Not me. I watched the van splash through puddles and turn left into the beach-access parking lot a quarter mile away.
“Bastard didn’t use his turn signal either,” I pointed out, then commanded the dog, “Come on.”
A quarter mile in two minutes is a comfortable pace for me, but we covered the distance a lot faster than that. The parking area was screened from the road by foliage, which was unimportant because I had no interest in surprising the guy. All I wanted to do was . . .
What? Put him on the ground and choke him? Give a lecture on driving etiquette? Truth was, I didn’t know. Never in my life had I fallen victim to that apex stupidity known as road rage. Now here I was about to go toe to toe with a stranger who claimed to have a crowbar.
In my current humor, the stranger would need more than a crowbar.
“They could be loading me in an ambulance right now,” I reminded the dog. “What if I’d been some kid on a bike? Damn it, the guy needs to be straightened out.”
A seventy-pound retriever that seldom strains at the leash is a rarity, so I noticed when mine tried to tug me away from trouble and toward the beach.
I pulled harder, and there it was: a blue van jammed between two compacts, the man who had threatened me just about to open the door. Chunky man in his thirties or forties—prime age for macho posturing—so I watched, letting the anger inside me build. The driver’s face was still flushed, his expression impatient, when he yelled to someone, “Goddamn it, I told you to ride up here, you . . . idiot!”
A classic example of the abusive bully—Finn Tovar incarnate had been served up by fate for my analysis . . . or as a deserving punching bag.
I looped the leash around a No Parking sign, told the dog, “Stay,” and started toward the man as the van’s sliding door opened with a hydraulic whine. Unexpectedly, a woman in nurse’s scrubs stepped out. She carried towels, a plastic bag, and a spray bottle. The man had yet to get his door open. When she attempted to help, he screamed, “I can do it myself!”
Finally, he did. The steering wheel, as I could see, was equipped with a hand brake—no foot pedals required—and a driver’s seat that responded to another hydraulic whine. I retreated while the seat tractored the man, who was legless, clear of the doorway.
The nurse handed him a towel and the spray bottle. Only when she went to fetch a wheelchair from the back did I notice the purple heart on the license plate.
I turned away before the man, who was weeping with rage, began to clean himself with the towel.
• • •
WITH THE DOG SWIMMING HARD TO KEEP UP, I jogged the beach to Knapps Point and tried to catalog all the petty so-called indignities I have tolerated over the years.
On the highway: Many a fast driver had speared a middle finger at me and my old truck. Slow drivers clogging the passing lane had done the same. In bars: I had ducked loud drunks and walked away from the taunts of a few. The toughest to ignore were men big enough to present a challenge. Decline to engage a smaller man, you are less likely to be labeled a coward.
Either situation not a problem for me, usually. Most of us acquire a mix of wisdom and confidence that insulates our ego from unhappy strangers and their behavior. I had dealt with these indignities by using a technique that was instinctive, but Tomlinson has refined it and given it a name: the Spam File Method, he tells his Zen students. A tailgater blares the horn while passing. A drunk hollers an insult. A neurotic’s insults are a cry for attention but also invite an angry response. Fail to engage and you risk the I should have said, I should have done replays that make it hard to sleep.
Nope—all pointless tangents, a waste of energy that derails us from what Tomlinson calls “the forward flowing harmony of life.” It is healthier to retool and implement a new system of response behavior. The technique requires a quiet corner and mental imaging. Here is how it works: Isolate the insult or incident, then seal it in a bag and drop it into a spam folder. Hit the cerebral Delete button and it vaporizes. Repeat as needed. The process doesn’t erase the memory, of course, but it does add a cheerful distance between reality and random adolescent bullshit.
Tomlinson tells his Zen students the method requires practice, yet it came naturally to me—until recently anyway. What had caused me to snap and chase down a blue soccer mom van? Why had I embarrassed Owen’s friend, Harris, by hurling his rifle into a lake?
At the Island Inn, I turned around, signaled the dog to change course, then mulled it over for a hard mile and a half of beach.
