Captiva

Chapter 6

Normally, I enjoy running a boat at night. I like being out there alone in the darkness, suspended above the water, going fast. Like gauging my progress by the shapes of islands, by the positions of distant lights. Like the way the wind washes past, a force so steady that, at times, it seems as if my boat is being held motionless by a jet stream of black air.

It's nice and private: dark water, bright stars. But I didn't enjoy the long run back to Sanibel. I was preoccupied. My mind kept wandering. It had plenty of opportunity to wander. Running the Intercoastal Waterway is like running a well-marked ditch. You leapfrog from flashing light to flashing light, from a red to a white, from a flashing white to a red or green. The lights become hypnotic and soon reduce the brain to little more than a dependable autopilot.

So it wasn't as if navigation required a lot of thought.

What I was thinking about, and what I couldn't seem to stop thinking about, was Hannah Smith. I'd lied to Tomlinson—of course I'd been affected by her. Not on some fanciful telepathic level, but on a marrow-deep physical level. Powerful people are attractive people. The whole process of natural selection is based on the allure of strength. For a species to remain successful, the best genes must be passed on. The gauge is always emblematic: the largest horns, the loudest mating cry, the brightest display of plumage, the lushest body, the biggest bank account. But there are other indicators of power: self-confidence, intellect, humor, independence. Combine these characteristics with long legs, lean hips, and heavy country-girl breasts, and you are dealing with a powerful woman indeed.

Standing at the wheel, peering beyond the feeble glow of my own running lights, I pictured Hannah. Felt an electric rush of longing in abdomen and thighs, and winced, as if in pain. Tried to will the image away . . . but the picture wouldn't disappear. Could still see her standing in the disc of yellow light, taunting me . . . enjoying it.

The problem was, I was jealous. That's what it came down to. Before I could even admit it to myself, I was well past the shoals off Patricio Island, almost to Cabbage Key. I didn't want to be alone, at night, on my boat. I wanted to be in Gumbo Limbo, alone, with her, in that creaky little tin-roof house. Wanted to sit there feeling her eyes burrowing into mine, giving me her total attention. Wanted to hear more about her outlaw behavior. Wanted to pull her face to mine, then peel her out of those tight jeans. . .

But she had chosen Tomlinson. She preferred him over me—that was pretty obvious. Skinny, frazzled Tomlinson, with his Jesus eyes and Joe Cocker face. Over me.

Why? Well. . . that was pretty obvious too: he could help her with the book she wanted to write; help her find a publisher. That was his power. Pure opportunism on her part.

Which is what I told myself. . . then wondered if it was true.

I was thinking irrationally, and knew it. The realization was so strong that I throttled the boat back to idle, then switched off the engine. Drifted along in the darkness, the silent flare-burst of channel-marker lights flashing all around.

Nothing I had felt in the last several hours meshed with my own image of self. It was a red flag. When your emotions or your behavior are contrary to your own self-image, it's time to stand back and reassess. Yes, I had met two, maybe three women in my life for whom I had felt an instant, marrow-deep sexual attraction so strong that it had almost knocked the wind out of me.

Hannah undoubtedly could now be counted among them.

But I had never reacted so emotionally before. Yeah, I had been irritated at Tomlinson all day—the man wore at the nerves. But to be jealous? And obsessive? It wasn't me; it was nothing at all like the man I perceived myself to be. Realizing it seemed to help.

I started the boat and got under way again.

It is impossible to force a topic of thought from your own head. But it is possible to substitute one topic of thought for another. So what I did was spend the next few miles making a cold unemotional assessment of Hannah Smith.

It produced a less attractive picture. By her own admission, she was greedy. She was also self-obsessed. "I do what I damn well please!" How many times had she said that? She used people, she bullied people. The hangdog deference of Arlis Futch—a powerful man himself—was proof. Perhaps most troubling, though, was that Hannah was capable of extreme behavior, the extreme gesture. I believed every detail of her story about taking Jimmy Darroux into Boca Grande Pass. Not that I blamed her. The term "spousal abuse" is much too meek to represent the kind of humiliation and fear that those two words actually define. Any man who hits a woman is mentally unstable and should be forced to get help. Immediately. Just as any man who rapes a woman should be treated as if he has forfeited all considerations of help.

But this is the modern world. People don't take the law into their own hands. The fable of justice has become just one more Walter Mitty dream. Oh, they like to talk about revenge. They like to watch movies about it. But to actually do it ... to actually cross the border into the netherland, to actually make the extreme gesture, is far too frightening for most.

Not for Hannah Smith. She didn't hesitate. Knew just exactly what she was going to do and how to do it—she'd told me that herself in her rowdy, piney woods voice. I admired her for it. Also, she scared me a little because of it.

For a while, I felt better. Reason and logic were familiar territory. They were the tools out of which I have created my own refuge. Emotion, any emotion, was a symptom of perceived reality, not reality itself. Become the slave of it, and you paid a heavy price: wives, lovers, divorces, children, mortgages, corporate infighting, charge cards, early retirement, two cars in the driveway and a dog in the garage.

I preferred my solitary island world. A house and lab under one roof. My boats, my specimens. The clarity of a microscope, the precision of a trip-balance scale. Just me, living my work, doing what I wanted to do.

Which is when, for no good reason, Tomlinson's words tumbled me back into the cycle of obsession: You are both extreme people.

A thought that was all the more unsettling because it had the ring of truth.

It was nearly eleven p.m. when I approached the channel markers off Cabbage Key. Cabbage Key is a hundred-and-some-acre island, mostly mangrove, but with enough Indian shell mounds to keep its dozen or so houses high and dry. There are no bridges or landing strips. Boat access only. The biggest house on the highest mound is a sprawling one-story: white board-and-batten with green shutters; a long open porch that, this time of year, was buttoned tight with canvas, the only way to keep out the chill. The house was built in 1938—which made it ancient by the standards of transitory Florida. In the fifties, it was converted into a public inn. A bar was built in what was once the library, and a restaurant was added. Over the years, Florida changed; the old house on the hill did not.

I considered running right on past. If I pushed it, I could make Dinkin's Bay in a little less than half an hour. But I was feeling restless. Dissatisfied with myself, and oddly dissatisfied with other things—what, I didn't know. Still felt as irritable as some moonstruck adolescent. So what could it hurt to pull in for a beer?

I tied up near the boathouse. There were a couple of mansion-sized yachts moored in the deep-water slippage. One looked like a Hatteras, the other a beautiful old Trumpy. On the Trumpy, people were milling around above deck, drinks in hand. A couple of corporate types in blazers along with what looked to be a cluster of sorority-age girls. The music being piped out of the main salon was vintage World War II, Glenn Miller. The gal from Kalamazoo had just become the girl who was drinking rum and Coca-a-a-a-Cola, as I trudged up the path to the inn. I wondered if the corporate types really believed the antique music would put their MTV generation guests in the mood.

Rob, the owner, wasn't around, but Captain Doug and a couple of other guys I knew were at the bar. I had a Heineken, then another. The guys had heard about the explosion; wanted me to give them all the details. We kept buying rounds and Bob, the bartender, kept serving them. Pretty soon, the party from the Trumpy came spilling in. I found out that the men in the blazers were, indeed, corporate types, but they were neither ego-brittle nor stuffy—the good ones seldom are. Also, the women, though attractive and pert enough, were neither sorority-age nor were they college girls.

"What we do is market cellular phones," one of them told me—a chunky little blonde with pale, Germanic eyes. "This is sort of like a convention, only it's really not, 'cause we had to market more units than anybody else to win this trip. Our regions, I'm talking about. All seven of us, we were picked the top marketers. All women!"

It took me a moment to translate: "marketers" meant "sales staff." Like "educator" and "refuse attendant," it was another one of those inane euphemisms that, instead of clarifying, only murk their own definitions.

She said, "So we won two days at Orlando, then three days at this place on Captiva Island. I just loved Epcot, but Captiva . . . well, that's been sort of boring. It's so . . . quiet. But then we met Charlie, and his corporation leases this great big boat, complete with captain, two weeks every year. You see it down there? Huge. And Charlie, he's such a nice man, Charlie said, what the hell, he'd take us on an overnight cruise so we could see the islands. But no strings attached. He made that real clear." She poked my arm with an index finger to emphasize the importance of that. Said, "What we found out is, Charlie's corporation does a lot of business with the group that owns us, so we're like business associates. Just down here networking, doing our jobs!" She giggled and beamed at me.

I could see Charlie across the room. He was engaged in the delicate task of cutting one of the seven women out of the group. He had selected an aloof brunette—by far the most attractive woman in the room. The two of them were hunched over a table, insulated from the rest of the bar by the intensity of their conversation. The brunette had the look of country clubs and tasteful dinner parties and expensive boutiques. I wondered what circumstance had motivated her to get into the very tough world of sales. Also wondered if Charlie had noticed the sizable diamond on the ring finger of her left hand.

Watched the brunette scoot away from the table; then, very deliberately, very privately, place her hand on Charlie's thigh—a brief, intimate gesture—before rising to go to the rest room.

The ring, apparently, wasn't a problem.

"You want another beer? But you have to let me buy this time. I always pay my own way."

The little blonde was drinking margaritas. She loved the salt. I stuck with beer because that's what I drink. Her name was Farrah. I didn't ask, but I assumed her mother had watched a lot of television back in the seventies. Farrah was from Granite City, Illinois, right there on the Mississippi River, so close to St. Louis that it was like just one great big city now. She'd graduated from high school six years ago, was accepted into the University of Missouri's nursing program, but just hated it. What she really wanted was a nice car and a nice apartment—both of which she now had. "All because I went into cellular marketing. You wouldn't believe the benefits our company gives. Just for the team members—that's what they call us, the people who work for them. They've even produced an exercise video just for us. 'Cause we're all a team, understand?"

I understood. She kept ordering margaritas, and I continued to pour down beer. Normally, I limit myself to three. But I wasn't in the mood for rules or limits. If I allowed myself to pause, to examine what I was doing, the image of Hannah and Tomlinson popped into mind . . . that small house, just the two of them . . . cricket noises outside and the ceiling fan whirring overhead.

Farrah was telling me, "I like you, Doc. No, I mean it. I first saw you, I thought, whew, he's got cold, cold eyes. But I was wrong. You're just a big ol' sweetie. Hey—your turn to buy or mine?"

Through the gradual process of increasingly familiar body contact, Farrah let me know—and those around us know—that she had made her selection. Now she sat on a barstool, just high enough to throw her arm casually around my shoulder. Just close enough so that I could feel the heat of her left breast as it traced designs on my ribs.

Jerry came into the bar, saw the crowd, and began to play Jimmy Buffett on the keyboard. Farrah wanted to get out on the dance floor with the rest of the group. I told her that there were few things more ridiculous than a full-grown man trying to mimic jungle ceremony. She said, "Huh?" then, "You better not go anywhere," before giving me a moist kiss on the cheek and shimmying out among the dancers. I watched her nudge one of her girlfriends, heard her say, "You meet the guy I'm with? He doesn't even own a cellular unit." As if it was proof they were on a tropical island, a million miles from the regional office.

