Bone Deep

by Randy Wayne White

  A flare of red brake lights suggested only one person was aboard—male, probably. Wearing a helmet. I blinked my flashlight at him as a pointless challenge. The last thing I expected was the driver to turn around.

  But he did. Threw out a leg, spun the bike, and switched his light on bright, approaching slowly at first, then faster—maybe because he recognized me. In rain and blinding light, I couldn’t be sure, but I did know that waving a club at a stranger invites a visit from police. So I wedged the fish billy down the small of my back and retreated a step. As an afterthought, I twisted the headgear around to hide the monocular.

  The bike stopped, the engine died, but the headlight remained aimed at my face. Then a voice called, “You son of a bitch, I knew you was here—what’d he do with it?” The man sounded rattled.

  I shielded my eyes. “Do with what?”

  “Are you saying you don’t know?”

  “Get that damn light out of my eyes,” I told him. “Who are you?”

  After a long look, he muttered something, then attempted civility. “Shit, hoss, I figured you had a special welcome waiting.” Sounded like a farmer chewing a straw when he added, “Think she’ll rain tonight?”

  It was the psycho biker demonstrating his mood swings.

  I reached back and rested my hand on the club. “The light—you’re blinding me.”

  That distinctive cackle while he swung the headlight toward the gate—the chain in place but hanging at an odd angle. Helmet and poncho pivoted toward the mangroves. “A goddamn swamp like this, I’m surprised you don’t got alligators guarding the place.”

  A strange remark. “Depends on the tide,” I said. “Why are you here?”

  “Is this how visitors get treated? As I was pulling up, I saw you stuff that gun down your butt—long one, like with a silencer screwed on.” The headlight panned over me again, then angled toward the bushes. “And you’re wearing Army night optics. Toys like that don’t come with a badge.” He made a whooping sound of approval, suddenly in better spirits. “Partner, I’m beginning to think you’re the real McCoy.”

  He had mistaken the club for a pistol, which was okay with me.

  “I’m not a cop, but I know their number,” I said. “Answer my question.”

  Rain drizzling off his helmet, he replied, “By god, try to convince that idiot Deon you’re not a cop. He was hoping for witness protection. Know what I told him? I told him, ‘Dumb shit, feds ain’t allowed to steal.’ By the way, you happen to have them Pelican cases handy? I’d be much obliged.”

  “Is that why you called me a son of a bitch?”

  “Don’t get your panties in a tither, I was referring to something else. But I want them cases. Even if you’d drowned Deon to get ’em, they ain’t yours.”

  “I can take you for a boat ride if you’re interested in Deon’s story.”

  Laughter. “Ain’t you full of beans tonight—inviting me on another boat ride.”

  “Just the two of us,” I said.

  Nodding, playing the game, he studied me. “Know what I think? What I think is you’re more the sport killer type. Just fancier. Where’s your trained attack dog? His pelt would look good in front of my fire.”

  I said, “I don’t know what kind of drugs you’re on but a thunderstorm is bad timing. You came here to rob me, didn’t you?”

  He ignored that and patted a saddlebag behind him, using the glove on his good left hand. “Me, I keep it simple. A .357 Mag stainless—no rust, no fuss, and no brass to hang my ass.” He hooted—a joke that rhymed—then indicated the other side of the Harley. “I got a tooled-leather scabbard I carry sometimes—a Winchester .30-30. You ever watch that ol’ TV show The Rifleman? Big looped cocking lever, just like Chuck Connors. But Southern cops frown on a man carrying a rifle. I don’t often tie her on my saddle—but should’ve.” He let that settle before adding, “Tonight would have been a whole different story.”

  I didn’t know what that meant, but it was a threat. Behind my back, I released the club, then showed him an empty hand by scratching my shoulder. Hand drier, I regripped the fish billy and waited.

  That convinced him I had a gun. “What caliber’s that bad boy? Don’t be shy.”

  I didn’t respond. The biker didn’t like that but kept it going by motioning toward the bay. “The stink alone would be enough to drive me out. You really got a house in them trees? I pictured something inside the gate. Small but, you know, nice. That’s always the problem with trailer parks and marinas—a hundred uptight assholes all have the same address.”

