Dead of Night df-12

by Randy Wayne White

  I paused outside the Red Pelican Gift Shop next to the bait tanks, my eyes taking it in, attempting to fix the scene, in memory: seeing the docks, the sky, the multicolored lights, the rows of boats. Seeing islanders mingling near picnic tables covered with platters of food; the marina’s Christmas tree-actually, an Australian pine, twelve feet tall-decorated with fishing lures, and greetings cards from clients around the nation. Beneath the tree were stacked piles of presents, brightly wrapped and bowed.

  Frieda had liked this place. She would have enjoyed being here now.

  Beside me, Rona said, “Gee, what a great little marina. It’s kind of warm and old-timey, the way the shops are built next to the docks. Everything wooden, but like the wood has gotten way too much sun. And I love the Christmas decorations. I can see why so many people are here.”

  This edition of P’COT had attracted a big crowd, which was not unexpected. Dusk on the islands is a soft, sociable time of gathering. There are subtleties of color, scent, and sound that can only be appreciated outdoors, which is why almost everyone heads for the beach or the bay.

  On this Friday evening, along with the couple of dozen marina inhabitants there were also several dozen guests. Everyone roamed the docks, drinks in hand, ricocheting from one convivial pod of souls to another, while Captain Buffett sang about gypsies in the castle, then the Beach Boys sang about St. Nick’s sled of candy apple red, music blasting from speakers mounted atop the fly bridge of Dieter Rasmussen’s Grand Banks trawler, Das Stasi.

  Dieter is the resident shrink, a duly licensed psychiatrist, and an expert on all kinds of things related to the human brain. He and his stunning live-in Jamaican girlfriend, Mira, were sitting aft in swivel chairs. They waved. I pointed to my watch, telling them I’d stop by in a few minutes.

  I searched the crowd, looking for the Internet guru. He was standing with a group of locals that included Laken. Lake was wearing shorts and an oversized Red Sox baseball jersey. Tomlinson was dressed in… a suit? Yep. One of the white silk suits he’d mentioned. Looked like a rock star. Or a homeless drunk who’d gotten lucky at some Salvation Army store.

  The two of them had become buddies. It was easily read in their brotherly chiding, the private laughter. They did things together when they could: batting practice, sailing; a lot of time hanging out-which was worrisome until Lake took me aside and asked me to tell Tomlinson to knock off the antidrug sermons.

  Straight-faced, I’d replied, “We’re talking about the same Tomlinson?”

  Yes, the same.

  Tomlinson was worried about being a poor role model, so he’d been overcompensating, hammering out lectures on the dangers of cannabis and similar evils. It was getting tiresome, Lake informed me. He had no interest in the stuff to begin with, and asked me to tell Tomlinson to resume his own drug use-or whatever it was he did-because, lately, the man had been a pious, strung-out pain in the ass.

  His new role as entrepreneur had something to do with it, too, I was sure.

  But Tomlinson looked relaxed and at home on this night. His eyes had a contented, sedated glaze. He was barefooted; had a red hibiscus blossom tucked into the lapel of his white silk jacket. Both added to the impression of tropical elan.

  I hadn’t been in a mood to socialize but was now glad that I’d come. There was nothing I could do to change what happened to Frieda. Later, I’d give the e-mail documents a more thorough look. Maybe invite Tomlinson to focus his big brain on the puzzle. Lake, too, of course. He’d be flying back to Central America on Sunday, the same day I was leaving for Iowa. So I wanted to spend as much time with him as possible.

  I suspect all parents enjoy secretly watching as their children interact socially. That’s what I did now, taking pleasure in the easy way the boy handled himself; in the shape of his face, his mannerisms, the snatches of his laughter that filtered through the party din. I was so lost in thought that I couldn’t help but stumble a little when I heard:

  “I don’t want to be nosy, but I’ve got to ask: Where’s your girlfriend?”

  I turned to look at Rona. She’d drifted off, but was back again. I stammered for a moment before managing to say, “Huh?”

  “I’m asking about your girl. You’re involved with someone; it shows. But here it is Friday night, and she’s not around. She wasn’t with you in Kissimmee, either. What’s the deal?”