I stood there watching, a cold green botde in my hand. Farrah was wearing beige pumps, a black T-length sweater dress—looked like cashmere—that fit snugly enough, and was cut low enough, to show the weighty bounce of breasts, the slow roll of buttocks as her body absorbed the music and reissued it. Every so often, she'd look over and give me an owlish wink . . . which caused me to consider just what in the hell I was getting myself into. I was no meat market predator; I'd never gone to a bar and tried to pick up a woman in my life. "You want to come home and see my specimens?" would have been a lackluster line. So I had just about decided to quietly disappear, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turned to see a face that was familiar. Finally realized it was Garrett Riley, a deep-water guide out of Naples.

"What are you doing this far north, Garrett?"

He said, "You got your skiff handy?"

"Yeah."

"There's something you need to see."

I looked at the empty bottle I was holding, looked at Farrah on the dance floor.

Garrett said, "Hell, don't worry about that. She ain't gonna catch a cab, and I'm a little drunk myself. I don't need you to make sense. What I need is somebody to give me a hand." When I hesitated, he added, "Hurryin' wouldn't hurt none."

I put the bottle on the bar and followed him outside.

Chapter 7

Garrett had been hired to run the Hatteras that was moored down by the boathouse. The charter was a three-week island hopper, he said, Key West to Tampa and back, that he wouldn't have taken, this being the prime day-tripper season, except his own forty-two-foot Johnny Morgan had spun a prop, which scored the drive shaft and stripped the bearings just inside the stuffing box.

"I figured three weeks at half pay was better than waiting on parts, sittin' home whackin' off to the Weather Channel," he told me.

He made a stop at the Hatteras. Signaled me to wait, then scrambled gibbon quick up the ladder to the fly bridge. He returned carrying an industrial-sized bolt cutter.

"You mind telling me where we're going, Garrett?"

He held a finger to his lips—his clients were asleep. Said, "Not far. Where's your skiff?"

Once I got my boat away from the seawall, I let him take the wheel. He hurried us out the channel, no lights at all, then gunned us onto plane. Directly to the east lay Useppa Island. At the turn of the century, back when West Florida was still considered wilderness, Useppa had been a sportsmen's en- I clave, host to people like Teddy Roosevelt and Joe Kennedy. The Kennedy connection proved useful in the sixties when Useppa was leased by the C.I.A. to train Cuban exiles for the Bay of Pigs invasion. Now the island was a graceful private community: palm trees and white houses built on rolling hills. Garrett ran toward the island, obviously in a hurry; didn't throttle back until we had snaked our way past

the oyster bar near the private channel. Obviously, whatever he wanted to show me was on Useppa.

"That's where it is," he said, motioning.

"Where what is?"

"Where they strung the cable."

"What cable? What the hell are you talking about, Garrett?"

We were idling along now, through the island's harbor. "Little more than an hour ago," he said, "I was over here in the dinghy, plug-casting the docks for snook. Noticed a boat up there in the shallows, somebody poling it along. Didn't look to me like they was up to any good. You know how men'll act when they're tryin' to be real quiet? It was like that.

"Watched 'em dump something. Something heavy, too." He pointed to the shoreline. "Right there. They had to do some gruntin'. Then they fired up their boat and purely tore ass out of here. Still no lights. Shit, they about run me down. It was a mullet boat, two guys in it. But the weird thing was, they run clear out around the island, then north toward Charlotte Harbor. Why not just pop through the Pineland cut? I couldn't figure it out." He pulled the throttle back to neutral and switched off the engine. "But I found out. That's what I'm going to show you."

The momentum of the boat carried us forward along an old mortar seawall into a narrow cut. The cut was only a few boat lengths wide, but it was deep enough to navigate on any tide. That made it a popular passage for small-boat traffic. The markers to the pretty little village of Pineland, and Pine Island, began on the other side.

"It's right in here someplace." Garrett was standing on the casting deck, his hands out, searching around in the darkness. "Watch yourself. . . ." Then: "Got it."

I felt the boat jolt abruptly.

"What is it?"

"You got a spotlight? Or just come up here and feel."

I reached under the console, brought out a flashlight. What Garrett had found was a length of what appeared to be quarter-inch steel cable. It was stretched tight across the cut, connected to something above the seawall on one side, then to a channel marker on the other.

Garrett said, "After they pulled out, I came blasting over here to see what they'd dumped. If I hadn't been in the dinghy, it'da cut my head off. As it was, it just knocked my hat back and scared the shit out of me. Didn't even see it. Hell, even in daylight, you probably wouldn't notice it—until it was too late."

He was pulling us along, hand over hand, toward the seawall. Had I been sitting at the wheel of my flats boat, the cable would have been about neck-high. Now that I was standing, it was belly-high. I projected what would have happened had a boat come wheeling through that cut doing twenty or thirty knots. A couple of fishermen, maybe, headed out at morning dusk ... or a family with two or three children perched on the bow of their Bayliner. Whatever the scenario, it was a bloody scene to imagine.

It sobered me. It leached the alcohol out of my brain. Stringing a cable across a busy waterway was not vandalism, nor was it a statement of political dissent. It was attempted murder, nothing less.

Garrett said, "Hand me those bolt cutters. I'll snip this side, then we'll pull our way back and get the other side, too."

I said, "No. Not yet."

"Huh? Why the hell not?"

"Did you contact the Coast Guard?"

He said, "What?"

"The Coast Guard."

"I hope you're not serious. There's plenty of time for that later."

"I am serious. Did you call them?"

Garrett demonstrated his impatience by being meticulously patient. "No, Doc, I didn't call the Coast Guard. I don't keep a VHF in a rubber dinghy. An idiot might, but I don't. What I did was go bust-assin' back to Cabbage to get the bolt cutters, then decided I could use some help. Which is where I felt kind'a lucky spotting you. Because I figured you'd be a good man to help me cut this bastard down before some poor sonuvabitch comes flying around that corner and cuts his head off. Which could happen any minute now!"

I told him to calm down, take it easy. Used my hand-held VHF to raise the Coast Guard on channel 16. I asked for the duty officer. The Coast Guard had me switch to 22-Alpha for extended traffic. While I waited, I opened the forward locker and broke out the big spotlight and plugged it in. Also got out the disposable gas air-horn. Handed them both to Garrett and told him that unless deaf and blind people were racing around Pine Island Sound, he should be able to stop any boat for miles.

It took quite a while to give the Coast Guard all the information they wanted, and the duty officer finished by suggesting we stand by.

"Christ awmighty, are you happy?" Garrett sputtered when I was finished. "This'll take all night."

I didn't need all night. All I wanted was a few minutes alone with the cable. Anyone sick enough to rig such a thing was also sick enough to include a booby trap. Jimmy Darroux was a failed bomber. But there might be other, more skilled bombers waiting in the wings.

I handed Garrett the VHF. "If a judge ever starts questioning you about mishandled evidence, you'll thank me."

"Right. . . . Where the hell do you think you're going?"

I had grabbed the flashlight, Leatherman pliers, a chunk of heavy monofilament line, and had slipped overboard into waist-deep water. "I want to take a closer look at the cable before we cut it."

I watched while Garrett and my skiffdrifted away on the incoming tide . . . then used the flashlight to follow the cable up over the seawall.

The cable appeared to be belted around the base of a palm tree. Before approaching the palm, I tied my Leatherman pliers to the monofilament, thereby making an effective plumb line. Then I walked slowly, very slowly, holding the plumb line out just as far from my body as I could get it. If there was a trip wire in my path, the monofilament would catch harmlessly on it.

There was no trip wire.

Even so, I remained cautious. Garrett had told me the men had lifted something heavy out of their boat. Something that made them grunt. The typical marine battery weighs thirty-seven pounds. A five-gallon can of gas weighs more than forty. Add a blasting cap and you have the ingredients for a powerful bomb.

I had good reason to be cautious.

I used the fishing line to probe around the cable. No strings or wires running from it. Used the flashlight to check overhead. No strings or wires to be mistaken for harmless vines. The cable was secured with a common screw-down bridle. I slid the fishing line delicately, very delicately, into the chock, alert for the first slim resistance of wire.

Nothing.

I took a couple of deep breaths . . . relaxed . . . used the screwdriver head on my Leatherman to free the cable. Then I half swam, half waded across to the channel marker, where, after a less exacting inspection, I disconnected that end, too. Had there been a mad bomber, he almost certainly would have placed the device on the Useppa side of the cut, where it could do the most damage.

Garrett came puttering up as I was coiling the cable. Shut off the engine and, after a properly dramatic pause, said, "You get a few beers in you, you act like a damn lunatic. I'm serious."

"Nothing but screws and chocks holding it. So I figured, what the hell, why wait for the Coast Guard?"

Garrett said, "No shit, Sherlock," as I climbed into the boat.

As we idled back toward Useppa's harbor, I asked Garrett what he thought the men might have dumped. He said, "You didn't see? What the hell were you doing up there?" Before I could invent an answer, he said, "Here—take the spotlight. I'll show you." Then turned the wheel. When the bow nudged the beach, he took the light and began to sweep it back and forth. "Probably wake up everybody on the whole damn island. There-— see that? There's another one . . . and another."

What he was showing me appeared to be lengths of bar stock, chunks of two to three feet, scattered along the northwestern fringe of the island. I removed my glasses, polished the salt spots off, and looked again.

What I was seeing were fish. Dozens of them. I stepped out of the boat, carrying the flashlight.

They were big snook, ten-to-twenty-pounders. The snook is a prized saltwater game fish; an extraordinary animal, both in terms of behavior and physical beauty. It has an efficient, cartilaginous jaw that flares cutlasslike around black peregrine eyes that are ringed with gold. Its body is pewter-bright, amplified by yellow, with an armorwork of scales covering a dense and broadening musculature. It is a heavy, functional, predator's body, as if all the thousands of years of the species' evolution were the refinement of one moonless night in murky, prehistoric water. The black lateral line, running from gill to caudal fin, is a sports car touch, something that might have been dreamed up in Detroit. On any other animal, the stripe would appear frivolous. You see a snook for the first time and, along with the lingering impression of beauty, you think: Survivor.

But these animals had failed the genetic mandate. They had not survived. I went from one to another, touching, lifting, inspecting. They had been dead for more than a day and not kept on ice. The scales were loose. The eyes milky. Their skin had the withered look of roadkill. On several, I found telltale geometries as if etched in blue, then baked hard: net scars.

I retrieved one of the smaller fish and carried it back to where Garrett waited.

"The marine patrol stops you, Doc, they'll take your boat. Snook are out of season."

"I've got a collector's permit. I'm taking it back to the lab to see if I can find out how it died."

Garrett made a grunt of contempt. "How? Shit, that's not obvious? The two guys in the mullet boat strung their catch wire, then carried up a couple of boxes of illegal fish and dumped them. Let people know who did it; show just how pissed off they are. A lot of sportfishermen live on Useppa. The mullet guys were just saying thanks for the net ban."

I panned the spotlight once more over the rows of carcasses, switched it off, and backed out. Most of the way back to Cabbage Key, we both kept a glum, funereal silence. Then Garrett cleared his throat, said in a soft, musing way, "You know, I voted against the net ban. You believe that?"

