Bone Deep

by Randy Wayne White

  Irritated, Shelly told him, “This is so not my first fossil dive—back off.” A slap with a mall girl sting that didn’t connect when she followed Mick’s advice, then surfaced with a megalodon tooth bigger than her hand. She whooped and called, “Alfie! See this? Alfie! The best spot ever!”

  Alfie—the man sitting aboard the Sea-Doo GTX—looked only slightly less bored when he responded, “Need your dive bag?”

  Even Alfie began to soften when Mick helped him re-anchor the ski at a fresh spot downstream and said, “That virgin bottom belongs to you and Shelly, man.” Meaning he would dredge new territory while Alfie put on a mask and had first pick of the fossils he had sluiced free.

  Mick did it, too: revved the engine with the abandon of his psycho Harley associate while the GTX bucked and strained against its ropes. The magic tour guide was no stranger to bone hunting.

  I swam upriver, no longer concerned about what Fallsdown had seen. It was that damn Jet Ski. Noise is an effective weapon. Noise is to the twenty-first century what cigarette smoke was three decades ago—a menace to all, including the minority of abusers. I’ve yet to meet an angler who didn’t dread the sound of Jet Skis. I’m no different.

  In the river’s deep pools, though, was refuge. Mick had been right about buoyance even in this mild current. I’d brought a belt strapped with twenty pounds of lead, but it wasn’t enough to keep me on the bottom. So, after rationalizing I would have done it anyway, I found a chunk of limestone and banged my way along the bottom. It was like floating over Mammoth Ridge as seen through an amber filter: stubs of black bone, petrified oysters, globs of ancient dung that had been compressed into rock, and shark teeth everywhere. A shark produces thirty-five thousand teeth in its lifetime, and megalodons had thrived in Florida’s inland sea.

  The fossil fever I had faked became a mild reality—out of character, so I imposed a limit of only two prime specimens to take home. Three meg teeth later, I increased the limit to six, but then dumped all but one tooth to prove I’m a choosy hypocrite.

  Fifty yards from the other divers, the creek narrowed, then widened into a switchback, a cove that was shaded by oaks and Spanish moss. The drop-off beneath the bank was deeper than expected. I was making my third dive when the ski went silent. Soon Mick swam up beside me.

  “Mate, you’ve got a good eye for water,” he said. “In the shallows, the shit we find has been banged around by the current. A spot like this could be the real deal. Not just because it’s deep. Understand why?”

  Maybe. Florida sits on a volcanic base that connects Florida with Africa. Piled on that is limestone three miles thick, which is covered by a veneer of soil and foliage. Occasionally, an underground river surfaces through the limestone: a spring or bottomless lake.

  Mick explained it differently. “Some river switchbacks are prehistoric watering holes. Ever see documentaries on Africa? A place where animals and the first people came to drink. Rare, but they exist. Finn called places like that time tunnels. You know, tunnels that lead down, not up into space.”

  The tour guide was a good diver, I had to give him that. Careful with his fins rather than screwing up visibility. The spot had hard bottom. It wasn’t an archaic well, but Mick surfaced with a crocodile jawbone . . . No, from a whale with a crocodilian head, he decided, when we waded to the shallows. “See how this tooth’s triangulated? Six prongs—a yoke tooth, it’s called. What’d you find?”

  What I had seen was a flint or chert spearhead lying near a fossil that resembled a loaf of sliced bread and was just as large. It took willpower to leave the spearhead untouched, but seemed okay to have a look at the fossil.

  “This is from a mammoth,” Mick said, holding the thing in both hands. “A grinding tooth. Has a higher crown than a mastodon. Nice find, mate.” He offered it to me, and I could see him thinking: The guy’s an undercover cop if he doesn’t take it.

  I dropped the fossil into my net dive bag, which was clipped to my belt.

  “Only one meg tooth?” he asked, seeing the bag.

  “This damn mask,” I said. “The eye doctor changed my prescription. Everything else I found was either chipped or I didn’t know what the hell it was.”

  Mick wasn’t sure he believed me but moved on to what he really wanted to talk about. “Are you serious about that mining property? I’m booked every afternoon this week, but we could go mornings—or at night. I like night diving.”

