Night Vision

by Randy Wayne White

I said, “Knock it off, Tomlinson. She has to work tomorrow. We can take my truck or your VW. Either way, we’ve got a long drive. If we’re going, let’s go.”

  Emily stood, neatening papers to return to my Sharks of Lake Nicaragua file. “We’ll take my car,” she said. “He’s right, my Jaguar’s fast. As in, scary fast. I’ll call my office in the morning. I can take a personal day if we don’t make it back tonight. Is there a hotel near this place we’re going?”

  I said, “Yes. Sort of,” remembering a Bates Motel-looking place at the edge of town called Sawgrass Motor Court. I felt like I should offer her another chance to beg off but didn’t want to risk it. Instead I said, “Immokalee’s only an hour, maybe forty minutes, in a decent vehicle. Don’t worry about it, we’ll be back here before one-thirty in the morning. Probably earlier.”

  “Or we could stay at my cottage,” she offered. “It’s not Sanibel—but what is? You’ll like it, though. It’s an old Florida Cracker house”—she was looking around my lab—“sort of like this. All yellow pine. Wood so hard, you can still smell the turpentine sap when you drill. I have two bedrooms, and it’s close to the Interstate—on the river, near Alva.”

  Tomlinson was standing at the printer now, waiting for something to finish. His eagerness to get on the road, all as his nervous energy, was suddenly gone.

  He handed me several printouts. One was a map of Immokalee, churches and restaurants marked. Another was a Google Earth satellite photo. It took me a moment to realize it was the four hundred acres that Melinski had mentioned. According to tax records, it was owned by Harris Squires’s mother.

  I was using a magnifying glass on the satellite shot, seeing what might have been an RV hidden in the trees, as Tomlinson said, “Doc, can I talk to you for a minute? Alone.”

  I replied, “If it has something to do with Emily, go ahead and say it.” Then I had to wonder why my normally talkative pal suddenly went very quiet.

  It took several seconds before Tomlinson finally said to Emily, “I don’t want to upset you, but I get premonitions sometimes. That’s why I was asking you about Doc. I wanted to see if your karmas are connected.”

  Emily said, “Our karmas?” as if she didn’t understand but was willing to listen.

  “I’m a psychic sensitive,” Tomlinson told her, pouring himself another shot of Patrón. “An empathetic, too. In fact—and this is something I don’t share this with many people—I was employed by our own damn government as an expert on what they called remote viewing. I’d have never done it if I’d known who was paying me. Ask the good doctor if you don’t believe me.”

  I nodded a confirmation. While still in college, Tomlinson had worked for the CIA during a time in history when the Soviets and the U.S. had recruited people who, after completing a very bizarre military test, were believed to have paranormal powers. The CIA called the project Operation Stargate. Stargate was fully funded by Congress until 1995, when wiser heads prevailed.

  Tomlinson was looking at the woman, his voice soft, as he continued, “I just found something that gives me a very bad feeling about Emily making this trip. For Doc and me, it doesn’t matter. We’ve lived and died a dozen times. But you ... you’re fresh, you’re new. I’ve got a feeling something bad’s going to happen tonight if you go to Immokalee. It’s because of your karmic linkage with Doc and me.”

  “Are you stoned?” Emily asked him, serious.

  “I was,” he replied, giving it some thought. “Cannabis interruptus—the girl’s disappearance has completely screwed up my schedule. On a lunar scale, I’d say I’m closer to the Sea of Crises than the Sea of Tranquillity. We can share a spliff if you want—but later. Right now, I’d like you to take a look at this.”

  Emily’s expression asked me Is he for real? as she reached for a photo he was handing her, something he’d just printed from the Internet. I intercepted the thing and took a look. It was a pen-andink drawing from the time of the Spanish Inquisition. A Mayan pyramid in the background. In the foreground, a woman, tied to a ladder, was being tilted toward a roaring fire by Conquistadors.

  I passed the drawing to Emily as I asked, “What does this have to do with her, for Christ’s sake? You’re getting her upset for no reason.”

  “Look at the face,” Tomlinson replied, voice calm now but concerned. “I don’t know why it caught my eye, but it did. There’s a connection. I’m not sure what, but I don’t think Emily should go with us.”