I knew a little bit about his background. "You come from a family of commercial fishermen, so it's understandable—"

"Yeah . . . but that's not why. You know what it was? It was those fishing magazines, the way they preached for the ban, but still ran their ads for big engines and lorans and sonar. You know as well as I do, that's what destroyed the offshore fishery. Damn hypocrites. Least they coulda had the balls to admit it. Hell, I do. Anyone who runs a boat is a hypocrite, right?"

He said, "You know what else? Those stupid commercials about the mullet fishermen netting dolphins and turtles and manatees—what bullshit. Nothing but lies. Hell, it was almost funny to people who really knew something about it. But you know what really did the trick?" Garrett paused, thinking about it. I got the impression he was trying to explain it to himself. "What really did it was this guy named Tullock, used to come down to the docks, this state guy, a marine extension agent. He's the one—"

I interrupted. "Raymond Tullock?" It had to be—there weren't that many marine extension agents named Tullock around.

"Yeah. Why, you know him?"

It wasn't so unusual to hear Tullock's name mentioned twice in the same day. Florida's fishing community is large, but intricately connected. Still, I found the coincidence striking. I asked, "Tullock's the one who talked you out of voting for the ban?"

"That officious little prick couldn't talk me into anything. He's the guy that lifted my commercial sticker because I told him I didn't have time to fill out his damn forms. What fish we caught, where we caught them, how much they weighed. He'd come around the end of the month if you didn't mail them. Hell, I about had my boat repossessed because of him. No, Tullock wasn't against the ban. He was for the net ban. He'd say, 'I shouldn't be tellin' you this, but—' Or, 'Don't tell anyone you heard this from me.' I figured whatever Tullock was for, I was against. But now. . . after seeing what we just saw. . . well, sometimes you have to throw out the good to get rid of the bad. Know what I mean? I kind'a regret not voting for the damn thing."

I was beginning to feel the same way.

When we got to Cabbage Key, I asked Garrett to write his name and number in my notebook. I wanted to talk to him when we weren't beer-bleary and sullen, and when it wasn't one o'clock in the morning. I watched him swing cat-footed aboard the Hatteras and disappear into the cabin.

Then, just as I was pulling away, I heard a whoop and a holler, and turned to see chunky, blond Farrah waving at me. She was calling, "Is that your boat? I love that boat," as she hurried along the dock in her tight black dress, moving with the exaggerated self-control of someone who is very drunk. When she was close enough, she slowed to a dignified pace, flashed me a sloppy grin, and reached to steady herself on a piling . . . but missed. Then I watched her grin broaden into a wild leer of surprise as she cartwheeled off the dock into the water.

The gallant thing to do would have been to leap into the water, scoop her up, and carry her to safety. But I am not gallant. I swung the boat to her, and as she came clawing her way up on the casting deck, I held her

motionless until she answered some questions. Did her neck hurt? Any tingling sensation in hands or feet? Drunks have been known to hobble around sprightly while internal bleeding or the leakage of spinal fluid drains the life out of them.

"Damn right I'm tingling, ya big horse. 'Cause I'm freezing. Lemme up!"

She sat groggily. Used her fingers to strip the water from her hair as I tied the boat. I took my bomber jacket off, wrapped it around her, and helped her to her feet. She was weaving badly. I wondered how many more margaritas she'd had after I left.

"You bazzard, you went off and lef' me. Tol' you not to go, but did you listen? Nope, nope, nope, nope." She was wagging her finger under my nose. "Don' lie to me. Do-o-o-on' you lie to Farrah."

I looked around, hoping to see her girlfriends, hoping to see Charlie. But the big Trumpy was quiet at its mooring. I looked up the mound toward the bar: no movement, no music, no noise. The party was over.

"Hey! You know what I wanna do? Less go for a ride in your boat. How 'bout it." She banged her hips against mine. "Scooch over. I'll drive. Don' you worry. You ever hear of the Miss-pippi River? I drove boats all over the Miss-pippi."

It took maybe ten minutes to talk her out of the boat ride. You can't reason with a drunk, you have to barter with them. Yes, I would take her for a boat ride. Yes, I had heard of the Miss-pippi, and yes, she could drive. But first she would have to go back to her cabin and get into some dry clothes.

"We ga' lots of boats in Illinois," she said solemnly, just before I hefted her up onto the dock.

The Trumpy was about a sixty-footer. We entered through the main salon. It smelled of marine varnish and synthetic fiber. There were courtesy lights glowing from behind the mahogany bar. I tried to turn Farrah loose, but she stumbled as she was going down the companionway steps, and insisted that I help her.

Her stateroom was forward, just behind the master stateroom. I looked at the door of the master stateroom, all the brass fittings, and wondered if Charlie was in there with the aloof brunette. If so, I wondered if the aloof brunette had bothered to take off her wedding ring.

"See! Just me, all by myself." Farrah had the door open, a light on. It was a tiny cabin with bunks. There was a collapsible table, a stainless steel washbasin, and a combination shower and head. The layout reminded me of an Amtrak sleeper. I guessed it was designed to be the children's quarters, handy to the master stateroom.

"No, don't you leave! I'm keeping you with me till I get that boat ride." She had me by the hand, trying to pull me into the cabin. Then she stopped suddenly, touched fingers to her forehead, and said in a softer, more articulate voice, "Whew, I feel a little dizzy. Don't go. Please? Not till I feel better."

I sighed, shrugged; stepped into the room. Turned around to pull the door closed, and when I turned back, Farrah was stripping the wet dress over her head . . . found a hanger . . . had to arch her back to reach the simple white pearl necklace she wore . . . placed it on the vanity.

"You mind waiting while I jump in the shower? I'm freezing," she said.

"So I see."

"You do?"

I did. Very clearly. Farrah wore only a transparent nylon bra and blue bikini panties. The wet material clung to her, showing the mounds and pink circles and curling pubic folds of her body. She was not nearly so bulky as the tight dress had made her appear. She held the pose for a moment, grinned, then hip-wagged her way into the tiny head, and closed the door. I took a seat on her bunk; sat there breathing in steamy, fragrant odors, telling myself I should leave . . . wondering why I didn't.

A friend of mine once made me stand back and look at a wall map of the United States. "Do you see it?" she kept asking. "Do you see the subliminal message? Students grow up staring at a map just like this." Her theory being that the testicular and penile shape of Florida caused those students, as adults, to suffer a feverish subconscious libido on their Florida vacations. Over the years, I had observed enough tourist behavior to believe that her weird theory had merit. Maybe Farrah was another example. Or maybe hers was a drive more complicated.

Whatever Farrah's reasons, they weren't good enough—that's what I told myself. I had no interest in one-night stands—right? Why intentionally diminish myself—right? Nor did Farrah strike me as the type to engage in that kind of destructive behavior. She had been drinking, I told myself. Her reasoning was fogged—right?

Well. . . right.

Even so, I sat there debating it, wanting to stay, trying to ferret out an acceptable excuse. . . . Then I didn't have to debate or rationalize anymore because Farrah came stumbling, naked, out of the head, a towel clutched in her hands, her face as pale as her milkmaid breasts, saying, "I . . . feel . . . sort'a sick."

Then she was sick. Not just once, either. I helped her as much as I could. Helped her get cleaned up and into bed; then I sat there patting her back, making comforting noises, feeling old and far more chivalrous than I actually am. I also felt relief. . . and a curious sadness, too. Farrah was one of the winners. Her employer had acknowledged that. She had a nice car and nice apartment. She had the dental and medical and retirement plans. She had a fitness program and vacation getaways. She had joined the team, so the corporation was providing for her every need. Lately, I had been meeting more and more team members—but fewer and fewer individuals. It was beginning to worry me.

When her breathing became a steady series of soft poofing sounds, when I could feel the involuntary muscle-twitch of legs and hands, I stood and found a blanket. Covered her from toe to head, tucked her in tight. Leaned to kiss her forehead and, as I turned out the light, said, "Have a good life, lady."

Then, as I snuck out of her stateroom, I nearly collided with what turned out to be Charlie. He was in the process of sneaking out of his stateroom, headed for the main salon to get a snack. I followed him up the companionway, prepared for the chummy locker room winks and nudges that he would offer. Hey, we got laid, buddy! The aloof brunette was none of my business, but I felt an unreasonable animus toward him because of her.

Instead, Charlie said, "These corporate junkets, they can wear you out, you let 'em. Lot of craziness down here in Florida."

I said, "Yeah, Charlie, it's just a crazy mixed-up world."

He seemed a little surprised by my tone, but pressed on. "So what I did this time, I had the wife fly down. Just. . . missed her, I guess. So I called her up, had her book first-class."

Wife?

Charlie was beginning to think me dense. "You didn't meet her? The brunette I was sitting with. My wife!'

I left berating myself for being presumptuous and judgmental and cynical, but heartened that, for some, maybe the world wasn't such a crazy place after all.

Chapter 8

The next morning, late Friday morning, the phone woke me. I was talking into the handset before I was even conscious of being out of bed: "Sanibel Biological Supply."

Silence.

I said, "Hello?"

No reply—but there was someone on the other end, listening to me. I could hear a distant strain of music, an old song: "Everyone's Gone to the Moon."

Was just about to hang up when a gravelly, muffled voice said, "You asshole, you tell the hippie to get the hell off'a our island. He snoops around, we'll cut 'is nose off."

Click.

I stood looking at the phone dumbly, then replaced the handset. Like everyone, I get my share of crank calls. Usually from kids having fun while Mom and Dad are away, dialing randomly, acting tough. But this call had a specific message, and the voice—though obviously disguised—had an edge of crazed intensity that cut to the animal core. I crossed the room, heart beating faster than normal, and checked the clock: 10:17. Very late in the day for an early riser like myself. Even so, I felt as if my body needed a few more hours of sleep. My eyes burned and my head throbbed. I had a hangover that seemed out of proportion to the seven or eight beers I'd had. Felt more like a minor bout of the flu. My stomach was making gaseous rumbling noises. Each rumble produced the residual taste of Hannah's sulfuric tea.

Not a nice way to start the day.

I turned on the stereo and spun the scanner until I heard the last, fading refrain of "Everyone's Gone to the Moon." It was a local FM station. I turned it up a little before lighting the propane stove and putting coffee on. As I did, I made a mental list of people who knew that Tomlinson was on Sulphur Wells. I came up with only two who had an obvious reason to make threatening calls: the mullet fishermen, Julie andJ.D. But why call me? And how could they have gotten my name?

As the coffee perked, I got the phone book and found the listing for Sulphur Wells Fish Company. Dialed the number and, when an unfamiliar voice answered, listened carefully for music playing in the background: Garth Brooks. My station was now playingjohn Lennon.

No match.

I asked, "Is Julie or J.D. around?" The unfamiliar voice said, "Nope, and they ain't gonna be around, neither," and hung up.

I found Raymond Tullock's number, dialed it, and got an answering machine. I found Tullock Seafood Exports in the business pages, dialed the number, and got his answering service. I didn't leave a message.

The only other people I could think of who might have a motive were the marina s two guides, Nels Esterline and Felix Blane—but they couldn't know that Tomlinson had remained on Sulphur Wells. Also, I'd known both men for several years. Angry or not, they weren't the type to make anonymous calls. Even so, I tried their home numbers, listening for music in the background as I told their respective wives, "Sorry, wrong number."