  I said, “I’ll call Albright when I get home. But I won’t mention you. If someone sees us on his property, then I’ll explain.”

  “As your consultant,” he said.

  “Sure. How about this week?” I replied—ingratiate myself to the ingratiating tour guide and Mick might reveal the name of the collector who was paying him.

  “Tomorrow morning’s good,” he said. “Bring dive gear—tanks if you have them.”

  I wasn’t expecting that. “If you’re thinking of the creek I told you about, it’s dry. I didn’t say that?”

  We were standing near a bank walled with deadfall and palmettos; moss, green on rotting logs, moss-draping shadows in the trees. Mick took a look downstream to confirm the others couldn’t see us. As he did, the Jet Ski started and began dredging again, but farther away. He removed one fin, then the other, and felt it was safe to speak in a normal tone. “Finn used to hunt the Mammoth Ridge property. I don’t know what happened, some sort of trouble, but he wasn’t allowed back—this was before my time. One of the quarries there he claimed was the real deal. A watering hole before the draglines got in.”

  “A prehistoric watering hole,” I said. “That had to be twenty years ago if the mine was still operational.”

  “It was. There were security guards, so Finn had to be careful when he dug there—always at night even before the trouble happened. For some reason, he stopped doing that, too. Which never made sense if the place was as hot as he claimed.”

  I was thinking, Maybe Finn Tovar killed the night watchman, so nudged Mick along. “What do you mean ‘hot’?”

  “Incredibly rich, man. Mammoth and mastodon ivory. At Finn’s house, I was going to show you and Dunk this tusk he found there. Has to weigh fifty pounds.”

  Actually, forty pounds, but should I admit it? No . . . If the blood feud collector was smart, he would dismiss the tour guide as a bad risk. Mick would never hear about the photos the biker had just taken. I said, “Wouldn’t you love to find a spot like that?”

  A dreamy stoner smile as he replied, “Whoa—black ivory worth half a mil—probably more these days. And Finn found a bunch of it. You didn’t wonder how he could afford a beach house?”

  “Half a million dollars, huh?” I said, then played dumb by mentioning the stolen tusk I had read about, the one that had been insured. He didn’t let me finish.

  “You don’t have to tell me—it had like this simple thatch sort of decoration. Mate, what you’ve got to understand is there’s not an important find I don’t know about. Finn’s tusk, the one I wanted to show you, fifty pounds of mastodon ivory—if it had been worked by Paleo man?” His wagging eyebrows read Name your own price.

  To me, that suggested Finn hadn’t noticed the saber cat petroglyph. He would have bragged about it to his favorite pupil. I said, “You just convinced me,” then hesitated, as if thinking it through. “But wait—it’s been a long time since Tovar dived Mammoth Ridge. It could be cleaned out by now. I’d be risking my job.”

  “You saw the lake?”

  “Three lakes. They all looked man-made. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  Mick’s expression read I do, but he said, “I mentioned Africa? There are these watering holes where elephants go to die. Some think that’s a fairy tale, but Finn was smarter than any three men with diplomas. Think about it.” He pointed a finger at the massive tooth in my bag. “There’s your proof. A mammoth or mastodon gets old, he loses his teeth. Same with el
ephants. What’s an elephant going to do when he’s dying and can’t chew? He’s gonna find a spot with water and the easiest food. It’s not about being some mystic sacred spot where elephants go to die—although I have my own thoughts about that. They draglined a time tunnel at Mammoth Ridge, that’s the only explanation. Know what Finn called the place? It was a deep spot in one of the quarries. He called it the Ivory Pot.”

  I wasn’t going to let myself tumble easily. “It’s been twenty years,” I said again. “I might lose my contract if Leland Albright finds out.”

  Mick waved the name away as if unimportant. “He’s totally out of touch. Let me tell you something.” His voice became confidential. “A buddy of mine’s screwing Albright’s wife and his daughter. What do you think of him now? And his son’s a gambling junkie—Albright doesn’t know about that either. Or maybe I’m thinking about the stepson, the one who showed you around the Mammoth property. Mate, no offense, but you’re such a straight-acting dude, an old man like Leland Albright, he’ll believe whatever you tell him.”

