Bone Deep

by Randy Wayne White

  I waited for Tomlinson to rub at his eyes before saying, “I hear flashback mode makes a person thirsty. I’ll get you a beer.”

  When I returned, he asked, “You think it was the dude in the ski mask? You didn’t see him, I know, but by his whole approach?”

  Fallsdown said, “He’s military, from the way he talked—‘Listen up’—and he called you a hippie. No, he said long-haired something. Same thing. I’m thinking that’s who it was, Ski Mask. Fired two shots from a combat stance—a double tap, we called it in the Marines. A black revolver that looked bigger than it sounded.”

  Fallsdown, wearing a Harley T-shirt, the sleeves cut, had tats on his arms—animistic symbols, mostly—and one Semper Fi that revealed his military background.

  I thought back to the sharp whap-whap of what I’d thought was a hammer or a door. “You think the weapon had a sound suppressor? That means it was either stolen or the guy has a federal license.”

  “Couldn’t tell from the angle I was standing. Today, at the gun show, I saw some suppressors smaller than I remembered. Could be. But I’d be guessing. And on a revolver?”

  Tomlinson muttered, “Gun shows. I was lucky to exit that freak palace with my scalp.” He eyed Fallsdown. “No offense, my brother.”

  “None taken, kemosabe.”

  Tomlinson smiled. “I forgot, the Lone Ranger never rides alone. Didn’t that movie suck?” Then felt the need to explain to me, “Dunk’s a kidder.”

  I tried to get back on topic, but Tomlinson kept talking. “If anyone knows my adopted name, it’s Duncan. He gave it to me—Tenskawatawa. Which means The Prophet. That was after my first sun dance. Remember those girls from Nebraska, Dunk? Hard to believe the two of us would one day be downing cotton candy at some Nazi gun show.”

  The gun show—I had already discarded it as a contributing element but now reconsidered, while asking Tomlinson, “Did the guy on the phone tell you where to drop the bag?”

  “You’re not mad I didn’t deny having the stuff? I told him it couldn’t be tonight, that the bag was safe, but banks aren’t open on Sundays, which he didn’t believe—about the stuff being in a bank, I mean.”

  I avoid lying to friends but had claimed that on Friday I had called a banker friend and rented a safe-deposit locker. “Just paraphrase the details,” I suggested.

  “Well . . . that’s when he threatened me again. Said to keep the cops out of it. And don’t try contacting Deon. He meant for you not to contact Deon and was really pissed I wouldn’t narc out your name.” Tomlinson looked beyond me, past my telescope and shortwave radio, to a desk where maps and charts are kept rolled. “Wait, I’ll show you where the drop’s supposed to be.”

  He returned with NOAA Chart 11426, Estero Bay to Lemon Bay, a big stretch of coastline south of Venice.

  I said, “Okay . . . so he’s a military guy who knows the water—or a weekend boater with a Special Forces fantasy. What time is this supposed to happen?”

  “Between midnight and one,” Tomlinson answered, spreading the chart on the table.

  “Tonight?”

  “Yep. He wants us to drop the bag and leave. No violence, he promised—as long as we’re not there when his people arrive. The way he said it, I got a real sensory hit—like we’re the thieves and he’s a cop. By then, my brain was working again.”

  “His people,” I repeated.

  Dunk, bending over the table, asked, “Where is the place?”

  Tomlinson used a finger to circle an island named Cayo Pelado. “Northeast of Captiva, in a little bay. It’s uninhabited, mostly mangroves, but there used to be a fish house way back. Water’s too thin there for a sailboat. Doc knows the area better than me.”

  “It’s been a long time,” I said, while Tomlinson moved to give me a better look. The island, Cayo Pelado, bordered Bull Bay, east of Boca Grande, and was west of Burnt Store Village—only seven miles northwest of the Albright Island.

  Interesting, but that’s all. Snatching at a conclusion in advance of data is a dangerous shortcut. Coincidence, when twisted to resemble evidence, can hang you. However, there was a another seductive tie: Pelado, in Spanish, meant bald; hairless. Around the time of Ponce de León, shell peaks on the island would have appeared skull white—mounds built by a warrior tribe that had killed more than one Spanish explorer.