Hannah was the obvious scapegoat, but I couldn’t let myself off the hook that easily. Reality-based people—which I am, I’d like to think—don’t search outside themselves to place blame. Hannah’s decisions were her own. If I was acting out my anger, the problem was me, not her. It was a personal lapse that required mending.
To instruct and illustrate, I did a Tomlinson and rewound recent events into future tense: Instead of chasing the blue van, I punch the guy through the window when he threatens me. Headlines announce Biologist Assaults Legless Veteran. Or the legless vet isn’t legless. I break his nose or he cracks my spine with a crowbar.
Why? For what good cause? There was none. Better to disengage and drop the incident into the spam file.
Recently, I’d read about a young man who had treated his new girlfriend to seats at a Mets game. Their second date. Because, on that sunny day, he wore a Yankees cap, two drunks heckled the couple for six relentless innings. When they threw beer on the girl—a girl he had hoped to impress—the young man decided he had to do something. He stood, confronted the drunks, and his skull was crushed when they knocked him over a railing.
Rewind and change the choreography: The young man risks the label of cowardice by signaling security . . . or he knocks the drunks over the railing, then he is hauled off to jail.
Credit the young man’s courage and blame the drunks, blame the lapse in security—both deserve it—but courage is a quality that merits a good cause, not the random intrusions of strangers.
At the beach-access parking on Tarpon Bay Road, I turned in, hoping to introduce myself to a stranger who was an expert on the subject.
The blue van was gone, though, and with it the chance to retract my angry questions: Do you have something against runners, pal? Or are you just suicidal?
It would be a while before I could drop that one into the spam file.
THIRTEEN
I was finishing an hour on the phone with my cop friend from Tallahassee when I saw Hannah coming up the steps. Had I not encountered the crippled vet, I might have been frostier, but he had put pettiness into perspective. But what do you say to the woman you’ve been dating after she has awakened in the bed of another man?
I tried a bland, “Hi. Too rough to fish this morning?”
Hannah, coming through the door, said, “Quite a storm last night, huh? We’re hoping the wind lays down by this afternoon.”
We’re hoping—her budding affair with the Brazilian had become a Deep South contraction.
“Probably made it tough to sleep,” I said. “All that lightning and rain.”
“No, I’m getting used to sleeping on boats. I like it. That rocking motion, you know? Esperanza rocks even more, but his boat’s a lot bigger. Three times as long, I’d say, and twice the beam.”
Was she baiting me? No . . . Hannah was actually talking about the Brazilian’s yacht, said it in a levelheaded way, an unpretentious woman who was making me aware of a reality: Relationships change—deal with it.
Okay, I would. I had always admired Hannah’s honesty, and it was hypocritical to fault her for it now. So I offered the lady coffee and a chair. She accepted both but balked when I suggested she follow me from the lab into the house.
“Coffee requires boiling water and that’s where the stove is,” I explained patiently.
Hannah, wearing fresh gray shorts and
a blue blouse, sleeves rolled, looked at me, meaning That’s where the bed is, too. “I’m comfortable here,” she countered.
I said, “Believe me, being alone with you isn’t going to be a problem.”
“Hah!” she responded. “I fell for that the first ten or twelve times, and I don’t trust either one of us. I would like to see those fossils you mentioned. We were hoping you’d stop by this morning and show us.”
“We,” I repeated.
“Yes. And there was something else . . . The thing you weren’t sure you could trust me to see. That’s why I came here alone.”
“The only reason, huh?” I said.
She cocked her head at me. “Marion . . . have you been working with chemicals? I know you don’t sniff glue.”
Fascinating. In the space of a few sentences, the woman had flattered me, insulted me, and convinced me that she was nuts. “Milk and sugar, right?” I said, reaching for the door.
“I need to show you how to make sweet tea one of these days,” Hannah replied.
I crossed the breezeway, paused to watch the retriever climb the stairs, a coconut in his mouth. “She’s all yours,” I told him.
The dog dropped the coconut, shook a haze of water off his back, then picked up the coconut.
“You’re right. It’s safer swimming with sharks.”