  The lady investigator had recombed her wild surfer’s hair to the side-different but interesting. I noticed that her eyes were a lucent amber in the late light.

  “Her name’s Dewey, and she’s living in Iowa. We were good friends, then it became more than that. She’s pregnant. My child. The baby’s due mid-May.”

  Pregnant. That jarred her, but not for long. “An Iowa girl? You’re not the kind of guy who preys on tourist ladies looking for a fling. They’re plenty like that in Florida, but you’re not one of them.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How’d you get together?”

  “Dewey’s not a tourist; she’s local. Owns a house on Captiva, but Iowa is where she wants to be right now. It’s a little farm; been in her family for generations. Nesting instinct?” I shrugged. “Tradition, maybe. I visit when I can. I leave Sunday to spend Christmas.”

  “She moved away?” I found the undertone of disapproval unsettling. “You two are having a child, but she’s halfway across the country? That’s an… interesting arrangement.”

  “She’s got midwestern roots; sees Iowa as a healthier, safer place. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “Safer. I see.” Her flat tone said I was being stupid.

  “Yes, safer.”

  “Whoa, whoa. Don’t get pissed off, Doc. I saw that flash in your eyes. Holy cripes, like sparks. No offense intended.”

  “I’m not offended. Unusual people sometimes make unusual decisions. That’s one of the reasons I like her.”

  Rona stared at me intensely for a moment with her Polynesian-colored eyes, her expression puzzled: What makes you tick?

  “I don’t know your girl. I’ve never been in her position. Don’t go getting bigheaded, but it’s hard to imagine being with a man who makes a woman feel safer than you. On Night’s Landing, the way you handled yourself. Dealing with that shark. What you’ve just described between you and your girlfriend sounds more like a test than a relationship.”

  I glanced away as she added, “I’ve been tested a time or two. Personally, I don’t think lovers give tests unless they secretly expect their partner to fail. Or want them to fail.”

  I found her quick assessment unfair, but I avoid debate when the subject’s personal and private. I heard myself chuckle in the way men do when they want to dismiss the complicated subject of relationships by trivializing it. “I don’t pretend to understand women. Especially pregnant women. I do whatever it takes to make her happy.”

  Rona replied cryptically, “When men say things like that, they think they’re kidding. They’re actually right. But only half right.”

  She looked toward the docks then and waved. “Hey, there’s your friend Mack. I think I’ll go join the party.”

  23

  LOG

  17 Dec. Friday 21:17 (addendum)

  … The conjunction of visible planets confirms the existence of unseen planets, all fixed in orbit by gravity, a calculable force. Does a single force link Applebee, Frieda, assault/murder, African exotics, a 17-year-old prophecy, and water?

  Standing behind me, looking over my shoulder as I sat at the computer, Tomlinson said, “Laken and I aren’t going to be shocked if you admit you know something about cryptography. Scout’s honor, no need to play innocent. Tell us the difference between secret code and a cipher. Or maybe they’re the same thing.”

  It was nearly midnight. The party was still going strong. Only a few hundred feet of water separated us from music and loud laughter-Christmas carols in Spanish now. I could see silhouettes of people dancing on the docks, doing the salsa or merengue through the screened windows.


  I’d left Rona chatting with Mack and the guides, men clustered around. She told me she had a hotel room, not to worry, she’d be just fine. I didn’t doubt it. For a woman who claimed to have grown up gawky, she enjoyed being among men, and knew how to hold court.

  Despite her prying questions, it didn’t take long for us to get back on friendly terms, which was a relief. So, in good conscience, I’d returned home.

  Tomlinson and Lake agreed to follow when they were ready.

  When they joined me in the lab, I told them what had happened to Frieda, and Applebee. Tomlinson focused in when I mentioned Asperger’s syndrome, which suggested he knew something about it. Then I opened the computer documents, including Frieda’s note to me.

  He’d met Frieda, and he’d seen Applebee’s remarkable diorama, so Tomlinson was moved by what she’d written:

  Hey, Doc. You’re the only guy I know with the background to understand Jobe’s files, attached here. Remember me telling you my brother used numbers as words? He also associated numbers with stuff like moods and emotions. Colors, too. Quite a few Aspie kids do this.