  “You think this woman looks like me?” Emily asked. “I’m flattered, I guess. We’re both dressed in white, is that what you’re saying? If it wasn’t for the gown, she could be a nice-looking boy.”

  After a moment, she added, “Our cheekbones, I guess, are similar, and . . . she has a sort of plain face, like mine. But don’t most women have plain faces? And the hair’s completely different.”

  The image of the adolescent girl, Tula Choimha, came into my mind. I wondered why Tomlinson didn’t make the association, it was so obvious. But why lend credence to a preposterous assertion by asking a pointless question?

  Emily handed the drawing back to me as she said to Tomlinson, “It’s sweet of you, but, come on, be serious. I don’t believe in this sort of thing. If you don’t want me tagging along, just say so. All of that pseudoscience nonsense—precognition, astrology, clairvoyance, numerology. Sorry, I’ve never been able to take that sort of thing seriously.”

  The woman put her hand on my shoulder. “Doc, talk some sense into him, would you?”

  Tomlinson replied, “It’s called tempting fate when we ignore our own instincts.”

  He turned to me. “I really don’t think she should go, man. Something bad’s going to happen. I can feel it. If you want, stay here with her, I’ll go to Immokalee on my own. It has something to do with fire, I think.”

  He took the drawing from my hands, giving it serious thought. “That’s what came into my mind when I saw this. Fire ... and pain. Something terrible. Why risk it?”

  I felt ridiculous, caught in the middle. Emily was waiting for me to agree with her—we were both scientists, after all. Tomlinson, my pal, was asking me to respect his instincts.

  To me, it was more than that. Intellectually, I knew there could be no rational linkage between a random drawing and what might or might not happen to Emily on this very real Wednesday night in March.

  Logically, it was absurd. Emotionally, though, I couldn’t let go of the fact—and it is a fact—that Tomlinson’s intuition, although often wrong, is also more than occasionally right.

  As I took the drawing from Tomlinson’s hands, saying, “Let me see that again,” Emily gave me an incredulous look that said You can’t be serious?

  I looked at the thing, paying no attention to the details because I was carrying on an argument in my head. Debating Tomlinson in the comfort of the lab, or sitting over beers aboard his sailboat, is one thing. But human certitude is an indulgence that can be enjoyed only in a cozy and safe environment.

  It irritated me to have to admit it to myself, but, wrong or right, Tomlinson had asked a reasonable question: Why risk it?

  As I placed the drawing on the dissecting table, Emily said to Tomlinson, “We’re not being fair to Doc. I can almost see his mind working. Choose between his best friend or agree with a woman he’s just met? That’s not something he’d do to us, so I’ll make it simple. I withdraw. I’ll see you guys tomorrow evening for drinks, if you want. You can fill me in.”

  I thought I noted some mild sarcasm until the woman slipped her hand beneath my arm and gave a squeeze. I thanked her by placing a hand on her hip and pulling her closer. Truth was, she had a point. Would I back a lady I’d just met? Or remain loyal to an old friend?

  I backed Tomlinson, of course. Sort of.

  “Here’s what I think,” I said, looking at Tomlinson. “Three gringos driving an expensive car will attract too much attention in Immokalee. In a place that small? Especially at this hour. My Spanish is better than yours, and I speak a little Quich�
�. Emily’s not dressed for barhopping. And frankly, Tomlinson, you wouldn’t be an asset, either. There are some cowboy types down there in Immokalee who aren’t real fond of hippies.”

  I felt a perverse jolt of pleasure at the surprise on the man’s face. I interrupted as he tried to protest, telling him, “You say Emily is in danger tonight? It’s not rational, but I’m not going to argue. Which means she should stay here. Either that or you should follow her home just to make sure she gets back safely. I’m going to Immokalee by myself.”

  Tomlinson appeared nonplussed, his expression asking me Is this some sort of test?

  In reply, I smiled and said, “If I can’t trust my best friend to look after a lady in danger, then who can I trust?” To emphasize my point, I stood and squeezed his scarecrow shoulder almost hard enough to make him wince.

  “But I have to go!” he said. “I’m worried sick about that little girl.”