From the lab, Hannah, indignant, called, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I replied, “You’ll understand when you see what he’s got in his mouth.” A nonsensical lie that I left my ex-lover to ponder.
• • •
IN THE GALLEY, I lit the stove and was debating whether to fetch the valuable relics from their new hiding place when the phone rang. Tomlinson.
“You found the ladies already?” I asked. Worried about Lillian and the others, he and Fallsdown had driven to Venice, but they had been gone less than two hours.
“No, but I found Mick. And Dunk finally got ahold of his probation officer. Which do you think would be better for him, crossing the border into Mexico or into Canada? At first, I told him Canada, thinking more Skins lived up there. But I—”
“Tomlinson, have you lost your mind?”
“I know, I know—I entirely forgot the whole Mesoamerica civilization. Geniuses, those Aztecs. I think it’s because Mick has me so spooked. Ski Mask, according to him, was just another Harley gangbanger until he took a spill, which—”
I interrupted. “I told you to stay away from that guy.”
“Can’t do it,” Tomlinson said. “You didn’t hear some of the truly ugly shit he said to me. A man who takes advantage of three sweet women? Let me finish: After the gangbanger wrecked his Harley, he went entirely psycho when he saw what road rash had done to his face. Permanent variety.”
I said, “What did Duncan’s probation officer say? No, wait—is Mick there?”
“I can get him.”
“Hold on! Does he know Tovar’s house was robbed?”
“Interesting you should ask. That’s what Mick wants us to do—go back to that guy Finn’s place and check it out. He suspects something’s up, but, no, otherwise not a clue. Mick knows Ski Mask wants our ass, though. If Ski Mask is the guy he thinks he is.”
I had already told Tomlinson about last night’s debacle but hadn’t mentioned I was going to contact my cop friend in Tallahassee. I now knew that an anonymous caller had tipped off Florida Fish & Wildlife officers—it was their boats and a sheriff’s department chopper that had chased me—but the cop and I had spoken in strict confidence. Not even Tomlinson could know—or people a lot more competent than a Harley gangbanger would be after my ass.
My theories about the sting operation had been trimmed to two: the drop had been sabotaged by a third party or the badass caller worked for someone who, once the relics had been confiscated, could prove ownership.
I said to Tomlinson, “What I think you should do is leave before there’s more trouble. And, for god’s sake, get this probation thing straightened out. Where are you?”
“At the marina where you tied the boat. Mick thinks he knows who’s behind all this. Finn Tovar had a blood feud going with another bone hunter. Dates back thirty-some years. Everybody hated Tovar, but this particular dude made a pile of money somehow. He’s got the cashola to hire Nazis like Ski Mask to do his dirty work.”
“Would you please stop calling him Ski Mask,” I said. “What’s the biker’s name?”
Tomlinson hedged, which made me suspect he was working on a plan of his own, so I insisted, “Tell me the biker’s name, damn it.”
“But Mick’s not sure Ski Mask is the gangbanger with the scrambled brains. Even if he is, Mick won’t tell me. The man’s a tour guide by profession, which, as a private sector type, you can understand. He expects to get paid—but twenty percent off because he claims to be part Indian.” After a long silence, Tomlinson asked, “You still there?”
How does one disengage from a phone conversation without hanging up? I said, “I suppose Dunk is sitting under one of the chickee huts so he’ll be easier for police to spot. Did he tell the probation officer he’s in Florida? Probably even mentioned he’s staying at Jensen’s Marina.”
“Possibly. They’re both Skins, and it’s not the Indian way to lie. On the other hand, his probation officer is also a Freemason, so there could be some wiggle room. Depends if Dunk dropped any of the code words—but that’s something I can’t get into. Wish I could. Doc . . . you know Masons aren’t allowed—”
I cut in. “Don’t even say it.” He was about to urge me to come to a lodge meeting by claiming he couldn’t invite me.
He said it anyway. “We’re not allowed to ask people to join. The first move is entirely up to you. But, man, it hurts not to be able to share stuff that’s very ancient and cool.”
