Bone Deep

by Randy Wayne White

  Hannah’s expression read This is insane.

  I said, “You asked.”

  The woman’s mind went to work on the problem while she poured coffee and added sugar. “Where was Tomlinson calling from? Venice, I know, but where in Venice?”

  I told her.

  She snapped her fingers. “I’ll call the marina. If there’s a fishing guide around, he might recognize my name. I’ll ask him to check on two friends of mine. Professional courtesy.”

  It was true Hannah’s reputation as a fishing guide was growing. She had appeared on the covers of two magazines; the best photograph had Hannah looking into the camera but also through it, late sunlight bronzing one side of her face, water turquoise beyond her blue-black hair. The photo captured a Barbara Stanwyck duality: the competent woman outdoorsman who was not beautiful but handsome in a way that intimated sensuality, plus something deeper available behind those dark eyes of hers. Intimidating but sexy. A friend of Hannah’s, a famous photographer on Captiva, had taken the shot.

  I made coffee for myself, opened the door for the dog to come in, then opened it again and let the dog out while she made the call. No fishing guides present at Osprey Nest Marina, but a genial employee told Hannah three motorcycles were still in the parking lot.

  After getting Tomlinson’s voice mail again, then trying Dunk’s number, I asked her, “Do you know anything about the Freemasons? There’s a lodge nearby and they’re both members.”

  She replied, “When my Uncle Jake was buried, it was a Masonic funeral—kind of strange, because he never said anything about it. Do you want me to call information?”

  I said, “Worth a try,” and soon dialed the Masonic lodge in Venice. The call went to voice mail, but then a man picked up. I told him I wasn’t a Freemason, then explained why I was calling.

  “I can get you the number for Venice police,” he offered.

  I put him and his fraternity to the test. “Police might get the wrong idea and detain my friends. One of them’s on parole—a good guy, a Crow Indian from Montana.”

  I expected a panicked excuse, then a dial tone, but the man asked, “What lodge do they belong to?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “How do you know they’re Freemasons?”

  If the man was expecting some mysterious code word, I disappointed him. “Because they told me,” I said.

  He thought about that, but not for long. “My truck’s outside. Tell me their names and what they look like—what they’re driving, too.” When I finished, he asked, “Should I call you back at this number. Or is there a better one?”

  “Wow,” Hannah said when I was done. “I think there was a lot my Uncle Jake didn’t tell me. Marion . . . I’m thinking the same’s true about you.”

  Eye contact again; pheromones scattered, then vectored, a brief intermingling that I stopped by reminding myself, She slept with the Brazilian last night, for christ’s sake.

  I replied, “I don’t belong to any fraternal organizations.”

  “Would you tell me if you did?” Hannah waited while her eyes searched my face for some sign of trust.

  I decided to provide it and backed away, saying, “I’ve got something I want to show you,” then went out the door and down the steps, trying to breathe normally.

  The dog, still carrying the coconut, followed me from the breezeway.

  FOURTEEN

  The best temporary hiding spot is a place no thief would bother searching because who in their right mind would hide valuables there?

  Under the house, next to the pull-up bar, is a shed. The door wasn’t locked because there is no lock. Last night, before leaving for Cayo Pelado, I had emptied the Pelican cases and stacked the artifacts inside among paint cans and brushes. Then I had seeded the cases with fossils I’d found with Owen, plus some ambiguous ballast stones, before loading the duffel bag onto my boat. On the phone, my Tallahassee cop friend had commented, “That stuff in the Pelican cases didn’t fool our people for long . . . but they gave the bag man high marks for knowing the water. One question, Doc: Was it you?”

  That’s when my friend and I had negotiated our pact of confidentiality.

  While Hannah waited, I made three trips up the stairs, arms loaded, while she oohed and ahhed in wonder. She said the fossils and Spanish coins were interesting, pronounced the coral arrowheads “Beautiful,” and she had a professional appreciation for the giant shark’s teeth.