  He told me 4 was the only true number because it had four letters. Numbers you could trust were 99 and 66, because they had value even upside down. 3, 6, and 13 were yellow numbers. 2 and 5 were red. 8 was blue.

  He was a special brother, and I will miss him every day of my life. Maybe it’s my twin’s intuition, but I have a feeling that Jobe stumbled onto something bad that got him killed. It scared him enough to send his computer to me for safekeeping.

  I’ve already set up some meetings with his clients, and started poking around. Nothing’s going to stop me from finding out why someone would hurt such a gentle person.

  He’d have wanted these files to go to you, Doc. Opposite sides of the same coin…

  She’d signed it: See you soon!

  I would not be seeing her soon. The lady was now sealed away in a refrigerated locker at the county medical examiner’s office… or maybe already on a stainless steel table. She would soon be further diminished by a hole in a Tallahassee cemetery, or an um, into which she would shrink and shrink and shrink in memory until she vanished into infinity.

  Frieda Matthews was a good one. A fine person who was dear and bright and solid. I admired her intellect. I liked the sound of her laughter. I valued her as a person. The transition from animate to the inanimate occurs in a microsecond. It is the interval of a flame extinguished, but it is an eternal microsecond. I would never see her again.

  I kept her message on the computer screen long enough to read twice. Then I opened the documents from a folder labeled:

  TROPICANE/EPOC.

  At the top of the first page, first document, was written: DO NOT LET THEM FIND THIS!

  A note from brother to sister.

  Someone had been after his computer.

  Otherwise, the pages consisted of nothing but numbers. Digits were sometimes separated by spaces, rarely punctuation. An occasional period or colon.

  Studying the screen, Tomlinson and my son both reacted with the muted grunts and sentence fragments that signal confusion.

  “That message at the top-who doesn’t he want to have this?”

  I said, “The people who were trying to beat information out of him the night I came along. The ones who also maybe killed his sister. I’m speculating.”

  Lake whistled softly. “Shouldn’t the federales know? Or the police?”

  The boy spoke English without accent, but he sometimes used Spanish words unconsciously. “The feds know. I’ll forward these files to the FBI, but there’s no reason for us not to try and decode them. Maybe we’ll learn something.”

  Lake put his hand on my shoulder, as Tomlinson used a favorite phrase: “It is time for us to put on the ol’ thinking caps, my brothers.” Added: “Which means at least one of us will need beer. Several, in fact.”

  Tomlinson returned from the galley carrying a galvanized bucket heavy with ice and bottles. As he opened a beer and took a long gulp, I told them what I remembered about cryptography.

  Tomlinson’s guess was right. I’ve dealt with various forms of secret writing. I’ve had to create methods of encrypting messages, and also tried to crack messages that had been encoded-too seldom successfully.

  I shared the basics: Code substitutes groups of letters or figures for words or phrases. Shorthand is code. Police radio-speak is code-“10-4” means affirmative. In Morse code, SOS is three dots, three dashes, three dots.

  A cipher, in contrast, is text in which every letter is assigned a substitute. Done well, the text is unreadable to all but those who possess the cipher’s key.

  I’d asked Frieda if there were any numbers larger than twenty-six, because the simplest form of cipher uses numbers in place of an alphabetical counterpart. If A is 1, B is 2, and Z becomes 26. The cipher’s key can be shifted: If A is 25, B may be 24, and Z is 0.

  A quick look told me this was more complicated. I touched the computer screen as I explained why. Many of the numbers were in blocks of four, set apart by spaces. There were also blocks of eight, though fewer.

  I said, “A typical document doesn’t contain that many four- or eight-letter words, but I still think it’s a form of substitution cipher. Dr. Applebee knew it well enough to create long documents, which suggests that there’s consistency in the substitution system. If there is, we’ll figure it out.”

  A good cipher system cloaks repetition, I told them.

  “That’s why the Nazi’s Enigma cipher was so tough for the Brits to crack. The Germans used a machine similar to a typewriter, but it had a series of wheels that changed the alphabetical sequence by one letter after every twenty-six keystrokes.”

