium amytal. I remember that many of the patients had severe halitosis and I had to hover over them, close as a lover, and I felt guilty and obscene… Then I would place the electrodes on their heads, two shiny steel plates, about 1.5 inches in diameter, fastened tightly above the ears, and add a gel sticky with saline for good contact… When all was ready, I took a rubber doorstop, usually red, sometimes brown, shaped like a wedge and wrapped with sterile gauze. I placed that thing in their mouth so when they bit down they would not break their teeth… On the electroconvulsive therapy machine, there were two dials. One was the strength of the current and the other was a timer for the duration of the shock. I set the parameters according to the age, sex, weight, and medical condition of the patient. I would then give a couple of whiffs of oxygen to the patient, inject Anectine, and watch until the patient stopped breathing. That meant all the muscles were paralyzed. I would then reach back behind me, hit the contact switch, and watch a small muscular tremor in the patient that indicated electric current passing through his brain. The usual course of “treatment” was two weeks, every other day. Judging from the severity of your memory loss, however, Mr. Tomlinson, I suspect you are one of the few who received a far more aggressive course. Some doctors insisted on administering ECT twice a day for as long as it took to get the patient to be incontinent. Those people became zombies. Again, Mr. Tomlinson, I apologize. It was my duty as a resident to carry out the orders of those above me. If I objected, my residency would have been over. It was the accepted treatment of the day. I have many stories of things that happened. Some horrid, some funny, always poignant. I enclose an article from a medical journal concerning memory loss caused by ECT. You may find it enlightening.