  The owl carving, though, Hannah loved. She cupped the stone in her hands while examining the mastodon tusk. “I’ve never seen anything like that. How old, do you think?”

  “Dates back at least ten or twelve thousand years,” I said. “People were living on the Florida peninsula by then. They hunted mastodons and mammoths, which were similar but different animals. Or the tusk could be more than a million years old, I don’t know. Mastodon fossils are rarer, I assume because there were fewer mastodons.”

  I carried the tusk to the scale and weighed us both. Hannah followed but stopped as we neared my closet-sized bedroom. She was waiting when I returned.

  “A yard long and almost forty pounds,” I said. “A few years back, there was one stolen. I was thinking this might be it, but that one had primitive carvings on it.”

  “Carvings of what?”

  “Thatching, sort of lacework lines, from what I read.” I held the tusk away from me and squinted but needed a magnifying glass—an inspection I would save for when I was alone. “Tomlinson doesn’t know but I’m turning all this stuff over to the authorities when the time’s right. But not the owl. That stays with Duncan unless I hear differently.”

  Hannah placed the owl in its rosewood box, then skated her fingers over the mastodon tusk. “It’s so smooth, and sort of elegant the way it’s curved,” she said. “Like blue glass. Shiny, almost wet-looking.”

  I considered Hannah’s blue-black hair, enjoying the way it flowed, heavy and soft, to her shoulders. “Not blue. The fellow who owns the phosphate mine described the color as ‘Ice Age ivory.’ I just realized it’s the same color as your hair.” Looking into her eyes, I added, “Beautiful. You’re right.”

  Pheromones that had been pinging around the room returned with magnetic accuracy. Hannah pushed her hair back, as if the room was too warm, and asked, “Can I . . . hold it?”

  A deep breath was required before I replied, “Of course.”

  The weight of the tusk required a clumsy nose-to-nose handoff. My fingers, acting independently of my brain, brushed the sides of her breasts in the process. While I apologized, my hand found the fleshy curve of her hips and pulled the woman closer. A minute later, the tusk was in the reading chair, and Hannah was pulling my shirt over my head while I battled the buttons on her blouse.

  The floor . . . again . . . ?

  No, like sensible adults, we groped our way through the door and collapsed the bed frame with our weight when we hit the mattress.

  It didn’t matter. Fog once again encased us, two dopamine-soused primates blind to all but skin on skin, mouths joined, my hands coaxing her body into a frictionless readiness, while her fingers stroked and teased to encourage full male participation.

  Hannah, once the lines of modesty have been cut, is set free, unleashed. The chaste churchgoer becomes feverish. And she sounded feverish when she wrestled me atop her and whispered, “Don’t stop.”

  I hesitated, remembering, She slept with the Brazilian last night. Not only was the man a scalp hunter, he traveled internationally—no telling who or what he might have passed along to this trusting woman.

  Feeling a little feverish myself, I tumbled off the mattress and lunged for the dresser, where, months before, I had hidden a box of condoms.

  “Why . . . What are you doing?” Hannah sounded dazed.

  “Protection,” I said. “Damn it—I thought they were in the sock drawer.”

/>   “Protection . . . from what?”

  I was tossing underwear and folded T-shirts aside. “Maybe Tomlinson took them, that bastard.”

  “You mean a condom?”

  “A whole new box. It hadn’t even been opened.”

  Hannah sat up and blinked her eyes, disoriented. “Why do we need a condom?”

  “I don’t like them either, but . . . damn that guy.”

  “Marion? What are you saying to me?”

  “That he uses everything I own, doesn’t bother asking either.”

  “Not about him. I’m talking about us. You said you had a blood test. And I didn’t go on the pill just to make my breasts bigger. Have you . . . Has something changed?” She pulled the sheet over her hips and waited.