  Otherwise, I said, patterns become obvious. Certain letters of the alphabet, specific combinations, are used more than others. The same is true of certain words, particularly short words.

  “The most frequently used letters in English are E, T, A, O, and N, in that order. The way I remember is to think of ‘Estimated Time of Arrival, ON.’ The next most commonly used letters are I, R, and S, as in Internal Revenue. Easy. Beyond that, I’ve forgotten. I’ll put it down on paper for you.”

  I described other decoding tricks: contact analysis, and also the most commonly used double letters.

  “Keep in mind that Applebee created the system for himself, nobody else. The guy had Asperger’s syndrome. What may’ve seemed sequential to him might seem unlikely to us. His sister told me their neuron pathways function differently.”

  Tomlinson surprised me, saying, “I may be able to relate to an Aspie better than you think. A month or so ago, Deet took me aside, and asked me a bunch of questions about what I was like as a kid. He kept me cornered for an hour or so.”

  “Deet” was Dieter Rasmussen, the German shrink with the beautiful boat.

  “You didn’t mention it.”

  “No. It would’ve sounded like I was blowing my horn. You know how some people talk about their flaws, but in a way that actually glorifies? A major turnoff, which I try to avoid. Deet told me he thought I have a touch of Asperger’s syndrome.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Some of the characteristics he described, I have to agree. Wired differently? No one’s going to argue that one, compadre. When I was a kid, I preferred being alone to socializing. I transposed words, wrote my sevens backward-which is why I still cross sevens and my gs. And my interests tended to be, oh, shall we say, just to the right of lunatic obsessive.”

  He used both hands to shoo it away as if unimportant. “The other stuff, though-lack of imagination, the temper tantrums-don’t fit. But Dieter said symptoms vary. A touch of Asperger’s can be a good thing. Thoreau, Thomas Edison, Isaac Newton, a bunch of others-they were undiagnosed Asperger’s people. It’s common in the arts and sciences.”

  I said, “If it helps you crack these files, I hope he’s right. We don’t have much time. Lake and I are both supposed to leave day after tomorrow.”

 
; My son said slowly, “Yeah, Doc, but we don’t have to leave. Maybe you do, but I don’t.” He was looking at me, gauging my reaction. I got the impression he was testing to see if I’d risk upsetting Dewey by postponing my trip.

  Interesting. He’d met the woman. They appeared to get along fine. Yet, he’d thrown this out to measure something, I felt sure. Maybe to find out how much independence I’d retained, how much I’d forfeited to the woman who would soon be the mother of his half sibling.

  There were complicated subissues involved. Children are no less complicated than adults-survival requires heightened awareness in primate young. I had to tread lightly.

  I said, “Your mother isn’t my biggest fan to begin with, and letting you stay longer wouldn’t raise my stock. If you’re not home by Sunday, she’ll never let you come back. Let’s not risk it.”

  Lake tilted his head-part shrug, part nod of concession-which told me that he was aware I’d dodged his deeper question.

  Tomlinson, however, seemed oblivious to the subtext, because he plowed ahead. “The boy’s right, Doc. It’s no accident that the secret files of Jobe Applebee got dropped in our laps. We have a moral obligation to see this thing through-no matter what it reads on your plane tickets. We don’t choose our evils; our evil chooses us.”

  I said nothing-Lake had to leave Sunday because what I’d said about his mother was true. She’d never let him return. Even so, I listened as Tomlinson asked, “What are the chances we’ll crack these files within the next day or so?”

  I said, “Zero. Even if we discover the cipher’s key, we’d still have to create an algorithm that would convert it from numbers to letters. Either that or translate it one word at a time. Ransom probably knows enough about computers to do the programming, but we’re still talking days. Maybe weeks.”

  Tomlinson had anticipated the answer. “Okay, then here’s what we need to do.” He nodded to me. “Let’s drive to Kissimmee tomorrow and find where Frieda was killed. Take a look around, see what makes sense, what doesn’t. If her death was accidental, then this deciphering gig is no longer a moral priority. You can both fly off as planned. But if we see something that tells us the lady was murdered, then that’s our dharma. You can no more run off to Iowa than we can hear the sound of one hand clapping.”