  I remembered Owen saying Gambling is for losers in a way that had the flavor of a mantra. Maybe it was true: Owen was a gambling addict. The gymnast yogi instructor was Mick’s informant, as I already knew, but it was still necessary to ask, “Who told you this?”

  “I’ve got my sources, man.”

  “I hope you’re right. My only fallback is a job for someone named Mondurant. It would pay a lot less than Albright. You ever hear of the guy?”

  Mondurant—the name got no reaction, just Mick’s impatience. “Twenty years, that’s how long I’ve been in this business. Stop worrying.”

  “Yeah, so we dive and find nothing but get caught. Then what?”

  Mick, getting excited, said, “Not if we find the Ivory Pot. I’m the only one Finn told about it, and what’s down there is worth a . . .” He took a breath to calm himself and started over. “Let me explain how the business works. Most quality ivory comes from Russia, up near the Arctic Circle where it’s still frozen. That’s why it’s in prime condition. Florida’s different. Word would have gotten out if there’d been a major find in Florida. It hasn’t happened, man. I’m an expert—you either trust me or you don’t.”

  I said, “It’s tempting.”

  Mick sensed I was weakening. “Look . . . there’s not a bone hunter in the world who wouldn’t give his left nut to dive those lakes on Mammoth Ridge. Me included. You’ve got the magic ticket, man. Don’t blow it, okay?”

  I wrestled with the decision but didn’t overdo it. “Under one condition. Fallsdown’s a nice guy and all, but I want him out of my hair.”

  “What?” The tour guide tried to sound indignant. “Dunk and me are brothers, man. I thought you were his friend.”

  I said, “Then put him in touch with your boss. Or tell me the man’s name. Dunk can’t even swim, for christ’s sake, so it’s better to let him and the collector make their own deal.”

  Mick, for once, didn’t tumble easily. “Can’t do that, mate. Not because of Dunk—business is business. But it’s like the drug biz, man. We never share names.”

  I held up my dive bag. “If your boss wants incriminating video, I can hand Dunk this. I understand needing leverage, but, look, I’m not going to risk my job and then split three ways.”

  The tour guide’s opinion of me changed. “Goddamn, Ford, that’s nasty. You’ve got the makings of a real bone hunter, I’ll say that.”

  “It’s a win-win,” I said. “Duncan gets his sacred carving, or whatever it is, and I get to learn from an expert. Think about it.”

  The tour guide did while he stroked his chin. My back was to the trees. He faced me. He started to debate the pros and cons, but then his eyes vectored in on something beyond my shoulder. He grinned. “Damn right, I’m the expert,” he said. “Turn around and tell me what you see. The bones, they speak to me, man.”

  Protruding from the bank, amid vines and rotting wood, was the nub of something that resembled a stick of charcoal. A bone of some type. And Mick was right: I would have never noticed.

  As he sloshed past me, I told him, “Watch out for poison ivy.”

  The man laughed to remind me You’re in my dojo now, and was still grinning when he got to the bank. “Another mastodon rib. What’ll you bet?” and then he looked at me while he hunkered down and reached for the bone.

  Only I saw what happened next. A chunk of rotting wood came to life near his wrist . . . a sudden coiling of scales that struck, mouth wide, while I hollered, “Snake!”

  Too late. Rows of needle teeth had already locked into Mick’s flesh.

  Mick yelped and yanked his arm away, extracting a five-foot reptile from the vines; the snake in kill mode, biting harder, or its teeth had snagged in Mick’s wrist. He made a gagging sound and spun with such force that he launched himself backward, and the snake ripped free, spinning boomerang-like toward me.

  Slow motion, it seemed—even my poor vision discerned dung-colored scales, the pale latticed underbelly, and one round black eye as the reptile revolved at speed toward my face. Still wearing fins, I could only fall sideways.

  I felt a whip-stinging weight hit my shoulder as I went down.

  NINETEEN

  “Cottonmouth!” Mick yelled the word over and over. “Goddamn snake bit me!” He was applying pressure with his left hand, blood dripping from his fingers.

  Downriver, the Jet Ski made an indifferent whine. From the trees came the sound of a big man crushing branches—Duncan Fallsdown on his way to the rescue.