No match.

Finally, I tried to find a listing forjimmy Darroux. There was none. Had to leaf my way through a couple of pages of Smiths before I finally found H. S. Smith, Gumbo Limbo. Dialed it, let it ring and ring before Tomlinson finally answered. He told me he wasjust on his way out—Hannah was in her truck waiting for him. "Can't talk, man! When she wants to go, she goes. Innocence without patience—can you imagine that combination?"

"She's going to have to wait," I said, and I told him about the call I'd gotten.

"Cut my nose off?" Tomlinson said. "Why would anyone want to cut my nose off? I'm not one to brag, but I think I've got a pretty nice nose."

"He was talking metaphorically, for God's sake. It was a threat. Maybe it was a crank, maybe it wasn't. But you need to be careful. Have you been out this morning, met anyone new?"

"Yeah, bunches of people. Hannah s had me all over the island already. I stayed up till three reading her notebooks; then she had me on the road at six, visiting the fish houses. Completely screwed up my meditation schedule. But she said I needed to get to know the place before I start work on her book. I agree. The ambience—you know? Tone? This island has a whole different feel."

"Did you mention my name to anyone you met?"

"She's honking out there, man. I don't get out the door quick, she'll leave me. She'd do it, too."

"Did you mention—"

"Maybe. I don't know. Hannah, she could have mentioned you. Seriously. You're like one of her favorite topics."

I felt an unreasonable surge of pleasure at hearing that. "What I'm saying is, you need to be careful, Tomlinson. That's all I'm telling you." I hesitated. What I wanted to ask, I couldn't ask. So instead, I said, "She's bringing you back to Sanibel tonight, right?"

He said, "I don't think so. Whatever she wants . . . hey . . . Jesus, she's—" His voice suddenly contained the flavor of panic. Maybe Hannah was pulling out of the drive. Heard him yell, "HOLD IT! I'M COMING!" before he said into the phone, "Gotta go, man! I'll call you. Okay?"

I said, "One more thing—"

Tomlinson said, "Can't. The magic bus is rolling. Manana!" Then he hung up.

The coffee didn't help my head or my gurgling stomach. Decided what I needed to do was sweat my system clean.

So I put on the Nikes and ran down Tarpon Bay Road to the beach and did five killer miles on the soft-packed sand. Ran east along Algiers Beach almost to the golf course and back, forcing the pace, ignoring my swollen toe, checking the watch, making myself sprint two minutes, then stride three minutes, never allowing a peaceful anaerobic moment.

The last lingering chill of the cold front was gone. Clear, sun-bright January morning. Heat radiating off the sand. A mild tropical breeze huffing from the south, out of Cuba. Vacationers already out with their beach towels and tanning goo, eager to bake in the first summer-hot day Sanibel had presented them in more than a week. Around the hotel pools, the uniformed staff members were busy shuttling towels and drinks, renting sailboards and paddle pontoons and jet skis. Scattered all along the beach were little strongholds of oil-coated flesh; some, truly spectacular women in their thong bikinis or sleek one-piece suits. 1 didn't linger. Didn't let myself pause, or even slow. Kept right on hammering away at the sand, through the lotion stink of coconut oil and Coppertone, lungs burning, sweat pouring, until I was back to my starting place just off Tarpon Bay Road.

After that, I did an ocean swim. Twenty minutes up the beach, twenty minutes back—more than a mile. Swimming is so deadly boring that the brain, in defense, compensates with an alluring cerebral clarity. That's what I like about it. While swimming, I could think intensely and without distraction. Thought about the anonymous phone call: He snoops around, we'll cut his nose off. Idle threat or not, it took a lot of anger to generate a call like that. If the call came from Sulphur Wells—which seemed likely— Tomlinson had already added two or more enemies to a life list that contained no enemies anywhere. It was precisely because Tomlinson had so little experience in dealing with personal menace that he was so vulnerable. The question was: How could I make him believe it?

Also thought about Hannah. Still felt the familiar abdominal squeeze when I pictured her eyes, that long body, but the symptoms of obsession had faded. I was relieved, because there were things about Hannah Smith which I found unsettling. Her judgment, for one thing. She apparently believed that Raymond Tullock, her prospective business partner, had worked hard to prevent the net ban. But Garrett Riley's story was more convincing: Tullock had actually lobbied hard to get the net ban passed. He was lying to Hannah and the other commercial fishermen to protect his own interests.

But that was her problem. Maybe Tomlinson's, too. Which would probably delight Tomlinson. The man was never truly happy unless he was involved with a woman who was struggling with interesting and complex personal difficulties. The more personality quirks, the better. Life was never too strange or complicated for him. As he had told me more than once, "I am, above all else, a divine healer."

Actually, I believed him to be, above all else, a divine flake. Yet I also knew that no one would work harder for a friend. If Hannah wanted him to help her write and publish a book, that book would be written and published—or Tomlinson would collapse trying.

After I had showered and changed, I telephoned the Coast Guard just to make sure they had found the cable where I left it. The duty officer said that they had, then told me the investigation had been turned over to the sheriff's department and the marine patrol. I told the duty officer that I hoped both agencies dropped everything until they found the people who were responsible. The duty officer reminded me that both agencies were trying to patrol several thousand square miles of water and shoreline with just two or three boats and limited budgets—the equivalent of a couple of beat cops trying to patrol all of Rhode Island, alone and on foot.

Then I called a friend on Useppa, Kate Schaefer, to make sure that the community had been alerted. Kate had heard, and so had everyone else on the island. As one of the community leaders, she'd made certain of that. "It made me so mad I was shaking," she told me. "I'm still shaking. All those poor fish, that was bad enough. But to come here and rig a trap like that— Doc, are they insane?"

Nope, I told her. Probably not. In all likelihood, they were ruthless, indifferent, and more than a little stupid. But mostly, they were mean. Just dumb-dog mean. I told her to stay on her toes and to call me if she needed any help. Kate said, "The only thing I want from you is the dinner you owe me. Some restaurant that isn't too loud or too smoky, and has a superb menu. Sarasota is nice." She had a very bawdy chuckle for someone with her business accomplishments and political clout. "Or I could fly us to Omaha. I know how much you love a good steak."

I took a rain check. Then, after we'd said our goodbyes, wondered why in the hell I hadn't taken her up on the offer. Kate was a great lady. She was smart and tough, but she was also elegant, tender, and she had an outrageous sense of humor.

So why not? Or why not telephone Dewey Nye? See how her campaign on the pro golf tour was going. Offer to fly up to New York ... or wherever she happened to be, and spend a few days buddying around. Nothing physical—not with Dewey. Her psychological makeup wouldn't allow it. Still, it would be nice to spend some time with a woman I cared about. Get away from my damn fish for a while. Have my Hewes put in dry storage and go. From what I'd seen lately, dry storage was the only safe place for a flats boat—until after July, at least, when the net ban went into effect.

A five-mile run, a one-mile swim, and a hundred pull-ups, I decided, were not sufficient to dissipate a blooming case of male restlessness.

So I futzed around with my damn fish for a while. Got the raw-water intake pump going again. Paid special attention to the six immature tarpon I had in the tank. The fish looked healthy. No apparent ill effects from spending twenty-four hours in water that did not circulate. I wasn't surprised. The tarpon is a euryhaline species, which means that it can live in a wide variety of saline and nonsaline environments: from open ocean to the muckiest landlocked sulfur pit. In Central America, I had seen tarpon in the leaf-choked jungle ponds of Guatemala and Honduras, and as far inland as Lake Nicaragua, 127 miles from the sea. One reason for their hardiness is that tarpon can supplement their oxygen supply by rising to the surface and gulping in air. The mysterious thing is, tarpon surface—or "roll," as it is called—whether the water they inhabit is rich with oxygen or not.

That was my current interest. And why I paid special attention to the six metallic-bodied animals in my tank.

In the early 1940s, biologists Charles M. Breder and Arthur Shlaifer had published articles in Zoologica which suggested that the behavior of tarpon was not just respiratory, it was social. I had obtained copies of those papers from the New York Zoological Society. It was my plan to duplicate their experiments and, perhaps, expand on them.

Also, I wanted to necropsy the snook I had brought back from Useppa.

But that was spare-time work. Sanibel Biological Supply, my small company, presently had an order on the books for two dozen sea horses. Eighteen were to be shipped alive, six were to be dissected, their circulatory and reproductive systems injected with contrasting dye. It would take me a whole day, maybe two, to collect that many sea horses. The dissection work would be precise, tricky, and demanding.

I was looking forward to it.

It was after midnight before I finished in the lab, showered beneath the cold-water rain barrel, then switched off the lights. I padded barefooted across the plank flooring. Found my portable shortwave, a Grundig Satellit, on the table beside the reading chair, then flopped into bed, holding the radio on my stomach. Used the autoscan button to surf the bands, and discovered Radio Vietnam at 7.250 MHz, all programming in English. Drifted off to sleep listening to a woman's silken, accented voice, live from Hanoi, telling me about the noble Communist party's legalization of capitalism, a celebrated event called Doi Moi.

Then I was awake again. . . . Groggy. Confused. The radio was no longer on my stomach. Apparently, I had set it aside when I covered myself with the soft wool navy-issue blanket. Looked at the phosphorus numerals of the alarm clock beside my bed: just after three a.m. Why was I awake?

I had heard something. What? I lifted my head, listening. Lay there motionless for what seemed a long time, all senses straining. Could hear the wind blustering against the windows; once heard the primeval squawk of a night heron. Nothing more. Had just about decided that I'd been dreaming, when I felt the slightest of tremors vibrate through the wooden scaffolding of my house. Then felt another . . . and another. It took me a moment to identify the rhythm . . . then I knew: Someone was coming up the steps.

I turned my head just enough to see the gray scrim of window by the door. Saw the sillhouette of a human head materialize, then grow larger, distorted, as a face pressed against the window. I remained motionless, the face peering in, me staring at the face. The face was unrecognizable; a black smear that was magnified by the glass, its hot breath illustrated by a vaporous fog on the windowpane.

I wondered what those unseen eyes could decipher from my darkened room. Not much, I decided. Wondered if the face was that of a friend ... or a foe ... or some late-night wanderer who, perhaps, thought my stilt house was part of the national wildlife preserve. A taxpayer had the authority to inspect government property any time of the day or night, right?

I waited. Watched the black shape drift across the expanse of window and disappear. Expected to hear a knock at the door; expected to hear the voice of some troubled friend saying, "Sorry to bother you so late, Doc, but I need your help." Boats break down. Boats get stranded. It had happened before.

But there was no knock. Instead, I felt the rhythmic tremor of careful feet on wooden steps. My visitor was returning down the stairs.

I swung out of bed, found my glasses, and went to the window. Saw that my visitor was a man: big, heavyset man in a dark shirt. It was too dark to make out facial features. Watched him stop on the lower platform, glance back at my cottage, then study the sleeping marina—the behavior of someone who doesn't want to be seen. Watched him move along the dock toward the mooring area where I keep my boats. Thought about trying to spook him off by hitting the deck lights. . . decided that would be too kind. He seemed to have burglary on his mind, and I don't share the sympathies of some for the economic quandary of thieves. Yet I didn't want to confront him. Maybe he had a knife. Or a gun. Or a knife and a gun, plus a head full of drugs. It is the unwise citizen who challenges a late-night prowler. That's what cops are for.