  “Then drive your VW back to Red Citrus and have another look around,” I told him. “Splitting up makes more sense, anyway. We can stay in touch by cell phone. But after Emily is safely home. If I hear something, I’ll call. You do the same.”

  Giving me a look of approval, Emily said to Tomlinson, “Sounds like your pal has made up his mind. Any objections to me coming here tomorrow after work? This is an interesting little marina you have. I bet you two have some stories.”

  I said, “I’m counting on it,” as Tomlinson took a square of paper from his breast pocket, unfolded it to reveal a pencil-thin joint.

  He said, “You’ve gotta love this guy, don’t you? The freaking earth could be wobbling off its axis, anarchy loosed upon the world. But good ol’ Doc will still be trying to do the right thing, in the most rational possible way, wanting the best for all concerned.”

  He held the joint so Emily could see it. “In the meantime, us human humans have time for a couple of hits. Care to join me outside for the pause that refreshes?”

  I was a little surprised that Emily nodded her head. Tomlinson was baiting me, that was apparent, so I ignored them both.

  As I went out the screen door, down the steps toward my shark pen, I was already busy deciding what equipment to take just in case I got lucky and got a lead on the missing girl. The odds were slim, but that was okay. The fact was, it would be a relief to be on the road alone. No more talking, no more debates.

  That feeling stayed with me, even after I had kissed Emily good-bye and I was bouncing down Tarpon Bay Road in my old pickup truck, a canvas backpack sitting square and heavy beside me, traffic sparse.

  In the bag was a Sig Sauer 9mm semiauto pistol, plus the pocketsized Kahr that is fast becoming my favorite handgun. There was an odd assortment of other gear that I usually carry only when outside the country: gloves, a black watch cap, a handheld GPS, a Randall attack/survival knife and a MUM night vision monocular mounted on a headband.

  Just for the hell of it, I had also included the tactical laser light, the Dazer. I hadn’t done enough testing to have confidence it would work on feeding sharks. But the company that made the thing, Laser Energetics, had invested years, and a lot of money, to prove that a small, blinding laser beam could disable a human attacker.

  Had Emily been along and gotten a peek into that bag, she might have been shocked.

  Or would she?

  It was something to think about as I drove across the causeway bridge, the Sanibel Lighthouse strobing to my right, a black fusion of water and stars to my left.

  Maybe not, I decided, judging from who her father was ... or had once been. The man couldn’t have confided even in his daughter, but it was possible that Emily had been inquisitive as a girl and had done some snooping.

  As I passed beneath the tollboth onto a fast four-lane, I checked my watch. It was 10:05 p.m. on this Wednesday night. Tula had been under the steroid freak’s control for at least twelve hours.

  It was an unsettling fact.

  Unless somehow related, grown men kidnap young girls for only one reason. Once their sexual fantasy is satiated, they usually panic and choose murder as a way to obliterate their lesser crime. The only variable is how many hours before the kidnapper has had enough?

  One thing was certain: In twelve hours, the girl had already been victimized.

  But was she still alive?

  TWELVE

  JUST BEYOND A SIGN THAT READ IMMOKALEE 22 MILES, HARRIS Squires locked the gate to his hunting camp behind him, then banged the truck into four-wheel drive, telling himself, Shoot the girl in the back of the head. Stop thinking. Get it over with.

  After what he’d just heard on the radio, about cops finding human bones in the dead alligator’s belly, he had no choice but to do it.

  And he would.

  It was almost noon on Wednesday. The craziness of the previous night—the alligator, the flashing police lights—seemed like a month ago, which might have had something to do with the pint of Cuervo Gold Squires had killed on the ride. Mixed with Red Bull and a Snickers bar, he should have had a good buzz going. But instead his brain felt raw and skittish.

  Beneath his seat, in the hidden compartment, Squires had the .357 Ruger Blackhawk revolver in a canvas bag that was also packed full of cash money.

  The gun was the long-barreled model, chrome with black grips. The cartridges were as thick as his pinkie finger. They were hollow points that would blow the back side out of a watermelon after neatly piercing its rind.