  I was more interested in the snake. Where was it? I rinsed my prescription mask and put it on.

  The snake surfaced. I backed a step. Cottonmouth moccasins can strike underwater or atop it. This snake fled, though, and I watched it carving giant S’s on the surface as it traveled a straight line toward the bank.

  “I need some help here, man!” Mick, going into shock, appeared pale.

  “Hang on,” I said. I removed my fins and started toward him while still watching the snake.

  I’m no herpetologist, but it’s dumb to live in Florida without knowing the basics. Cottonmouth moccasins—which are pit vipers, although seldom aggressive—swim with their heads high out of the water. Very high, a forty-degree angle or more. As a warning, they often open their mouths wide before striking—a white telltale bloom I would have noticed before it struck. No guarantees about that, however, which is why I paid attention.

  Common water snakes swim and behave differently. They can be surly, aggressive animals that bite, and keep biting until they decide you’re too big to eat. Nonvenomous but lots of teeth. Unlike cottonmouths, they swim low in the water with their head level to or on the surface.

  I watched the snake exit onto the bank. That told me what I wanted to know and I decided to take advantage of the situation. Taking Mick’s arm, I asked him, “Is the bite throbbing? Do you feel a burning sensation?”

  “Yeah . . . goddamn hurts, man! Where the hell did he come from?”

  People in shock are easily manipulated. I said, “How about nausea? That’s usually a first symptom.”

  “Oh man . . . I feel like shit.”

  “You’ll probably have to vomit soon,” I said—a subliminal nudge.

  A minute later, Mick groaned, leaned over the water, and coughed until he did vomit.

  Fallsdown appeared from the trees, caught his foot on something, and stumbled down the bank. It gave me the chance to help him up while I whispered, “Just a water snake—play along.”

  His eyes posed a question: Are you sure?

  My eyes locked into his and I nodded but said loud enough for Mick to hear, “A cottonmouth bit him, I think.”

  Fallsdown was a quick study. “Holy Christ!” he responded. “Are they bad as a rattler?”

  “A big one,” I said, “so maybe worse, but it could be a dry bite. I h
aven’t checked yet.”

  Mick made a sobbing sound. “Goddamn cottonmouth bastard!” and he allowed me to take his wrist while he instructed Duncan, “Call nine-one-one—I’m hurt bad, brother.”

  Duncan patted his pockets, then asked me, “Doc, where’s your phone?”

  I was studying the wound. Blood dripped. I used my T-shirt several times. Water snakes have curved teeth that are short but sharp as needles. They angle toward their throat, which is why the snake couldn’t let go. The underside of Mick’s wrist was perforated. The teeth had gouged two wide, convincing holes.

  “Fangs got him near a vein,” I said, then asked Mick, “Do you have a weird taste in your mouth? You’re probably starting to feel dizzy.”

  He spit and licked his lips. “Shit yeah, like I’m gonna pass out.” He looked downriver and hollered, “Call for a medevac!” then muttered, “Goddamn Jet Ski,” because he knew that Shelly and Alfie couldn’t hear.

  I asked Duncan, “What do Indians do for snakebite?”

  The man’s blank expression requested guidance, so I added, “The suction method and ice don’t work. Is there something traditional we can try?”

  “Poultice,” he answered immediately, assuming the role of a Crow medicine man. “Sit him down. Let the river clean the wound while I grab some moss.”

  Mick yanked his arm away from me. “Moss? Are you out of your mind? I need a fuckin’ doctor!” Then screamed for a medevac again before stumbling toward shore, where he’d left his fins. He intended to swim for help.

  Fallsdown wrapped his arm around the man. “Whoa . . . calm yourself. Doc? Help him sit, and wash it out good. We’ll do this the old way.”

  “My arm’s gonna turn black, you idiot,” Mick shot back. “I could die—call nine-one-one.”

  Duncan took Mick’s face between his hands to make him focus. “Until help gets here, you need to trust me. Do what I say. Take a big, slow breath, then let it out.”

  The tour guide tried to wrestle away, but Duncan held him in a bear hug and made him do it. Stood there looking into Mick’s face while Mick took several deep breaths—no theatrics about Fallsdown’s concern—then helped him sit, Mick resigned and calmer while shock settled in.