  I said, “I think you better leave before your hand starts to rust.”

  In a low voice, he said, “Kiss my ass.” Touchy about the subject, but then switched moods and pretended to be amused. “I don’t need my hands now that I got the lay of the land. You live in a swamp and I saw the hippie’s sailboat. Don’t get me wrong, I admire your style, but I can’t say much for your taste in friends.”

  I said, “Why would you care?”

  “His dinghy’s the rubber one, right? I figured, ’cause it’s such a mess—them peace signs sort of give it away. So what I was doing when you showed up, I was headed for the closest bar to find your boyfriend Thompson, or Tomlinson. Say, ‘Hello, amigo,’ and have a drink or two.” With his good hand, he tapped the back of his seat. “Plenty of room on my bitch saddle, if you’re thirsty.”

  Above us, a towering cloud flickered. The biker’s helmet shield was flipped up fighter pilot style, dark eyes peering out, a misshapen smile. Something else: his prosthetic hand was hidden by a poncho that glistened while the rain slowed. The .357 was under there, not in a saddlebag, I suspected.

  I said, “The police station is only half a mile away. If you cut that gate chain, I’ll have you arrested . . . Quark.”

  That offended him even more. “Quark? Who the hell told you my name is—” He stopped. “That clown Mick, wasn’t it? Him, with his big mouth. Well, that goes both ways, hoss. Guess what? Next time you scuba dive that elephant pond, I’m there. The ivory mother lode, Mick claims. See what I mean about your taste in friends? That deaf, dumb shit—Quirt’s my name. I told him a million times. Quirt, not Curt, which he keeps getting wrong. And sure as hell ain’t Quark. You know what a quirt is?”

  I said, “You’re going to tell me anyway.”

  “Just for that, I won’t. Or call me El Sid—which is a long story. Or Reno’s okay. Take your pick. They’re both a lot better than goddamn Marion.”

  He knew about the pond. He knew my name. Not good.

  I said, “If your boss wants to talk, tell him to come in person,” then started toward the path to my house.

  “Hey!” he hollered. “Just having a nice conversation ain’t enough? I left you a private envelope. It ain’t my fault you live in a swamp.”

  I turned. “Left it where?”

  “There, dumbass.” He spun the headlight to where my truck was parked. An old GMC I’ve had for years. A little rust, but otherwise in good shape . . . until now. The passenger window was shattered and the door open. No dome light, so he’d probably used his bionic hand to break that also.

  He said, “How was I supposed to know it wasn’t locked?” cackling again, but then got dead, cold serious. “That don’t make us even, slick. What I should do now is set your house on fire—and kill that goddamn dog.”

  Insane—or it was a line from some cowboy movie—Shane or Lassie—where the bad guy threatens the kid’s collie.

  A Freon sensation streamed through me, urged me to come back with a pistol and shoot out Quirt’s tires. I battled through it even after rationalizing the irrational: Convince the crazy bastard you’re even crazier than him.

  No . . . that isn’t the way pros handle gangbangers—especially not within throwing distance of my own home. Something else: He wanted me to do it. In some twisted way, the man was hoping to f
ind a psycho playmate—the ultimate game: Gunfighters at high noon, the craziest one lives.

  Would he really go through with something like that? I doubted it. So far, just the illusion that I was carrying a gun had made him behave.

  Didn’t matter because it wasn’t going to happen. I walked toward my truck, kept walking even when he called, “If your upholstery’s wet, I can come back with a can of gas.” Then paused before what came next: “How about tomorrow night? We can cook us up some elephant steaks and chew the fat.”

  I was meeting Leland late tomorrow, another visit with Toby. Did he know about that, too? Quirt kick-started his Harley as I turned, left me to wonder about it when he skidded the bike around and throttled away, his right arm finally appearing from under the poncho but holding no gun that I could see.

  I seated the monocular over my eye and memorized a second license plate—a different number, not a Florida plate, but I couldn’t make out which state.