  An unsettling image of the girl’s head came into Squires’s mind of how her face would look after the bullet exited. Skin without a shell and lots of blood. But this wasn’t pretend, there was no going back. Fifi may have missed her chance to kill him, but that fat toad had found a way to totally screw up his life.

  Squires had felt dizzy as the radio announcer’s voice drilled the details through his skull. Then he’d felt physically sick, a nauseating panic deep in his chest that made him want to jump out of the truck and run screaming into the cypress shadows that lay ahead.

  The bones had to belong to the chula Frankie had killed. The one he had bundled into a garbage bag, weighting the body with wire and cement before dragging it to the lake. Squires kept telling himself that, even though he knew there was a chance that the gator had eaten a different dead girl months earlier. The Mexican girl from his sex dream—if the sex dream was real. Which could prove to cops that he was the murderer, not Frankie.

  If it had really happened.

  It was a dream, Squires told himself now, because that’s what he wanted to believe. I didn’t do anything wrong. Or I would remember dragging a body to Fifi’s pen. The Mexican girl probably ran off while I was asleep.

  That made Squires feel a little better. That goddamn Frankie was entirely to blame for this mess. Her with her love for kinky sex, the way she got off on using and abusing Mexican girls. It was some kind of sick power trip . . . or maybe Frankie’s way of punishing younger, prettier women for the saggy way her own body was aging.

  Squires realized that he had never allowed himself to acknowledge just how dangerous the woman was. If he did, then he’d have to admit to himself that the dead chula he had sunk at Red Citrus probably wasn’t the first girl Frankie had killed. There might be at least two others, maybe more.

  It was just a guess, Squires couldn’t prove it because, until they had trucked Fifi out of the hunting camp, Frankie had handled all her personal chula problems on her own.

  Frankie might be getting up there in years, but that woman was still big and strong as hell. She could have stuck a dead chula under each arm and carried the bodies down to Fifi’s pen, no problem.

  That’s why Harris Squires had stayed out of the woman’s way and didn’t ask questions. In his mind, if he ignored the shit Frankie did, it was like it never happened. Plus, on the rare night when a girl disappeared, he was always so screwed up on tequila, grass and crank that it all seemed blurry and unreal, anyway. Sort of like his sex fantasy dream ...

  Until now. Everything in Squires’s lif
e had changed as of last night, and this morning. Now he’d probably go to jail—even the electric chair—because of all the sick and nasty shit Frankie had done.

  Tula had been listening to the radio, too, and paid close attention to how the giant man beside her reacted. She saw Squires’s face mottle, then go pale. It was a rancid color, like the faces of sunbaked corpses she had seen on village streets as a child. That caused her to think of her father, the way he had been murdered, and Tula had placed her hand on the giant’s hand, her first instinct a desire to comfort Squires rather than abandon him to the misery of his own fear.

  Tula had felt real fear before. Not the common everyday sort that everyone feels but the variety of fear that sweeps people over the abyss, then sucks them downward. It was while sitting in a tree near the convent, reliving her father’s death, that she had experienced a wave of panic so dark that Tula felt as if her heart might explode. Immersed in the memory of what she had witnessed, of what she had lost, it was then, her brain numb with fear, that Tula heard the Maiden’s voice for the first time.

  That moment had changed everything.

  No matter what happened to Tula in the future, the girl felt a serene confidence that fear of that magnitude could never overwhelm her again. The scars from that night were like armor. Thanks to the Maiden, Tula believed she was now immune.

  “You should breathe into your belly,” she had told Squires as he switched off the radio. “It sometimes helps.”

  After studying the man’s face for a moment, she had added, “God is with you if you need Him. Ask and He’ll come into your heart. The goodness that was in you as a child is still alive inside you. Just ask God and He’ll help you.”

  When the girl touched him, Squires had yanked his hand away, drawing it back to slap Tula, but something stopped him.

  “Just shut your damn mouth—” he said, biting off the sentence. “Don’t you say another word to me. Understand? Not another damn word or you’ll be sorry!”

  Squires found the girl’s calm demeanor infuriating, and he almost did slap her when she replied, “There is no sin so terrible that God won’t forgive you. Two nights ago, when I watched you at the lake, I knew what was in the bag that you put into the water. I knew it was the body of a dead person. But, even so, I prayed for you.”