Still watching the man, I picked up the phone, planning to dial 911. As I began to dial, I saw him go to my fish tank and lift the lid. Saw him reach down into the tank, as if attempting to find the water pump. My visitor, I decided, wasn't a thief, he was a vandal. In a minute or less, he could destroy the whole circulatory apparatus of a very delicate system that had taken me a lot of very frustrating hours to build.

So much for playing the roll of respectable citizen. I didn't have time to wait for the cops. Furthermore, I no longer wanted to wait for them. Stealing was bad enough, but attempting to damage my aquarium was, in my mind, a hell of a lot worse. This bastard had crossed the line; deserved my personal attention.

I reached for the door, then remembered the squeaky hinges that would telegraph my approach. Instead, I moved the reading chair, then quietly opened the big trapdoor through which the fish merchants had once hoisted crates of fish and blocks of ice. I lowered myself through the floor, grabbed a crossbeam, then hung there suspended above the water, wearing nothing but my glasses and old khaki swim shorts.

My visitor was still hunched over the fish tank.

I grabbed the next crossbeam, and the next, moving hand to hand beneath my house, away from the tank. My house is built of old Florida heart pine. The beams creaked, but not much. It was a noiseless way to move. When I was close enough, I reached out with my legs, got my feet onto the platform, and stood. Turned to make sure the visitor was still on the front deck—he was—then I went belly-down on the dock and slid into the January water. Staying beneath the dock, I sculled my way around the house, then under the main platform. I could hear my visitor above me: the gentle shifting of weight a few inches from my head. I continued onward until I was out from under the platform; then I laced my left arm around a plank in the boardwalk that leads to shore. The water was shallow—only about four feet deep—and I had firm footing on the muck bottom.

I tapped the dock with my knuckles, then snapped my fingers a few times, hoping to get my visitor's attention.

Heard the lid to the fish tank creak closed . . . then silence.

Snapped my fingers twice more. Heard the scuff of shoes on damp wood: my visitor had heard the noise and was coming to investigate.

I stood beneath the dock, knees bent, head back, only my face out of the water, looking up, waiting. Heard a whispered voice say, "Is that you?"

Thought: Who the hell is he talking to?

Snapped my fingers once more, then heard a dull thud above me—my visitor was getting down on his knees—and then watched the dark shape of a head extend out over the dock, looking for the source of the noise, my visitor's face only a foot from mine. There wasn't enough light to see his expression. ... I knew it would take a moment for his brain to interpret what his eyes were seeing . . . lunged up out of the water before he had time to react, grabbed him by the throat and swung him into the water with me.

My visitor's first terrified instinct was to flee—maybe a gator had grabbed him. He came up spitting water, throwing elbows, struggling to get to shore. But I got my legs threaded through his legs so he couldn't move, still had a good grip on his throat, tilted his head back and said into his ear, "Hey . . . hey! Talk to me, you won't get hurt. Fight me, you'll drown."

He decided to fight. Tried to find my eyes with his fingers; elbowed me hard in the ribs... so I took him under. Took him down to the bottom and waited until his movements became panicked, frenzied before allowing him up to take in air.

"Quit fighting!"

More elbows. Then he lunged backward, ramming me into the dock. So I took him under one more time; waited on the bottom with him until the thudding of my eardrums told me my own lungs were empty, then hoisted him back to the surface . . . only to be clubbed hard above the ear by someone behind me. Stupidly, I turned to look . . . and just had time to get my arms up as a man standing on the dock swung at me with a long plank. Took a glancing blow off forearm and head . . . disentangled my legs from those of my visitor and lunged underwater, swimming hard. I wanted to put some distance between myself and the guy with the board.

Came up twenty yards or so away to hear: "... dumb ass, I told you to wait for me. Let 'im go!"

"The sonuvabitch almost killed me!"

"You want to tell it to the cops? Get your ass outta there!"

From neck-deep water, I watched my visitor walrus up onto the dock, and then he and his buddy went jogging along the boardwalk toward shore. A minute or so later, as I was climbing onto the platform, 1 heard their vehicle start—it sounded like a truck; a manual transmission. Took a quick look at my fish tank. He had ripped out the PVC spray rail, but the pump was still working. Even so, the idea of him trying to futz my aquarium infuriated me. I hustled up the steps, took the keys to my own truck from the hook beside the door, and then drove down the shell drive, hoping to catch them.

At the end of the drive was a four-way stop. Turn left, you'd soon be on Periwinkle, Sanibel's main road and the only route to the mainland causeway. Go straight, along Tarpon Bay Road, and you'd end up at the beach. Turn right, the road led to Blind Pass, across which is the bridge to Captiva Island. The Sanibel Causeway was the only mainland umbilical; there was no highway egress from Captiva, so it seemed unlikely that they would have turned right. Yet a lingering haze of dust told me that they had gone toward Captiva.

I turned, powering through the gears, driving fast. There was no traffic: black two-lane road; black hedge of trees on both sides. There were a couple of fishermen on the Blind Pass Bridge—no matter what time of the night, there were always fishermen—so I stopped long enough to ask one of them if a pickup truck had recently passed. Got a shrug for a response. "Little bit ago. Maybe."

I crossed the bridge, onto Captiva. Pale rind of beach and night sea to my left, winter estates to my right: vacation homes set way back in, cloaked by tree shadow, their driveways marked by driftwood signs. Over on Sulphur Wells, winter residents hung plastic placards from their mailboxes, naming their mobile homes as cleverly as they named their cheap boats: Lay-Z-Daze, Snow Bird, Sea-Ducer. Here on Captiva, though, the names—carved into the driftwood—communicated the power of old money and lofty society: Sea Grape Lodge, Casuarina, Tortuga, White Heron House. Why would two vandals flee to Captiva?

At a resort and marina called 'Tween Waters, I turned into the parking lot. Plenty of rental cars, but no pickup trucks. Headed back onto the beach road, still determined to catch them—at the very least, get their license number. Drove clear to the security gates of a massive resort, South Seas Plantation—as far as you can drive on Captiva Island. Nothing but private tennis courts, condominiums, and a golf course beyond. No sign of a truck anywhere. Didn't pass a single car. So maybe I'd guessed wrong. Maybe they'd turned toward the causeway bridge, not Captiva. Or maybe they had detoured down one of the side roads. Whatever they'd done, I'd lost them.

I turned around and headed back toward Sanibel, driving my normal speed—slow—arm out the window, feeling the sea wind, feeling the anger recede, but still wondering why anyone would want to destroy my fish tank.

It was nearly four a.m. by the time I got to Dinkin's Bay.

Chapter 9

Each Saturday at sunset, the fishing guides and the live-aboards throw money in a pot to finance Dinkin's Bay's weekly Pig Roast and Beer Cotillion. The name is misleading because pigs and cotillions don't play a role. Beer, however, does. Ice is shoveled into Igloos, and the beer is buried deep. Kelly, from the take-out, loads the picnic table over by the sea grape tree with platters of shrimp and fried conch and anything else that happens to be lying around the kitchen. The live-aboards begin socializing on the docks, freshly showered and drinks in hand, at sunset. Which is usually about the time the guides finish washing down their skiffs.

For the first hour or so, it's marina community only. No wandering tourists allowed, no locals looking for a free meal. There is a chain-link gate on the shell road that leads to the marina, and Mack keeps the gate closed. But after all the food has been eaten, and if there's still enough beer, Mack strolls out and opens the gate. After that, the length of the party is commensurate with the endurance of marina residents and outsiders alike.

Saturday morning, I forced myself to get up at a respectable time—seven—and spent the whole day working. First, I replaced the PVC sprayer bar on my fish tank. Then I went to work in my lab. I'd gotten the sea horses I needed, and the dissections and mounting process went pretty well. I also took a look at the snook that I had retrieved from Useppa. Aside from the net-burn scars, I could find nothing unusual. No trauma that might have occurred from an explosion, no metallic discoloration of key internal organs that might indicate death by poisoning. My guess was, someone had netted the fish and allowed it to die slowly on the deck of a boat.

Most of my work was done. So, just before sunset, I showered, changed into jeans and a gray flannel shirt, and ambled through the mangroves to the marina. Found that the mood around Dinkin's Bay did not have its usual screw-it-all-this-is-Saturday-night ebullience. The marina had officially closed for the day, but Mack was still busy serving as line chief to the cleanup operations.

They had floated in a crane mounted on a barge. The crane was fitted with a dinosaur-sized bucket that would swing down onto the charred dock, bite off a chunk, then pivot shoreward to regurgitate the mess into a dump truck. When the dump truck was full, it would rumble away, only to be replaced by another.

A yellow Detroit diesel engine dominated the stern of the barge. The diesel made a deafening roar, exhausted a lot of blue fumes. The live-aboards were locked tight into their boats, probably trying to screen the noise with loud stereos. Or earplugs. Who knew? They certainly weren't out socializing on the dock, so there was no one to ask.

But Kelly was already laying out the platters of fried conch and shrimp on the picnic table. I could see a couple of industrial-sized Igloos that appeared to be straining at the seams. So the Dinkin's Bay Pig Roast and Beer Cotillion—"Perbcot," as it is known locally—would go on as usual.

At the good marinas around Florida, the old and important traditions die hard.

I strolled over close enough to one of the dump trucks so that Mack would see that I was there. He is a compact, muscular man—a native New Zealander—whose laid-back Kiwi qualities have made him a big success on the island. But he wasn't laid-back now. He was having some kind of loud conversation with a man who was wearing a sports coat and carrying a clipboard. Not an argument, just loud, so as to be heard above the din of the diesel. The man with the clipboard was an insurance adjuster, I guessed.

Mack saw me, waved, then held up five fingers after pointing to his watch. Pantomimed a drinking motion and grinned.

Which meant we wouldn't be bothered by the noise much longer.

Beyond what was once a dock, I could see Nelson Esterline. Nels was hammering at the wreckage of his skiff. Trying to remove the jack plate, it appeared. His teal-green Hewes had once been a pretty thing indeed. Teal green, polished bright, with functional lines—the prettiest quality of any boat. Now it looked like a Clorox bottle that had been accidentally left on a hot stove.

I considered walking over to offer him a hand. Sound him out about my two early-morning visitors; see if he knew anything about it; see if he was still mad at me. Decided against it. Men like Nels make up their minds in their own fashion, their own good time. Instead, I put a coin in the slot and read the local newspaper.

The day before, the death of Jimmy Darroux had made front-page headlines. I had read the story carefully. Darroux had been described as Hannah described him: a native of Louisiana. A commercial fisherman who had migrated to Sulphur Wells only a few years before. The story related that he had had several minor run-ins with local law authorities. He'd been arrested in a bar brawl, charged with public intoxication, but the charges had been dropped. On his record was also a charge for misdemeanor battery related to spousal abuse. He had pled no contest, was fined five hundred dollars and given a year's probation. Within the last two months, he had been arrested for possession of less than three grams of cocaine. The case had been scheduled to go to court in early February. He had also been arrested and fined for fishing outside proscribed times, and for having illegal fish in his possession.