  There was another link: By 1960, uninhabited Cayo Pelado had become a favorite target of relic hunters. The attraction wasn’t just the shell mounds; it was the exploits of a pirate, José Gaspar—a popular figure in the Florida narrative.

  Tampa’s annual Gasparilla Festival celebrates Gaspar. The names of islands map his cut-throat daring. Woman prisoners were isolated on nearby Captiva. Joseffa Island was reserved for a great beauty of the same name. On Cayo Pelado, Gaspar’s gold, silver, and emeralds were buried. The location was confirmed by dozens of self-published books and a million restaurant place mats. X marks the spot if you are in search of pirate treasure.

  Trouble is, José Gaspar never existed. He was the invention of a young publicist, G. P. LeMoyne, who, in the early 1900s, gilded history with pirate tales to promote real estate. Good for tourism but ruinous for a small uninhabited island. A group of treasure hunters had even floated in a bulldozer and damn near leveled the highest mound there. Cayo Pelado was now off-limits, but that hadn’t stopped the digging.

  I interrupted Tomlinson to explain this. He understood. “Exactly the sort of drop spot a treasure hunter would choose,” he said. “Mythos versus reality, man. Buffett didn’t write ‘Cheeseburger’ about Cabbage Key, and the fictional José Gaspar is still every archaeologist’s nightmare. The dude who threatened me obviously doesn’t know his history.”

  Dunk said, “It’s up to you guys, but I don’t like it. Whoever called doesn’t have any leverage. What’s he gonna do, tell cops that people he wants to rob didn’t show up?”

  Tomlinson countered, “But he knows where we live. He knows what Doc’s boat looks like, too—described it as stealthy. What he meant was, we’re both easy to find.”

  That struck a nerve. I said, “The tour guide knows my boat. Are you absolutely certain you didn’t give Mick your number?”

  Tomlinson was fuming, still going over the conversation in his head, but finally replied, “No way. Ski Mask—if it was him—got my cell from someone else.”

  Deon Killip, my abductor, hadn’t looked inside my billfold when he took it, so didn’t know my name. I was certain of that.

  I asked, “What about the gun show?” It was a stretch, but maybe someone had overheard the two talking about the duffel bag or my Brunswick tactical boat.

  “Never seen so many polluted auras in my life,” Tomlinson said. “The bastard could have been there watching us the whole time.”

  Dunk disagreed. He explained that he had done most of the talking, but not a word about me. The two of them had focused on exhibitors who sold rare coins and the like. It was too risky to loose Tomlinson in an arena of gun fanciers where, within minutes of entering, he had insulted a vendor who was selling ABU GHRAIB K-9 UNIT T-shirts.

  “The caller said my boat was stealthy,” I repeated. It dawned on me then. I pushed away from the table. “Tomlinson, those three women you met on the beach? Call right now and check—this guy found one of them, I think.”

  My pal, who is flighty but smart, clicked on the linkage. “Shit, you’re right. The ladies and I traded numbers—now that bastard is tracking me. I’ve got to call Lillian.” He rushed to the door.

  I used Dunk’s disposable phone to dial Deon, my abductor, while Tomlinson returned to his sailboat to search for a card the ladies had given him.

  Deon answered tentatively, saying, “Yeah?” then lost it when he heard my voice. “You got my ribs broken, man! Stay away or I’ll go straight to the cops. I swear to Christ I will, ’cause I’m safer in jail.”

  End of c
onversation.

  When Tomlinson returned, I could tell from his face he had lost the woman’s card. “The man who threatened you got to Deon, too,” I told him.

  No need to add upset by mentioning broken ribs. I had to get ready for tonight—just me, alone, I had already decided, but Tomlinson took some convincing. “Those women are my responsibility,” he said. “I want a piece of that jerk.”

  I nearly smiled. “A piece of him? What do you have planned—cast a voodoo hex, then scalp the guy?”

  Fallsdown interceded by telling me, “Years ago, I saw our skinny friend here back down three Black Panther smack freaks—nothing in his hands but a broken bottle and roach clip. Maybe he’s changed, Doc, but don’t sell him short.”

  I said, “You’re serious?”