  I checked the gate chain. Quirt had used a saw to cut one of the galvanized links . . . or a bolt cutter attachment on his bionic hand.

  I called Sanibel police.

  TWENTY-THREE

  On the phone, I told Tomlinson, “The crazy biker’s on the island. Take a look at the parking lot, but stay inside.”

  The dog wanted out again. It gave me something to do while I waited for my pal to check.

  Tomlinson was at the Rum Bar on Captiva Island, at the entrance to South Seas Resort, a few miles away. There were only a few local places to choose from, and Tomlinson’s VW Electric Kool-Aid Love Van would be easy for the biker to spot.

  “No Harley choppers,” Tomlinson reported after a wait, “but there’s a table of women here celebrating some kind of reunion. Did Mr. Psycho threaten you again? He’s got a real nasty tongue on him.”

  “He delivered a letter from his boss,” I said, then gave an abbreviated account. “I got his license number. Police are watching the marina, so I’ll come to the bar—if he didn’t smash my distributor, too. I didn’t look under the hood.”

  As I went out the door, the retriever came up the steps carrying what looked like the same chunk of wood, but it had gotten tangled in rope or something.

  I said, “You could choke on that,” and took the mess away from him. Almost tossed it in the garbage before realizing it wasn’t driftwood. The object resembled a garden tool—a small rake, the kind rose fanciers use—but was too big.

  The Honda generator was still firing, but I’d turned out the dock lights. I switched them on, then stood looking at the object for a moment before saying, “Maybe Quirt’s not as crazy as I thought.”

  I was holding his prosthetic hand. The elastic harness ripped but still attached.

  The retriever sat, his head tilted, while two yellow eyes awaited my decision—keep the thing or trash it? Speaking whole sentences to a dog is pointless—worse, confusing to the animal—but I did it anyway. “How the hell did you get this?”

  The retriever’s mouth edged a few inches closer, possibly thinking he could snatch the hand away from me while I babbled.

  “Did you find it?”

  The retriever’s tail thumped the decking twice—a wild display of emotion, for him.

  “Jesus Christ,” I said, “you caught him trashing my truck, didn’t you?”

  The dog blinked at me before his attention shifted to a mullet that leaped into a night of rain and wind, but the wind calming.

  The dog whined, his coat vibrating, while I said, “I can’t wait to get those DNA tests back,” then spent ten minutes going over him inch by inch to see if he’d been hurt.

  He wasn’t.

  I left the retriever in the house, doors locked, with part of a rib-eye steak I planned to have for breakfast.

  Quirt’s bionic hand I placed in the toolshed.

  • • •

  ON MY WAY TO THE RUM BAR, I stopped at Jensen’s Marina to show Fallsdown the soggy papers I’d found on my dashboard, but his rental car was gone, lights in his cottage off.

  I was disappointed, but it could wait. The envelope contained a typed message and the photo of another owl-faced carving. This one was different: black soapstone, but it had a triangular head crest, unlike the stones in photos Duncan had brought. The carving was lying atop a recent edition of the Tampa Tribune to prove its authenticity, the photo printed on cheap paper.

  The unsigned note read This was obtained legally from a Montana dealer, but am willing to trade for a stolen item that is rightfully mine. Suggest you don’t compound your criminal activity. Will make contact soon.

  Articulate—Quirt wasn’t the author. It was more evidence that Crow or Apache ceremonial carvings had, indeed, traveled to Florida.

  Little People, Fallsdown called them, an oddity I had yet to question.

  At the Rum Bar, however, Tomlinson studied the photo and felt obligated to explain, while I ordered a draft and looked at the menu. His story was so bizarre, it allowed me to obsess on Quirt’s threats. Gave me time to replay how I could have handled the scene with more . . . well, style. Tell the crazy bastard, You’ve got a lame horse, cowboy, after shooting out his tires. No . . . tell him, Reach for the sky, then fire three fast rounds before his crippled brain realized what was happening. Use a sound suppressor—thunder would have covered the shots.

  I was pissed. My truck’s interior was soaked, glass everywhere. A garbage bag and duct tape had made a poor replacement for a window.