Judging from the newspaper article, Jimmy Darroux had been just one more habitual loser. Not so hard to imagine him getting a belly full of booze, or a head full of crack, and setting out with a jerry can of gasoline to punish the people he perceived to be responsible for the net ban and his own troubled life. The article said the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms was assisting local authorities in the investigation. An A.T.F. officer said it was too early to tell if an explosive device had played a role in starting the fire, or in the death of Darroux. I knew that the A.T.F. officer wouldn't have admitted it even if he had known.

I glanced over to where the crane was stilling gobbling up wreckage. The yellow crime-scene tape was gone. The A.T.F. people, apparently, had found all they needed to find. If not, they wouldn't have released control of the area.

In today's paper, though, Jimmy Darroux rated only a token mention. His name was included in a story about the increase in thefts and vandalism up and down the coast. The story implied a connection between the crimes and the recent vote to ban the nets. In the last two months, the story read, fifty-four boats had been stolen, stripped, and destroyed—most of them small sportfishing boats. Sixty-seven outboard engines had also been stolen. A sheriff's department spokesperson speculated that a well-organized theft-and-chop-shop ring was involved. Two other skiffs had been set afire at their dock. In Naples, an unknown and unsuccessful arsonist had attempted to raze a marine storage barn. A night watchman had smelled the smoke and put out the fire before it had a chance to spread. In other places, arsonists had been more successful—they had burned several of the few remaining old stilt houses to the water. Also, sheriff's department records showed a report of someone stringing a cable across a waterway near Useppa Island.

I was relieved to see it reported. The more people who knew, the better.

The story also named several local sportfishermen who claimed that net fishermen were harassing them on the flats. Intentionally spooking the fish, yelling threats, throwing bottles. Finally, the story quoted an anonymous net fisherman: "They're taking our jobs away. They're taking our houses, boats, everything. They expect us to smile and be nice about it? You tell them paybacks are hell."

I folded the paper and dropped it in the trash can beside the bench outside the marina store. I had grown so accustomed to the roar of the diesel engine that when the noise abruptly died, the fresh silence made my ears ring.

"Hey, Ford, get your butt over here!" I looked to see Rhonda Lister waving to me from the stern of her water-bloated Chris-Craft cabin cruiser. There were Japanese lanterns hanging from the cabin framework, and painted in red script on the stern was the name: Tiger Lilly. Rhonda was wearing an elaborate green gown and a lot of complicated jewelry. Her caramel-bright hair was coiled into a towering bun, and there was a pale yellow hibiscus blossom behind her ear. Rhonda is a big, busty, hippy woman. Dressed the way she was, she looked like the proprietor of an 1850s-whorehouse.

I walked over, accepted the bottle of Steinlager she held out to me, and said, "You are unusually lovely tonight, Miz Lister."

She curtsied daintily. "Thank you, kind sir." Then did a quick double take. "Hey—how'd you get those scratches on your face? You get in a fight? You look like hell."

I felt lucky that a few scratches and a knot above my ear were the only injuries I'd suffered.

"I spent the day wrestling sea horses."

"Which means you don't want to talk about it?"

"Which means I'd rather talk about that gorgeous dress. Why the costume?"

Rhonda made a flittering motion with her hands; a regal effect. "The ladies who inhabit this fish palace have discussed it among ourselves, and we've decided that tonight should be a special night. A real celebration. Our little family of gunkholers and misfits endured a great trial by fire on Thursday, and we . . . and we . . . we . . ."

"Triumphed?" I offered.

"Damn right we did. Triumphed. So what we ladies have decided is, we are all going to wear our best gowns this evening. Show you men just how tasteful we are. Show we own something besides boat shorts and aren't always up to our elbows in engine grease. But mostly to prove that those sonsabitches can't scare us!" She smiled demurely and fanned herself with an imaginary fan. "Because we are, after all, ladies, sir."

I laughed as she whirled around, billowing her skirts. "What do you think, Doc? Pretty fancy, huh?"

"Stunning. The tennis shoes make just the right statement."

"It was JoAnn's idea. She said we'd get stuck in the dock. If we wore high heels? She said it wouldn't be ladylike because we'd fall and spill our drinks. Plus, it would make us easy prey for you vultures."

JoAnn wasJoAnn Smallwood. She and Rhonda were roommates, and co-owners of Tiger Lilly. Several years ago, they pooled a couple of hundred dollars and started an advertising sheet they called The Heat Islands Fishing Report. The advertising sheet was well accepted. Sanibel and Captiva certainly qualified as heat islands, and advertisers knew there was money in any publication that had to do with fishing. JoAnn and Rhonda worked eighteen hours a day, and pumped every dollar they made back into the business. Now their advertising sheet is a magazine-sized weekly. They've started a sister publication that deals with real estate. They are in the process of buying their office complex over near Periwinkle Place Shopping

Center. They've made way too much money to be living on a rot-pocked cabin cruiser in Dinkin's Bay. JoAnn says they stay on the boat because their business eats all their liquid assets. But I know, from a good source, that each of the women owns at least one island home—which they lease—plus a couple of choice building lots. I suspect they continue to live on their roomy cabin cruiser because that is how they started life on Sanibel, and they still enjoy being a part of the marina community.

Rhonda said, "Look, do me a favor. If Tomlinson shows up wearing that Dorothy Lamour thing of his, the sarong, send him back to the boat and make him change. I don't mind, but I've got a couple of important clients coming later. No matter how many times I remind him, he still spreads his legs whenever he sits down. God knows, he's not the only one around here doesn't wear underwear, but it upsets some people."

I was in the process of telling her that Tomlinson was still on Sulphur Wells. But Rhonda interrupted me, saying, "My God, it's ... it's .. . it's Princess Di!"

I followed her gaze down the dock to see Janet Mueller approaching. Janet had a shy, crooked grin on her face and was making a hushing motion with her hand. Her gown was some kind of peach-colored gauze over a silver skirt and peach bodice. Apparently she, too, had visited one of the Dinkin's Bay hibiscus bushes. A bright red flower bloomed from her mouse-brown hair. She wore a light dust of makeup—pale lip gloss, some cheek highlighter, a darkening mascara—that reduced the roundness of her face. It was strange to see Janet wearing makeup. But she looked . . . nice . . . sweet. There was something touching about her appearance, as if she were a plump, wistful little girl who had used her older, prettier sister's clothes to play dress-up.

I said, "Can this be the same sweaty woman I ran with? No. It's impossible."

Janet seemed pleased and chagrined all at once. "This was all their idea, Doc. I mean it. I don't even own a gown ... I don't have one with me, I mean. So Rhonda, she insisted on loaning me one of hers. Then we had to spend half the night altering it, trying to get the hem even—"

"And drinking wine!" Rhonda hooted.

"I didn't drink nearly as much as JoAnn did. You either."

"Janet honey, no one ever drinks as much wine as JoAnn does. Doc, you should have seen the three of us. None of us knows a thing about

sewing, but there we were, trying to measure this, trim that, poking ourselves with needles. Then JoAnn started telling those raunchy jokes of hers!"

"I didn't even try the dress on until about midnight," Janet said. Then she looked at Rhonda; a friendly expression of mock threat. "If I look as stupid as I feel—"

I took Janet by the elbow, then held her away as if inspecting. After a critical pause, I said, "You look great. I mean it." I did, too. Janet had lived isolated and alone on her dumpy Holiday Mansion houseboat long enough. Didn't mix, didn't fraternize. Now, finally, she was allowing herself to be accepted into the marina community. She looked happy, and I felt happy for her.

"Ladies," I said, "if you look toward the picnic table, you will notice that Mack is already serving himself. That wouldn't be so bad, but Jeth is next in line. Jeth will eat anything, but he prefers shrimp. We'd better hurry, or the only thing left will be little bits of shell and Styrofoam."

I extended my arm to Janet. She wagged her eyebrows at Rhonda, then allowed herself to be escorted.

Mack opened the marina gates at around eight, thereby allowing a steady flow of locals and lost tourists to join the party. The locals wanted to inspect the damage caused by the explosion. Most of them had done that on Friday, but now they wanted to do it on a social basis. The tourists just wanted to have fun. They did—except for a dour young French couple who showed up asking to see "ze attrac-she-uns." Someone had apparently told them about the party and, due to a miscommunication, they had expected Perbcot to be the island's version of Epcot.

As Jeth Nicholes watched them stalk away, he said, "Jesus Christ, them French people are so dense you couldn't climb 'em with an ice ax. Know what I heard? They'll piss right in the sink, you give them a chance. French people, I mean."

At about nine, I was sitting with Janet—she was telling me about a conservation project for which she had volunteered; the St. Joe River cleanup. In northwest Ohio?—when Nels approached me, saying, "Doc, you got a minute?" Felix Blane, all six feet six inches and 250-some pounds of him, stood directly behind Nels, shadowing us both from the dock lights.

It wasn't ideal timing. Janet was finally starting to open up a little, starting to talk about herself instead of relying on me to carry the conversation. It wasn't that she sat there mutely. But she knew how to deflect attention from herself by asking leading questions; timing them so that I, or someone else, was always in the process of answering. As a result, I hadn't learned much about her. She was from Ohio—which I knew. She was in her mid-thirties—which I had guessed from her taste in music. She'd never spent any time around boats—no surprise. She had taught biology and chemistry at a high school near her home—I hadn't known that—and she was just telling me about the conservation project on the St. Joseph River when Nels interrupted.

I said, "I want to talk to you guys, but—"

"Doc, please go ahead. Really. I need to . . . check on something anyway." That quick, Janet was up and gone, as if glad for the opportunity to escape.

Nels watched her walk away, shrugged, and said, "Sorry, Doc. I didn't mean to chase her off. She seems like a nice girl."

I said, "She is."

Felix said, "I told you we should'a waited." Then to me, he explained, "This big dumb ass forgets that he scares most men and just about all women. The way he looks; just the sight of him."

Among men, hyperbole and character assassination mark the parameters of friendship. I found it heartening that I was still included.

Nels said, "You want to go after her, we'll wait. Whenever you got the time."

"Nope. She's just a friend."

Felix said, "Well, go ahead then, Nels. Spit it out."

Nels was suddenly uneasy; having a hard time getting started. Finally, he said, "It's like this, Doc. I was wrong to say to you what I said the other day. I was pissed off about my skiff, and you were a handy target. Shit, I felt like unloading on somebody, and there you were."

I said, "Don't worry about it. It was a tough day for all of us." I started to stick out my hand, but Felix interceded.

"Tell im the rest of it, Nels, before you go to shaking hands.''

Nels fixed him with a sour look. We had been sitting beneath the porch that shelters the bait tanks. Now Nels stood and motioned with his head, telling me he wanted to get away from the people who were milling around. As we walked toward the end of the T-dock, he said abruptly, "I did something stupid the other night. Thursday night."

I said, "Oh?"

"Yeah, and I want to be right up-front about it. There's this thing that happened."

What had happened was that Nels, distraught about his boat and his money problems, had gotten falling-down drunk.

