Bone Deep

by Randy Wayne White

  I said, “I doubt income from fossil clubs could even pay taxes on a property this size.”

  “Leland raises cattle, too—the ranch is over the next ridge.” Owen talked about cattle for a while but felt more comfortable discussing sharks. “Cool thing is when you find meg teeth near whale ribs that still show serration marks. The same teeth that killed the whale, see what I mean? Florida was underwater back then, so no dinosaurs, but there were still monsters here. Megalodons were as big as Greyhound buses. You ever see a great white?”

  Rather than pressing him about property and income, I described my first encounter with a great white shark while cage-diving off South Africa.

  Owen asked knowledgeable questions about diving, then handed me the tooth. “Anything else you find, feel free to keep. On the way, we’ll stop at the ranch.”

  “Do you raise anything but cattle?”

  “Yeah—something that’ll surprise you. The property manager lives nearby, but he’s pretty old, so I won’t bother calling. Just a quick stop and you’ll understand why the twins are against mining this place.”

  An elephant—that’s what he was talking about. A suitably mammoth-sized old bull named Toby—and plans the twins had commissioned for a facility that would care for elephants when circuses were done with them. They had commissioned the plans three years ago, according to Owen, but new interests were weakening their resolve.

  I stood at the fence—four thick cables that sizzled and popped with electricity—and watched the animal while Owen walked away with a phone to his ear. I’ve seen elephants in the wild, so the circus variety always strike me as tragically misplaced. Toby had a lot of space, though. His own chunk of land separated from cattle grazing in the distance. Like all domestic elephants, he was Asian. Like most bulls in captivity, he had been castrated—shortly after birth, Owen said. What made Toby unusual was his fully grown tusks.

  He was a survivor. Toby had outlived two generations of Albrights, as well as Henry L. Albright’s original pack of five, and was now grazing alone at the edge of a pond—a circle of black water ringed by cypress trees and cattails. Orienting myself, I guessed this was the pond that was connected to the dried-up creek we’d seen earlier.

  Owen returned and told me the basics: the electric fence was high voltage but low amperage, not lethal, yet a barrier to Toby, who weighed about ten thousand pounds and was fifty-eight years old.

  Interesting. Even a five-ton animal, with tusks as thick as my legs, can appear damn-near cuddly. And Toby did—until I noticed his sharp old eyes tracking us from a hundred yards away. He didn’t approach, but he didn’t miss anything.

  “I’m surprised he doesn’t come begging for food,” I said. “Is it because of the fence?”

  The electrified cables, the way they sizzled, were intimidating.

  Owen replied, “All Toby knows how to do is eat and shit, so, yeah, I suppose so.” He said it with an edge that told me he wasn’t fond of the animal.

  The fence was solar-powered—high-tech, in contrast to the gate chain, which made a medieval clatter when Owen unlocked it to check something inside the pasture. He didn’t like being in there with Toby, even at a distance. I noticed that, too, but understood. Elephants are social animals, so a lonely old bull might be prone to erratic behavior. No herbivore on earth is better equipped to kill.

  “You can see the position Leland’s in,” Owen continued when we were back in the Jeep. “Taking care of elephants is part of his family’s . . . I forget the word. Tradition. But more than that. Henry L., the grandfather, he knew the early circus owners. They trusted him when an animal needed a home. That’s how it started. Sure, Leland would like to provide a place for unwanted elephants. Who wouldn’t? But there’s already a place that does the same thing only a few miles north of here.”

  That was news to me. “I’m surprised I don’t know about it. What’s it called?”

  “Florida Elephant Rescue Center, but there’s no sign on the road. It’s privately funded, and they don’t want visitors. Supposedly two hundred acres, and a staff. The circuses chip in, and some animal rights groups. Can you imagine the cost? Toby alone runs us almost fifty grand a year.”

  “A few miles? I would’ve passed it.”

  “No, the entrance is fifteen miles or so by road, but the property lines connect not far from this ridge. That’s the twins’ backup plan. Donate Toby and all the land to the rescue center.”

  I said, “Just give it away, huh? What does Leland’s wife say?”