  Tomlinson muttered what sounded like “Best clip I ever owned,” while the man from Montana took the side of reason. “On the other hand, if Doc knows the water better, the decision is up to him. You’ve got to respect that, Tenska.” Using his sun dance name to urge tolerance.

  Tomlinson, frowning, said, “Okay, Doc, it’s your call. But Ski Mask isn’t the only one who knows how to track people. Dunk, you and me are driving to Venice in the morning—to find Lillian and the other ladies. After that, who knows?”

  I was seeing a new side of a man I thought I knew well—not a bad thing.

  I told them, “I’ve got to get my boat ready, so take off.”

  The truth was, I had to retrieve the duffel bag and move the contents to a new spot.

  ELEVEN

  At ten p.m., beneath a waxing moon that would soon set, I left Dinkin’s Bay. The shrimp roast was still going. A party guitar and laughter cloaked the noise of my engines, just me alone in my Brunswick Tactical, and it was impossible not to notice that Hannah’s skiff had been moved to an inside dock . . . or see the porthole glow of the Lamberti’s master bedroom cabin.

  She would be in there with the Brazilian.

  Grow up. Hannah knows what she’s doing.

  Bullshit, I informed my left brain, and was doing forty knots by the time I exited the bay.

  To keep it legal, I switched on running lights. Thirty minutes later, still under way, I switched them off. Cayo Pelado had yet to emerge from the mangrove horizon, but I didn’t want to risk being spotted—a concession to the chance my adversary was as devious as I.

  It’s the way my mind works. How would I do it? Well . . . if I wanted to ambush someone, I would arrive an hour before the designated time. Tomlinson had been ordered to drop the bag between midnight and one. It was now ten-thirty. If ambush was the plan, I would be positioned and waiting when my target arrived.

  But what if I was convinced my target had been bullied into actually dropping the bag? Well . . . I would spook him away from the drop zone with a deadline—one a.m., in this case—but wait until just before dawn to retrieve the bag. Even cops on a stakeout might abandon the area after seven fruitless hours. Mosquitoes are ravenous in the mangroves of Charlotte Harbor. It would be a miserable wait.

  Was my adversary armed? Was he intelligent? Variables that must be anticipated, but, to me, there was a more interesting question: Was the man a sloppy pretender? Or was he my covert equal?

  We would find out.

  Westward, Boca Grande Pass was a corridor of black stars. Slack tide had vanquished tarpon fishermen. I maintained boat speed while adjusting the MUM’s night vision monocular over my left eye. When I switched it on, the starry corridor was fired by new galaxies. Moonless night became high noon through a green lens.

  I fine-tuned the focus, then touched a directional switch on the boat’s console. Overhead, a spotlight flashed on. It provided a bright pathway, but the beam was invisible to all but me. It was a tactical infrared Golight that lanced three miles ahead.

  Above the helm was a cabinet: my boat’s electronics suite. A single switch darkened all screens but one dedicated to thermal imaging. Body heat, engine exhaust—a robotic eye on the radar mast was a man hunter. Hide yourself in foliage, even shallow water, the eye would track your beating heart.

  My adversary might be smarter, stronger, better armed. But was he as devious?

  Not likely.

  • • •

  IT WAS AFTER ELEVEN before I found a suitable stakeout spot, switched off the engines, and settled back to wait. My adversary was late—or so I believed.

  In fact, he was watching me. Didn’t matter that a bank of mangroves screened my boat from the island of Cayo Pelado, a hundred yards west. Didn’t matter I had a clean view of the drop spot, as well as two primary entrances to the bay.

  Nothing EVER goes as planned is an old special ops maxim. I should have it tattooed on the back on my hand.

  A fog of mosquitoes descended while I reveled in my cunning. I slapped and tried household spray, then got serious. In the forward locker, in a Ziploc bag, was a mesh jacket reserved for emergencies. It has a beekeeper’s hood, and the fabric, which hangs on me like a tent, is impregnated with chemical repellant.

  I put it on. Mosquitoes retreated into a silver whining aura around me. I resumed my watch.

  Over the next half hour, I heard the distant passing of three separate boats . . . or was it four? No movement in the bay, though. I began to suspect my adversary was incompetent if ambush was his plan. By midnight, I felt sure of it.