"I don't know how much I drank," he said. "A lot. Way too much. I hit about every bar on the island. One thing about being a drunk, you never lack for company. I talked to people I knew, and I talked to a lot of people I didn't know and hope to hell I never see again."

Felix said, "That's what Nels needs to tell you. That night? I was standing guard duty. We told you we were going to start patrolling the marina? So I'm sitting on the dock, my thumb up my butt, feeling like an idiot. I'm carry a shotgun around. Shit, a weapon. It was like Highway One, back in Danang. That's how long it's been since I've carried anything. Except I'm doing it at Dinkin's Bay, where the only dangerous thing around is Jeth, who might walk out on his balcony to say hello, then fall on me, he's so clumsy. I mean, it's stupid."

Nels said, "Damn it, don't start. We've still got to keep a guard. I don't even have a boat left, and I think so."

Felix said, "Yeah, well, the point is, Nels is like an hour overdue for his shift, when this big-wheel truck comes barreling down the road—"

I said, "A pickup truck?"

"A pickup, yeah. It's like one in the morning. I'm dozing, I'm cold, I've got to take an all-time hellish dump, and I wake up with this vehicle charging me. Jesus Christ, Doc, first thing that pops in my mind is it's Sir Charles. Mr. Sapper about to come down hard, and the only general order I can remember is: If it flies, it dies. You know? It startled me. I'm thinking it's a bunch of dinks until I'm full awake, which is the only reason Captain Nelson Esterline here didn't get himself waxed."

Felix was having fun with the story—he had an incongruously high laugh for a man his size—but Nels wasn't enjoying it. He seemed increasingly sheepish. I wanted to hear more about the pickup truck, and tried to hurry him along. "Whose truck?"

Nels said, "I don't know. I'm in a bar, then I'm in their truck, and they're bringing me to the marina because I'm late to relieve Felix. That's what I remember. There were three of them, I guess. I don't remember any names." He looked at Felix. "Is that right? Three?"

Felix said, "Three kind of rough-looking dudes. Fancy truck. I'd never seen them before, but they're like Nels's best friends 'cause they're all so drunk. The four of them come staggering up, and who they want to see? You, Doc. They're pissed off, in a mood to fight, and they want to see you. They're asking, 'Where's the goggle-eyed bastard?' " Felix had begun to laugh; was relishing Nels's discomfort. "What Nels had done was, he'd convinced them you're like a spy for the commercial netters, living over here in flats boat territory. A traitor. He was out there flapping his gums, yammy-yammy-yammy, and they all wanted a piece of you—"

"Would you shut up a minute so I can explain it?" Nels was tired of Felix provoking him. "Truth is, I said a lot of things to a lot of people that night. I hate a person who sneaks around and says stuff about someone else, so that's why I'm telling you. I didn't mean what I said. Hell, I can't remember most of the stuff I said. But that night, right or wrong, you just seemed a big part of what happened to my boat."

I said, "You can't remember anything about the guys in the truck?"

"Nope. They were staying on Captiva, so they must have money. All-pro sportfishermen to hear them tell it. I don't think I'd ever seen them before."

"You're sure this was Thursday night, not last night?"

Nels said, "Last night, I was still in bed with a hangover."

"So who patrolled the marina?"

Felix said, "Jeth, supposedly. But probably from his bed."

Nels interrupted. "The point is, I'm not the type to go around back-stabbing friends. You know that." He wiped a leather-dark hand across his wide face. "After Felix got me sobered up a little, we had a long talk about this whole business. Over the years, you've helped us, Doc, and we've helped you. Dinkin's Bay may be a weird-ass family, but it's still a family. The way I see it, we stick together. I don't agree with the way you voted—"

"It was a dumb-shit way to vote," Felix put in cheerfully.

"Yeah, it was. That's what I think. I'll say it to your face, but I'll never say it behind your back again. It's your business how you voted, not mine. And . . ." Nels shrugged. "That's what I wanted to tell you."

I asked, "When you came looking for me Thursday night, did you stop at my place before you pulled into the marina?"

"Yep. That much I remember. But you weren't home. I know you don't lock it, and you showed me where the key is if you do. I just knocked and left."

"The three men were with you?"

Nels thought for a moment. "One or two of them, yeah. But we didn't touch anything."

"You think they live on Captiva, or just visiting?"

"I think they live on the Keys. Marathon? Maybe Marathon." Nels was getting suspicious. "What's that have to do with anything?"

I was tempted to tell Nels that in all probability, his drinking buddies had returned to vandalize my house last night. Gave it some thought before deciding not to. Why add to his guilt? It hadn't been easy for Nels to come to me with his story. Most wouldn't have had the courage. It's easier to allow a friendship to fade away than to suffer the occasional awkwardness it takes to maintain it. And he was right about the importance of allegiances in a tiny community.

Felix said, "What I bet he does remember is getting sick off the dock, barking like a damn dog. I told 'im, 'Nels, just keep puking till something hairy and round comes up—that'll be your asshole.' Told 'im, 'You'll be needing that, so try to catch it before it hits that water.' "

Nels said, "Don't remind me." Tired of talking about it.

So, to seal and bury the subject, I changed the subject. Then, as we were returning to the party, I once again offered Nels and Felix the use of my flats boat. Why miss all those charters?

But Nels said very quickly, "Nope. I couldn't do that. Not now."

Which sealed that subject, too.

Chapter 10

I didn't hear from Tomlinson on Sunday, or on Monday, either. Tried to call him a couple of times. No answer. I didn't receive any more anonymous threats— Tell the hippie to get off'a our island—but that didn't mean that someone on Sulphur Wells wasn't targeting him, just as the sportfishermen from Captiva had targeted me. In any emotional debate, the first casualty is reason. Not that Tomlinson is a reasonable person—I had already warned him once, and there was no cause to believe that a second warning would convince him to return to his sailboat. He would stay on Sulphur Wells as long as he wanted; at least until his karmic mandate was fullfilled.

So, because he might be gone for a while, I hauled his Zodiac up on the deck, and tied it fast near the storage locker where, days earlier, I had already stored his little Yamaha outboard.

On Tuesday morning, I put off my run and swim until later, and I got to work trying the re-create Dr. Breder's and Dr. Shlaifer's tarpon procedure. What the two biologists had done was establish a control group of five immature fish in a small area, and observe how often the fish rolled. Then they charted the behavior in elapsed time, real time, and kept careful notes on how frequently a solitary rolling fish appeared to catalyze the same behavior in the other fish.

I already had my control group of immature tarpon, and I had a contained area—my big fish tank. It wasn't as large as the tiny pond Breder and Shlaifer had created—ironically, they had dug it on what was then Palmetto Key, now Cabbage Key—but the water in my tank was clear. Their pond was not. The clear water would give me the added advantage of being able to identify individual fish. To make it easier, I had already tagged my six fish with tiny color-coded tags.

It was not exciting work, sitting there in the January sun, watching tarpon drift to the surface, breach, then bank off in descent. But the marine sciences are seldom exciting-—unless you happen to be fascinated by the quirks and oddities of animal behavior. Few are; I am.

During a break, I saw Janet Mueller on the docks, and told her what I was doing. She insisted on stopping by to have a look. Within an hour, she had read the Breder-Shlaifer papers, and had a clear grasp of what I was trying to accomplish. Not long after that, she had taken my place in the cane-backed chair beside the tank, and was using the stopwatch, making fastidious notes in a tiny, spidery hand on a log sheet attached to a clipboard.

It is said that the human eye cannot show emotion. That is true in a specific sense, but false in general application. When a person becomes consumed by a project or a thought sequence, it shows in their eyes. The eyes seem to glaze and radiate light at the same time. Janet was consumed by what she was doing, sitting there lost in the world of precise time and the strange behavior of those silver-bright fish. For the first time since I'd met her, she seemed free of her introspective burden, free of whatever it was that had created her expression of chronic shell shock.

The lady was happy in her work, so I went off and let her work. Did my run—four cheerful, bikini-studded miles in which my damaged toe didn't hurt at all, and only bled a little bit. Did a lazy mile swim, and I was only half finished with my daily assault on the pull-up bar, when the phone rang. It was Tomlinson.

I picked the phone up to hear, "Doc? Sorry, brother; sorry I didn't call you back, but I am having one of the most un-damn-believable experiences of my life. I mean, it's like I've been invited to explore the inner sanctum; the workings of a whole, tight traditional society. Seriously."

I said, "You sound serious."

"Oh man, if you only knew."

"You're talking about the commercial fishermen."

"Of course! You got the ol' thinking cap on backward, or what? Yeah, the commercial fishermen. Men, women, their children. The island, man—Sulphur Wells. The whole scene,is like a living laboratory. Can you imagine what that means to an eminent sociologist such as myself? Thing is, it was here staring me right in the face the whole time. The whole time!

I'm skipping off to Appalachia, the Yavapai reservations of Arizona, Brazil—hell, Fumbuck Egypt—to write papers about traditional people, and here I've got them living and working just up the bay, but I don't even realize till now. Go figure!"

I could remember Tomlinson skipping off to Key West quite often. Arizona occasionally. Maybe Appalachia; I wasn't sure. Brazil—that had to have been before I met him. But Fumbuck Egypt? The man lived with a memory fractured by dealing with the real and the imaginary; factors I didn't even care to guess at. I changed the subject. "Anybody giving you a hard time? I told you about the phone call—"

"No problem, man. People here love me. It's like a gift I've got. People just naturally love me."

"How could I have forgotten?"

"Search me. But what I'm calling about is my boat."

When I told him I'd already hauled out his Zodiac, he said, "No, my sailboat. What you could do is let the engine run for a while, charge up the batteries some. And in the icebox. By the sink? I've got a couple fish fillets. A guy in a little boat came by and gave them to me, and I meant to give them to you for your cat."

Crunch & Des, the marinas black cat, was lying on the desk beside the phone. I reached out and scratched his ears as Tomlinson said, "They're probably pretty stinky by now. Who's got time to buy ice? So I'd hate to come back to that. Just one of the many, many reasons I don't eat meat. And hit the bilge switch. I've got it on automatic, but you never know."

"Bilge switch," I repeated.

"And my dinghy outboard—"

I told.him I'd already taken care of it. He seemed relieved. "Thing is, I got so wrapped up in Sulphur Wells, I forgot about everything else, man. See, what I didn't realize was, traditional people don't have to be isolated from the outside world. They can be isolated by the imperatives of their own lifestyle."

"Fascinating," I said.

"Fucken-ay! These people, these fishermen, their lives revolve around their work. The migration patterns of fish, season to season. That's the link. Those patterns haven't changed in two hundred years. Hell, forever! It determines how they fish, when they fish, how often they go out. It defines interaction between family members. It solidifies the bonds of families within the fishing community. You see where I'm headed?"

"No, but—"

"I'm saying it's tribal, man. You ever hear a kid from Kansas say, 'When I grow up, I want to be a mullet fisherman'? Of course not. It can't be learned in school, man, and it can't be learned from a book. You've got to be born into it. These traditions, they're handed down, father to son, mother to daughter. You know the way farming families used to stay on the farms, inheriting the fields? It's like that here, man. Only it's water."