  Owen stiffened while his face attempted neutrality. “You’d have to ask Ava. Cash flow is what the company needs right now.”

  “I thought she sided with the twins,” I said. “That’s what Leland told me.”

  “She . . . Ava . . . well, I’m not going to get into their personal life. But I respect Leland enough to notice this decision is affecting his health. The elephant thing is just crazy, if you ask me.”

  I said, “The twins want all six hundred acres?”

  “As much as they can get. Doesn’t faze them that Leland has already set aside this spot until Toby dies—it’s in the contract if he signs with the mining companies. You know, four or five years down the road, then they can bring in the equipment. But commit the whole property to rescuing circus elephants?” Owen shook his head at the absurdity of it. “That would cost millions. I have no idea what Leland’s monthly nut is, but it’s got to be huge. Leasing the property is the only solution. Think about it—total restoration once the mining companies are done. It would solve all his problems.”

  I was being pressured not only to accept the consulting job, I realized, but also to provide a favorable water analysis. So I switched to safer topics, and waited until Owen dropped me at my truck to ask about the missing list of collectors.

  “Almost forgot,” he said, then, after searching his briefcase, added, “I must have left it at Leland’s office.”

  TEN

  Sunday eve.

  Frustrated, Dunk came into the house, saying, “What I hate about sobriety is there’s no reward for beating your head against the wall.”

  It was an hour before sunset, and I could smell charcoal burning—Mack, Jeth, and the guides were preparing for the weekly shrimp roast. Tomlinson and Dunk had stopped to use the phone in the lab, and also to compare notes.

  I asked, “What’s the problem?”

  “Rachel says we might have the wrong carving. And she has to have both stones, not just one. Personally, I think she doesn’t want me to come back—afraid to die, in other words.”

  Rachel, the aunt in Montana.

  “It’s like waiting to breathe,” Tomlinson observed.

  “Dying?”

  “Not drinking,” Tomlinson said.

  “Oh . . . and that. When I called, Rachel was in bed, with tubes in her arms and nose. I held the carving up so she got a close look. ‘Too small, even for the Little People,’ she says, then tells me, ‘Besides, the owls separated are like half of a soul.’ That’s what Rachel believes—without the owls, she’ll die without a soul.”

  Little People. He was using the term more frequently.

  Dunk continued, “For the pain, she had a local Skin make a poultice of mescal buttons and bugleweed, as if herbs are going to help. What am I supposed to say? Always a drama queen, that Rachel.”

  Tomlinson suggested, “Tell her eat the buttons,” while I pointed out, “Dunk . . . The woman does have pancreatic cancer. Go easy on her.” Then sat back and processed what I’d just heard. We had left Fallsdown alone in the lab, with the desk phone and the polished artifact box nearby, but he was obviously exaggerating details of the call. Claiming to see his aunt bedridden with tubes, showing her the owl carving—it all had to be a medicine man fantasy. Fallsdown, I decided, wasn’t as cynical about spiritualism as he pretended.

  Fine. No reason to challenge the
man. I said, “At least she heard your voice. When you described the owl, that had to make her happy.”

  “Why would I describe it?” Duncan placed the artifact box on the table and looked at me. “We used your Skype account. I assumed it was okay. The computer was on.”

  I started to say I didn’t have a Skype account—even the thought of Skyping made me wince—but trailed off when I sensed Tomlinson’s uneasiness. I said to him, “Please tell me you didn’t.”

  “Doc . . . you’re trained in the sciences. Name a safer way to have sex with strangers—or a loved one. I realize you’re on Hannah’s kimchi list right now, so I did it for you. There are a lot of quality women out there with laptops.”

  I stood, and said to Duncan, “Think about Skyping your probation officer next.”

  I walked away. The fossils I’d brought from Mammoth Ridge were in a bag—several meg teeth, plus a sheet of paper containing a twenty-year-old list of collectors. I handed Duncan the list as I passed by, headed for the door. “It only goes back to the nineteen seventies, but we might be onto something.”

  “Albright gave you this?” He was holding the list at arm’s length, a man who needed reading specs.