  In the bottom drawer I keep slacks and dress shirts, clothing seldom worn. I knew I hadn’t hidden the condoms there, but my drugged-out, inconsiderate pal might have—if he’d left any. Still searching, I explained, “Hannah . . . darling . . . I know who you slept with last night. It’s none of my business, I haven’t pried. But safe sex is smart.” I glanced to see how that went over.

  Not well. Hannah’s face was coloring, and she had pulled the sheet to her neck. “Is that what you think of me?”

  When responding to denial, I remain cool, rational. “It’s him I’m worried about, not you. You see the Brazilian as a good-looking guy with lots of money. Fine. But I know things about him you don’t.”

  “You think I would do that for money?”

  “Of course not. I was trying to be objective—see the physical attraction through your eyes.”

  A different tone came into her voice. “I don’t need help from a man who’s half blind to tell me what I see.”

  My glasses—she had a point there—I wasn’t wearing glasses. Find them, the box of condoms might appear. I said, “Hannah, let’s be adults about this.” I pointed to the bedstand. “Do you mind handing me those?”

  “Yes! For your information, I slept aboard Mike Westhoff’s Sea Ray last night. The mates’ quarters, because Joann and Rhonda slept in the master suite. Which I told you yesterday.” To herself, she added, “Money—what does he think I am?”

  Uh-oh. A man standing naked, only seconds after delayed penetration, looks ridiculous enough. I turned my back and began closing drawers. “Well . . . I remember you saying it was a possibility, but—”

  “I bet Tomlinson heard me. He listens. Are you saying you didn’t get my note either?”

  “A note?” I stood, a T-shirt in one hand to shield myself. “I didn’t see any note. Wait . . . If you gave it to Tomlinson, then—”

  “Stop blaming that poor man! Last night, I left it on the counter next to the sink. It was after midnight, in a place you’d see it when you came in. You didn’t notice I cleaned up around the dog’s dish and filled his bucket? I didn’t want you to worry. In the note, I invited you to breakfast, thinking it would be nice for Rhonda and Joann to see the fossils.”

  Deliverance. Finally, it all came together and provided me a way out. I backed through the door, then rushed to the counter. Over the sink, I’d left the window open a few inches. The counter was still wet from last night’s rain. Hannah’s note was dry, though, when I found it between the fridge and the counter.

  “Guess what I found,” I said with a smile, coming through the bedroom door. “The wind blew it on the floor before I got home.”

  Hannah, unimpressed by my deductive powers, continued buttoning her blouse and told me, “Put some pants on, for heaven’s sake.”

  I knotted a towel around my waist instead. “Don’t you get it? I made an unfair assumption, I admit. But it was based on the only information I had at the time. This wouldn’t have happened if the wind hadn’t picked up. So, when you said We were hoping in reference to the fossils, it was only logical for me to think you meant the Brazilian, so—”

  “Please stop,” Hannah said. She wasn’t angry now, just hurt. “We can’t let this happen again. I mean it this time. I want you to promise.”

  I said, “It was an innocent mistake.”

  “Promise me,” she insisted.

  I cleared my throat. “I can’t do that, Hannah. It’s not what I want.”

  She looked up, shorts buckled, her expression serious. “Marion, I was awake last night when you got back and tied your boat. Worried sick because of that storm coming, and there you were, dressed like—I don’t know—a commando, I guess. And wearing some kind of gadget over your eye.” She stepped closer. “Look . . . my Uncle Jake was a detective, Tampa police. I know what a gun case looks like.”

  When I attempted to explain, Hannah held up a hand and kept talking. “In April, when you went to Venezuela, I read about the fighting there. A war almost started, and one of the head people was killed—assassinated, they said. Something to do with a drug cartel or a revolution. It was on the news. You told me nothing happened while you were there. But I’m not stupid.”

  I told her, “I was in a remote area without TV—”

  “Let me finish,” Hannah said. “There’s something else I never asked about: My Uncle Jake used a special kind of oil to clean his weapons. Hoppe’s Oil, same as you. The night you left for Venezuela, I recognized the smell in your lab, a kind of fruity odor. Jake had scars on his body, too, from a shooting and lots of fights.”