  Where’s your trained attack dog? His pelt would look good in front of my fire.

  Quirt had said that, too. I hadn’t told Tomlinson what the dog had done, yet, was savoring the moment. The more I thought about the biker’s threat, the madder I got.

  “Doc . . . you don’t seem to be listening.” Tomlinson, perturbed by my inattention, swirled rum in a snifter. “Did you hear me?”

  I lied, “Yes,” then made the mistake of adding, “About what?”

  “I was talking about Lewis and Clark.”

  “No, thank god.”

  “You don’t have to be rude. A simple I don’t give a shit would suffice.”

  Before I could say that, Tomlinson was already explaining. “Lewis and Clark were the first to document the Little People, their actual existence. The mystical components, sure, I expected that to go right over your head. I’ve known you long enough. But we’re talking Anglo-American history here.”

  I told Brian, the bartender, “Yucatán shrimp, please,” and returned the menu. Tomlinson, derailed by the glow of his rum snifter, added some advice. “Has your manager ever considered lab beakers? You have no idea what volumetric glass can lend to the subtleties of rum. Expensive, but, hey, scientists ain’t exactly dummies.”

  Then continued his explanation while I gazed among a dozen TVs and finally settled on a baseball game: Blue Jays and Nationals, R.A. Dickey, the knuckleballer, pitching.

  “Meriwether Lewis,” Tomlinson said, “described the Little People as ‘ferocious devils’ with huge heads—typical racist bullshit, of course. Who’s to say what constitutes an oversize head in a people who can turn to stone any damn time they choose? In fairness to Meriwether, he also wrote that they are very astute, brilliant tacticians. I’m not sure when—it had to be before 1804—but a handful of Little People killed three hundred Lakota warriors in one night. They attacked because the Lakota screwed up and tried to cross sacred LP ground.”

  To prove I was listening, I said, “Sacred Little People ground,” then refocused on the knuckleballer, who had gotten Adam LaRoche to pop up and was now facing Bryce Harper.

  “Read Lewis and Clark’s journals. The facts speak for themselves. Dunk, of course, is reluctant to discuss the issue with outsiders. The Little People have a special relationship with the Crow that dates back—oh, hell—thousands of years, by the white man’s calendar. There was a Crow chief named Plenty Coups
. He’s legendary. Supposedly, the Little People visited Plenty Coups in his dreams and entirely reshaped the destiny of the Crow people.” Tomlinson’s tone provided a confidential nudge when he added, “That’s just a cover story, of course. I think you know what I’m getting at.”

  Watching Harper strike out on a third straight floater, I muttered, “I don’t believe it,” then asked the bartender for a list of NA beer.

  Tomlinson, laughing, waited until Brian was gone to say, “Believe it. I knew I wouldn’t have to spell out the obvious for someone like you.”

  Now I was completely lost. “Believe what?”

  The envelope, the photo, and unsigned letter were to Tomlinson’s left, drying on the bar. Using his fingers like tweezers, he lifted the photo while he buffed a spot with a napkin, then placed the photo in front of me. “I have a hunch this is really him.”

  I asked, “Who?”

  Tomlinson eyed me as if I were a prankster. “Good one! And you’re right. We shouldn’t talk about this. Sacred knowledge should never be verbalized.”

  I signaled Brian the bartender—Vodka on the rocks, please—then turned in my seat. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  Tomlinson tapped the photo. “This is undoubtedly one of the Little People. But notice the ceremonial crest? It’s him—Chief Plenty Coups, I think. Duncan’s gonna freak when he sees this.” He hesitated. “Now that you understand, you’re probably already wondering about Dunk’s current manifestation.”

  I said, “No, I’m wondering why I’m listening to this bullshit—and about Dunk’s current location. He wasn’t at Jensen’s. I checked on the way.”

  Tomlinson was concerned. “Did you knock?”

  “His car was gone so I didn’t bother. What’s wrong?”

  Tomlinson grabbed his cell and got up. “He told me he was hitting the sack early tonight so I need to call and find out. Eat your shrimp—but save a few for me, okay?”