  “I had to drive clear back to Sarasota after I’d toured the mine. You’ll recognize one of the names.”

  Fallsdown said, “I bet I can guess,” and he was right. Years ago, in pencil, the name Finn Tovar had been circled, and two words of warning added: Contact police.

  I said, “Look for yourself,” and reached for the door.

  Tomlinson asked, “Where you going?”

  From a shadowed corner, yellow eyes flashed when I replied, “Try not to do anything abnormal for the next few minutes, okay? The dog wants out.”

  It was an excuse. Mentioning Skype, then Hannah, reminded me I had vowed to leave my cell phone off until sunset. That was still an hour away. Hannah and I had spoken only once since Friday night—she had called me—but I was beginning to weaken. Hannah, of course, would have attended church earlier in the day and might be in a forgiving frame of mind. It couldn’t hurt to check messages.

  No messages from Hannah, though. I understood why when, from the dock, I saw her skiff pulling away from a custom Lamberti yacht that, even at auction, would have gone for a million-plus. She’d had a charter after church, apparently. Her client, a Brazilian Johnny Depp, was smiling down as she waved good-bye, the Brazilian in jet-set white after a hard day’s fishing, Hannah in khaki, shirt sleeves rolled to her elbows, and wearing a visor.

  To the dog I said, “She won’t look this way because she thinks I’m watching. Want to bet?” Me, an expert on trickery, predicting the behavior of an unpretentious woman.

  Wrong. Hannah’s eyes found my house, then located me. She smiled, and turned the boat in my direction.

  “See why she pisses me off sometimes?” I asked the dog, who trotted away, more interested in mullet spooked by a circling osprey. I added, “I’m an idiot,” just before the dog vaulted into the water.

  When Hannah was close enough, she removed the visor and smoothed her hair back. “You must’ve left early this morning. I looked for your truck on my way to church.”

  The stubborn cynic in me vanished. “You did?”

  “I saw Mack. He invited me to stay for the shrimp roast tonight. But I thought I’d check with you first.”

  “I should have invited you myself,” I said. “I spent most the day at an old phosphate mine. The fossils I found, you won’t believe. Come up for a drink?” Before she could refuse, I added, “Tomlinson and Duncan are inside.”

  She gave it some thought, uneasy about something. “I need to shower and change before I’m fit to be with people. Alberto offered to let me use his guest suite—just for cleaning up, of course. Not for the night.”

  Alberto the Brazilian, she meant, on his roomy, custom yacht named Seduci.

  I said, “How thoughtful.”

  “He’s just a client, Marion. But, yes, he is a thoughtful man—and a very good flycaster.”

  Alberto, whose real name was Vargas Diemer, was more than just an avid fisherman. He was a scalp collector, when it came to women—a charming, ruthless cockhound. Impossible, though, to explain how I knew so much about an international miscreant—not to Hannah or anyone else.

  “How about I promise to leave you alone and you change in my bedroom?” I suggested.

  She replied, “Or there’s another option. Rhonda and Joann are spending the night on that big Sea Ray at the end of A dock. Their air conditioner went out on Tiger Lilly, and the owner—what’s his name again?—he said it was okay. Rhonda invited me.”

  She was talking about Mike Westhoff’s sixty-foot Playmaker. Mike, a good guy, was out of town for a few weeks, but his boat was moored a little too close to Seduci for comfort. I said, “You’d have more privacy here, and you know where everything is.”

  Hannah and I talked for a while about fishing, then returned to the subject of where to shower and change. She was letting me convince her when Tomlinson, who looked shaken for some reason, appeared above us on the deck. “Uhh . . . Doc, I just got a phone call, pretty bizarre. Got a sec? In private.”

  “Not now,” I warned.

  Hannah, concerned by Tomlinson’s manner, pushed her boat away. “Marion, find out what’s wrong. I’ll see you at the shrimp roast.”

  • • •

  “HE GETS PISSY FOR A LOT OF REASONS,” Tomlinson told Duncan, trying to regain his composure, “but jealousy’s on the taboo list. If he owned a TV, I’d blame it on Spock.”