  Hannah, not looking at my chest, straightened her collar and adjusted her belt, while I said, “Okay, your uncle and I had some things in common, so what?”

  “I wouldn’t bring it up if we could behave like friends. But we can’t. And I don’t want to fall in love with a man who keeps secrets.”

  “We all have secrets, dear.”

  “We don’t all live secret lives,” Hannah said, facing me. Then asked, “Do you?”

  “Yes.” The word slipped from my mouth.

  She didn’t expect that—nor did I. But now it was out there, no taking it back. I said, “Have a seat for a minute. I’ve got something to tell you.”

  “My lord, Marion, I guess I better.” Sounding a little spooked, she sat on the bed while I explained.

  “The mastodon tusk and the owl—all this stuff—I took it from a man who robbed a house near Venice. That was on Friday. Last night, I went out, hoping to eyeball the guy who had threatened Tomlinson. The crazy guy, not the robber.”

  “Then what? I don’t understand why someone like you would take such risks. You were carrying a gun!”

  “I walked into a sting operation. I’d been set up.”

  “You did what?”

  “The legal owner must have tipped off police. Or someone torpedoed the crazy guy. I can’t think of another way to explain it.”

  Hannah took a deep breath, then said again, “But you were carrying a gun.”

  “I had no intention of using it. I outran their boats. When the timing’s right, I already told you, I’ll turn everything over to the authorities.”

  “Are you telling me you’re not a criminal?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But you stole those things, you just admitted it.”

  “I said I took them. I didn’t say anything about stealing.”

  “If you’re not a criminal, then you . . .” She combed her hair back, confused. “Do you work undercover for the police? No . . . you robbed a man. Taking’s the same as stealing, I don’t care what word you use. And it doesn’t explain Venezuela. Or the way you were dressed last night when you docked.” She reviewed for a moment. “What was the thing over your eye?”

  How far was I willing to take this? I had already shared too much. “Tonight, I’ll show you. Hell, you can borrow it—an inexpensive night vision scope. You’ll see thousands more stars. There’s nothing sinister about that. Hannah, I’m trying to be honest with you here.”

  “There’s a difference between being honest and
being open. Jake sometimes went to South America. Police undercover work, I always figured, but now I have reason to believe he might have done smuggling on the side. Either that or he was a spy. Marion, I can’t picture the CIA hiring a man like you, so there has to be something you’re leaving out. I’m going to ask you one simple question: Are you smuggling drugs to make ends meet?”

  I felt a crazy smile appear on my face. “Honey, I’m the guy who won’t even smoke marijuana. Are you serious?”

  “My Uncle Jake wasn’t a drug user either, but all the similarities worry me.” She sighed, uneasy about something else, and finally said, “I feel awful about this. I’ve been snooping. I . . . I did a background check through our agency’s computer. You were born in Florida and you’ve lived in this house for more than ten years. Other than that, there’s next to nothing about you in any data banks I could find. Oh—and that new boat of yours cost as much as some folks pay for a house, but your tax returns claim—”

  I was smiling when I interrupted, “You have every right to check on a man you’re dating. I expected you to. Hannah, look”—I took her hands in mine—“I don’t cheat on my income tax and I’m not a drug smuggler.”

  Gently, she pulled her hands away. “Then there’s something you’re leaving out. Just tell me.”

  I couldn’t do that. On the other hand, I knew Hannah Smith. She has the sensibilities of a mermaid but the instincts of a shark when it comes to deception. One more lie would be the end of us. No doubt in my mind about that, so I said, “For now, you have to trust me. It won’t always be this way.”

  Shaking her head, the woman turned and exited the bedroom. I hoped she would busy herself brewing tea while I dressed. She had barely touched her coffee. Instead I heard the screen door open, then close softly—a courtesy that spared me a parting rebuke.