  My attention wandered. The struggle not to imagine Hannah curled naked in the Brazilian’s bed was finally lost.

  Earlier, I had made an appearance at the marina shrimp roast. She had intercepted me, smiling, long-legged in her breezy tan dress, saying, “Tell me about the fossils you found.”

  I’d replied, “They’re in the lab. And there’s something else I want to show you—you’ll be amazed—but it has to stay confidential.”

  I was referring to the contents of the Pelican cases, which I had retrieved from the mangroves. The invitation had been spontaneous, a generous breach of security protocol that Hannah failed to appreciate.

  “Marion, are you saying you trust me? Or warning me you don’t?”

  Maddening, this woman.

  Then later, when the dog materialized from the bay like the Hound from the Black Lagoon, Hannah said, “I worry about a gator getting that poor thing. Shouldn’t you keep an eye on him at night?”

  Didn’t faze her when I pointed out, “You don’t have a problem with me swimming at night. Besides, I think you have it backward. I haven’t seen an alligator around since that dog arrived.”

  A joke.

  Not to her . . .

  “You could at least show some concern. Retrievers are such handsome dogs—not that he looks like a Lab or the others. Be a shame to lose him, Marion. He’s so smart, the way he minds. I suppose you know folks are starting to wonder why he doesn’t even have a name.”

  The dog’s previous owner had named him Sam, after some silly Disney movie, possibly Savage Sam, about the son of Old Yeller, which is why I never used it. No need to share that with Hannah, so I said, “As long as he minds, he doesn’t need a name. And it’s not because he’s smart. His IQ is about average for a dog, I think. Not as smart as, say, some of the herding breeds, but he pays attention.”

  “That’s a mean thing to say about your own dog.”

  I was perplexed. “It was a statement, not a judgment. The dog’s fairly well trained, that’s all I meant.”

  “But he only minds you.”

  “Yeah . . . ?”

  On cue, the dog had banged me aside to get to Hannah and placed his head into her fawning hands. Hannah, falling for it, had purred, “Sweet thing, you deserve a name, yes you do. Been out there swimming with sharks and alligators and god knows what else. No one around who seems to care what kind of creature grabs you.”

  Trying to protect Hannah, I said, “He’s getting your dress dirty. You’ll have to wash your hand
s, and the stink’s hard to get off.”

  Hannah didn’t want protection, which she communicated by saying to the retriever, “Stink? . . . Hear your owner? That’s like saying bay water stinks. Sweetie, you smell good to me.” The dog, eyes closed, had moaned his appreciation while Hannah continued, “Personally, I like the name Ranger, but Tomlinson says that’s not very creative on my part. He’s probably right. Mack thinks something literary would be good because of Crunch & Des.”

  She was referring to the marina’s black cat.

  Then, a second later, she had rebuked me, asking, “Marion . . . is this a tick on his neck?”

  No—a scar, but the Brazilian had beckoned Hannah away before I could prove my innocence.

  Damn it. Why was I sitting in a boat out here alone, battling mosquitoes, while a woman I cared about was being seduced by a playboy scalp hunter? Jealousy, I rationalized, had nothing to do with what I was feeling. I simply wanted to stop a friend from making a mistake. Or was I already too late?

  Twelve-fifteen a.m.

  I was freeing my boat from its bushy hiding place when reason kicked in. Of course, it was too late. Furthermore, it was Hannah’s decision, not mine.

  I returned to my seat and regeared into tactical mode. If my adversary didn’t show by one a.m., I would leave—but not before.

  • • •

  TWELVE-FORTY A.M.

  A thought: I was on the eastern side of the island. What if my adversary had anchored and hiked across Cayo Pelado from the west? All that remained of the fish house were pilings. Tomlinson had been ordered to tie the bag to one of them. My adversary could be deep in the trees, waiting.

  I used night vision and the infrared spotlight to probe the area—something I had already done a dozen times. Beneath a shelf of mangrove branches, three pilings appeared on the screen. Their barnacle necklaces were a reminder the tide was ebbing. I scanned again with thermal imaging . . . saw the chunky signature of what was probably a feral hog, rooting among trees . . . I saw blobs of furry body heat, foraging on an exposed bar: raccoons.