  As in Star Trek.

  Tomlinson had caught me peeking out the window to check on Hannah and the Brazilian. They were sitting with wine, or possibly champagne, the two of them on a balcony aboard his cavernous yacht of white.

  “Jealous, my ass. I can’t think of a sillier waste of time,” I countered—a denial that was a rare mix of dishonesty and truth. It returned my attention to the problem at hand. Tomlinson had received an anonymous call from a man who knew I had taken the duffel bag from Deon Killip. Deon—the caller had used the petty thief’s first name.

  “Go over it one more time,” I said. “The man’s exact words.”

  Dunk asked, “Yeah, how did he know about the duffel bag? We haven’t told a soul—I haven’t, at least.”

  A more significant question was How did the caller get Tomlinson’s cell number? but I let my pal chew at a strand of hair while he dealt with the insinuation. “Who would I tell? Man, you think I’d compromise a sacred mission by blabbing?”

  “He wouldn’t do that,” I agreed. “Our tour guide from Venice might have. Did you give Mick your contact information?”

  Tomlinson shook his head. “Never had a chance.”

  I said, “I took the bag from . . . yeah, his name is Deon. Deon doesn’t know who I am, though. Or how to get in touch. So let’s take this apart one piece at a time and try to figure it out. Think hard, details matter.”

  “Word by word, you mean.”

  I told Tomlinson, “As close as you can.”

  “Okay. I’ll rewind the whole conversation—a minute or so, we talked, no more than three. Give it a sec, okay?”

  Fallsdown said, “I’ve seen him do this before,” and moved closer to watch.

  Tomlinson pressed his palms together, sat straighter, and let his eyelids droop. A meditative posture. Several long breaths later, he spoke in present tense, and projected himself onto a screen: “Phone rings—a blocked call. That alone is exciting. I leave Dunk at the table while a man’s voice says, ‘I know where you live.’

  “I say, ‘So do I!’ being funny.

  “He says, ‘Dinkin’s Bay, Sanibel—what’s that tell you?’ He sounds aggressive; a tough guy talking from the side of his mouth. You know . . . disguising his voice.

  “I say, ‘Tells me it’s shrimp roast ni
ght and someone’s hungry. Either that or Ol’ Saint Nick’s still got his chops. That you, Santa?’”

  Tomlinson’s eyelids fluttered, remembering there was no more joking after that. His voice alternated, gruff, then normal, playing both roles.

  “‘Listen up, you long-haired turd—I’ve got a message for your buddy.’

  “‘Who is this?’

  “‘We want our shit back. How’d you like a rag stuffed down your throat, gas on the rag, then I light it? Or some night alone on your boat? That’s what’s gonna happen if you don’t convince your friend. You got a piece of paper handy?’

  “No paper—I was on the deck by then. So the guy says, ‘You’re a ladies’ man, I hear. Picture your face burning from the inside. Might improve your memory. Tell your buddy, the hard-ass nerd with the boat, the same could happen to him. You ready yet?’

  “‘Ready?’

  “‘The duffel bag, dumbass. Directions. I want you to write down where you’re gonna drop that bag tonight.’

  “All these things were going through my head . . . Some crank? No . . . this dude is f-ing nuts. The SWAT guy, black ski mask, he pops into my mind. I almost tell the guy, ‘Fire away,’ you know, meaning I’m ready to make mental notes, which I realize, just in time, will only piss him off more. So I start to say, ‘Hey, we can work this out—’

  “He says, ‘Damn right, we’ll work it out. Tape your hands behind you, light the rag. Air in your lungs turns your head into a furnace. Now, listen up! What’s your buddy’s name?’”

  Tomlinson stopped, battled to get his breathing under control—more angry than frightened, it struck me—while Fallsdown and I waited to hear the rest, the Crow-Apache giving me a look that read This is serious.

  I got up from the reading chair and put my hand on Tomlinson’s shoulder. “Take a break.”

  “I didn’t tell him your name, Doc. There aren’t many things in this world I hate, but bullies are at the top of the list.”