“We’ll talk about it after you and Dunk get your butts back to Sanibel,” I told him. “And don’t trust Mick. Where is he? Right now, he could be selling you out to the guy who threatened to stick a gas rag down your throat.”
“That one’s a sickie,” Tomlinson replied, more serious. “Even on the phone, I could smell demons in his voice. Someone like him feeds on inflicting pain. You could plant belladonna in his breath and the stuff would grow.”
Yes . . . I was sure of it now: Tomlinson intended to find the man on his own.
In the background, I heard Fallsdown talking. Tomlinson covered the phone, then returned, saying, “Lillian, remember her? The sweet, sort of pudgy brunette? Dunk just found out she lives at the beach. After that, Mick’s trying to arrange a meeting with Tovar’s blood feud enemy—you know, look the devil in the eye. If it happens, I’ll tell the dude he can have what’s in the Pelican cases if he produces the other owl charmstone. Or both charmstones, if you found the wrong one. Is that okay with you?”
No—and not just because his plan was so damn dangerous, although it was. “Do me a favor,” I said. “Stop whatever it is you’re cooking up and come straight to Sanibel.”
“Can’t do that, man.”
“Damn it, Tomlinson, the stuff in that bag isn’t ours to trade.”
“But, Doc, I’m scared for those ladies. Three sweeties, and they obviously have no problem talking to strangers. One of them had to give the sicko my cell number. I can’t just go off and leave them.”
Now, in the background, I heard heavy thumping music over the growl of engines and Fallsdown saying what might have been: “Hey . . . you think maybe?”
Tomlinson answered, “Shit oh dear,” then in a rush told me, “Motorcycles, Doc. This might be the asshole who threatened me.”
He hung up.
• • •
THE TEAKETTLE WAS WHISTLING. I poured water over ground beans from Cuba and watched coffee drizzle through a filter before I redialed Tomlinson’s cell. I got voice mail.
“Druggie lunatic.”
/>
“Everything all right?” Hannah was standing outside the screen door.
“I’m worried,” I said.
She entered and closed the door with the care of a nurse entering a patient’s room. “I know. I wish you’d tell me about it. Did you and your son have another argument?”
I said, “He won’t answer my e-mails, let alone answer a phone, but it’s not that.” I took a moment to clean my glasses. “It has to do with Tomlinson and Duncan—but this is strictly confidential, okay?”
Hannah’s jaw flexed as if she’d been slapped and she came toward me. “Marion Ford, if you say that to me one more time!” She didn’t stop until her toes were almost touching mine.
“You’ll do what?”
“Why ask me such a . . . Oh! You make me so mad sometimes.”
Hannah is a sizable woman, and I was looking straight into her dark, astute eyes, irises flecked with gray and gold beneath a cornea that sparked. The air she had displaced while crossing the room regathered: a girl scent of shampoo and cotton, momentarily warm, then warmer. Or maybe it was just that we were standing so close. Pheromones began intermingling, dopamine reserves were alerted, ready to drop the floodgates at the first brush of skin against skin.
She felt it, too, and stepped back. “Of course you can trust me. Yesterday, Tomlinson was so upset, I knew there was something wrong.”
The analytical nerd in me wondered if Hannah had been eavesdropping but then credited her instincts instead. I said, “It has to do with the owl carvings. There’s a guy in Venice—crazy, apparently—who threatened Tomlinson, but he and Duncan drove up there anyway. Just now, on the phone, Tomlinson hung up so fast, I’m worried the guy found them.”
Hannah said, “Why in the world would anybody hurt someone as gentle as Tomlinson?”
“The charmstone—the carvings—they’re valuable,” I told her.
“Then call the police.”
Before it escaped my mouth, I deleted the word confidentially, then explained, “I can’t. Duncan skipped probation when he came here from Montana. They could arrest him. Tomlinson might be a suspect in a house burglary, too. He didn’t do it, but this guy—the crazy one—might have seen him leaving the house that was robbed. Something else: There’s a slim possibility the guy’s a cop himself.”
Bone Deep Page 12