When Tomlinson gets on a roll, all you can do is sit back and listen. I moved away from the desk just enough to see through the window. Janet was still down on the deck, hunched forward in her chair, pencil in hand, clipboard in her lap.

Heard Tomlinson say, "Are you still there?"

''Yeah, I'm here." Apparently I had missed something.

He said, "What I mean is, that's another thing that insulates them. The economics. The best ones make a pretty good living. But no one gets rich. It's strictly lower-middle-class, and that's another thing that binds them but also sets them apart. See? Outsiders have no reason to want to join the tribe. Not enough money in it, understand? It's not like some company that pays hospitalization."

I said, "I'm with you so far."

"So the society is a caste within a caste; sets up a whole hierarchy. They've got their outlaws, they've got their tangent groups. People wrapped a little too tight for the general population. You know? They have all the tools to upset the whole applecart. Which brings up an interesting question: Should the scientific observer ever intercede? Like the Rockefeller expedition into New Guinea. Do you try to help settle obvious conflicts between natives, or do you just sit back and let the natives find their own solutions?"

I didn't like the sound of that. "Getting caught in the middle," I said, "That's what I'm talking about."

"Hey, man, no one's going to hurt me. I'm strictly the passive resistance type. Even if they did try to hurt me, I wouldn't fight back."

"That's why you need to watch your step. Already, you're talking about conflicts."

"In a hypothetical sense. That's what I'm saying. The main problem here is alcohol and drugs, man. Just like my brothers on the reservations— they've taken their toll. But mosdy, it's close-knit. I'm talking about Sulphur Wells now. Sure, there's some infighting. Name a group that doesn't have that. But there's also an infrastructure that sets the boundaries of what's acceptable, what isn't. Remember Arlis Futch? He's like one of the tribal elders. People don't screw with Mr. Futch. And Hannah, man—she is like the young chief. The way the men react to her. Seeking her approval, but not wanting to show how much. 'Cause they're men, right? And she's a woman. But she's stronger than them. She's stronger than them, and they know it."

Hearing her name for the first time keyed the abdominal twitterings. I wondered if she was there, in the room with Tomlinson. Her bare feet thumping along the wooden floor; reaching out to touch her fingers to him as she passed. Maybe listening in, knowing I was on the other end of the line, but not acknowledging it, not even calling out a greeting.

The sensation of her fingernail tracing the shape of my ear flashed and lingered. I said, "By the way, if she's around—Hannah—tell her I said hello."

"I will, man, I will. She's down at the fish house with Mr. Futch now. Those two—that's a whole other intense story. But I will."

"Things are going okay?"

"With Hannah, you mean?"

"Well . . . sure."

"I can't even tell you, Doc. Seriously. The whole karma thing is just too heavy. It's like mixing LSD-25 with IBM—the most radical fucking business trip since Rasputin met the czar. I mean, my head is spinning. Mostly, I eat a lot of collard greens, drink a lot of well water, and work on her book. Doesn't even have a typewriter. We had to borrow one."

As I tried to interpret that, he added, "She starts out with all this beautiful fishing folklore. Never carry money on a working boat. It's bad luck. Same if someone says the word "alligator." The blade end of an oar has to be facing the stern. If a pregnant woman goes into labor after dark, panthers will gather outside the house to watch. Or to stand guard. You get the shits, you make tea from this tree called white stopper. You get snake-bit, you make a poultice from Spanish moss. Very heavy into the medicinal stuff. She knows about herbs I've never even heard of."

He hadn't answered the question that I could not bring myself to ask outright. "So you and Hannah are . . . you two are . . ."

"Yeah, we're up to our Haras in work, man. People keep stopping around. What happened to Jimmy, the cops are still interested in that one. Plus, there's a lot of weird jockeying going on here. Because of the net ban? You know: who's going to sell what. There are about three hundred commercial fishermen on this island; most of them own property. So what happens in July if they all try to sell their homes at once? The property values, I'm talking about. Gumbo Limbo is a busy little place these days. People are trying to get themselves into position for when the big ax falls."

I found that interesting, so pressed Tomlinson to expand on it. "Arlis Futch," he said, "is one of the main players. If he gets some cash from Tallahassee, maybe he can convert his fish house into a little marina. If not, he'll go out of business. Mr. Futch is like: Screw it, pay me, don't pay me. What's he care? He's no kid and he owns it free and clear—that's what Hannah told me. That, plus some acreage across the road where he keeps cattle. Another one's this guy, remember the guy we met? Raymond Tullock? He's part of the picture too, trying to pick his shots. Comes on very smooth, you know—'Hey, I'm just here to help out'—but he puts off very bad vibes. Hannah, she doesn't care. Nothing bothers her. Far as she's concerned, Tullock's just another guy who's got a terrible set of the hots for her. And let's face it, man—who doesn't?"

From outside, I heard Janet's voice call, "Doc? There's a man here to see you." She sounded preoccupied—all her concentration still on the tarpon.

Looked out to see Detective Ron Jackson standing on the deck, as Tomlinson rattled on about Hannah shipping Jimmy's remains off to New Orleans—she wouldn't even let him say a few words over the coffin—and how he, mostly, was just keeping the ol' nose to the grindstone. Death of a traditional society. That was the theme.

He was talking about the book again.

I said, "Anything else you want me to do with your boat?"

"What I wanted," he said, "was to sail it up here. But there's not enough water to get a boat that size into Gumbo Limbo. So what I guess I'll do, Hannah's fishing tonight. She won't let me go because I won't help her pick mullet out of the net—no way will I kill a fish. So I told her, she gets down to Dinkin's Bay, you'd have my clothes in a bag, and you'd help her rig a towline for my dinghy. That way, at least, I'll have some transportation."

I resisted the urge to offer to deliver his gear to Gumbo Limbo.

Tomlinson said, "One more thing. About Hannah?"

Detective Jackson was standing on the deck, trying to make conversation with Janet. Janet was being polite about it, but she was also trying to concentrate on the tarpon. "Make it quick," I said.

"Hannah is, like . . . her own woman, man. She thinks of something? She does it."

What the hell did that mean? "So?"

"No restraints, man," he said. "Hear what I'm saying? She won't play the role. It's Hannah's way or the highway. Hell, I hinted at it, and she sat me right down. Made me see I was behaving like a typical male goof. She was right, too."

I said, "Huh?" Was he talking about sex . . . the book . . . what?

"She's free. That's what I'm saying. She'd be pissed if I let you think anything else . . . which is a scene I genuinely choose to avoid. Like, no strings attached."

I said, "Tomlinson, if I'm supposed to understand anything you've said—"

"Can't make it any plainer, man. And, Doc? Don't forget about those fish fillets, okay?"

Jackson was wearing the standard uniform of the five-day-a-week county-salaried detective: inexpensive brown sports coat, dark stay-pressed slacks, and comfortable wing tips. He was so thick and bulky that everything he wore appeared to be a size too small. . . and he was still trying to talk to Janet when I appeared outside. He looked up and fixed me with a thin, formal smile. Said, "Seems like I'm always interrupting your workouts." Meaning my running shorts, Nikes, and sweaty T-shirt. "Are you all done? Or just getting started?"

I said, "Just finishing up."

He seemed disappointed. "Too bad. I brought my running clothes just in case. I was hoping we could maybe go for a jog and have a little chat. You know—mix business with pleasure."

I wondered if he was bluffing. Also wondered why he wanted to waste my time and his with more questioning. I had already told him everything I knew. Looked at him standing there—two hundred or so pounds loaded onto short, stubby legs—and thought about him hanging around my fish house while I tried to shower. Pictured him trying to pass the time with Janet while she was attempting to work. The woman was just sitting there watching fish, couldn't possibly be doing anything important, so why not talk to her?

I shrugged before saying with measured indifference, "I guess a couple more miles wouldn't hurt. If you're serious."

"You feel like it?"

"Go ahead and change your clothes. Use my house."

Jackson went loping off to his car and returned with a gym bag. As he disappeared into the house, Janet said, "Thanks. He was starting to irritate me." As she spoke, she never took her eyes off the fish tank.

I said, "They're interesting animals, aren't they."

"They're . . . gorgeous. Those big silver scales, the way they seem to change color."

"They're mirrors," I said. "A tarpon's scales? So they reflect the color of their environment. Brown sand, brown tarpon. Gray bottom, gray tarpon. See? It's an uncomplicated but effective method of disguise."

"Right. I hadn't even thought of that." One of the tarpon—a red pellet was attached to its tail—drifted to the surface, gracefully breached the water's film of surface tension, then flashed a brilliant silver as it rolled toward the bottom. It was followed by two more fish: yellow and blue.

Janet took up the clipboard and made careful notes.

I said, "Janet, I appreciate you helping out. But I'm starting to feel a little guilty about taking up so much of your time—"

"Don't you dare try to run me off now. I'm just getting to know these fish. That's the—" She lifted the clipboard as if to look, then decided against it. The fish might roll again. "I can't tell you right now, but that's at least the fourth time that Red has been the first to roll. Always followed by one or more of the others. You think that could mean something?"

I said, "I think it's way too early to tell."

"Oh, I know that. But I was just thinking—"

"Never theorize in advance of your data. It can cause you to manipulate your own observations."

She had a pleasant, gusty laugh. "I know, I know—that's exactly what I used to tell my students. My kids, wouldn't they love it if they could see me making the same mistake? I used to take them on all these crazy field trips, all these mini-research projects I'd set up. That was the first rule: Record first, interpret later."

I decided the kids at her small high school had been very lucky students indeed.

Jackson was coming down the steps. He wore black running shorts, no shirt. The man was as hairy as a Kodiak bear. More muscular than I'd suspected too.

I touched Janet's shoulder. "We won't be gone long."

She nodded, her attention already back on the tarpon.

"Nice life," Jackson said to me. "You've got an assistant to do all your work."

I found the familiarity of that grating. I replied, "Actually, Dr. Mueller is my associate, not my assistant." Which caused Janet to roll her eyes and smile. Then, without waiting for Jackson to follow, I walked down the fifty yards of wobbly dock, then charged off.

My plan was childish. If Jackson could catch up with me, fine. And if he did catch up, I'd run his stubby little legs off before he could find breath enough to ask a single question. It was his idea to run and talk at the same time. Mix a little business with pleasure, he had said. I wondered just how much pleasure he'd get out of collapsing like a winded bull.

So I was pushing it. Running at a pace slightly faster than I normally run on my very best day. Trying to put some distance between myself and the pushy detective. When I lost him, when he was so far behind that he had to strain to see me, I would then stop and patiently wait. Let him know that next time—if there had to be a next time—he would be wise to simply question me over the phone.

Less than a minute had passed when, behind me, I heard a heavy crunch of shell, ka-thump-ka-thump-ka-thump, getting closer, growing louder . . . heard the flesh-slap of swinging arms. Heard the comfortable rhythm of controlled breathing. Then saw the bear shape ofjackson out of the corner of my eye. Heard him say, "Mind if we pick up the pace a little?" as he strode past me.

I accelerated until I was even with him, then fell into step.

"Nice day for a little jog," he said.

"Not too hot, not too cold," I replied, fighting to restrain my breathing; keeping my voice nonchalant.

"No humidity," Jackson said. "Humidity, that's what kills you."

"Yeah, humidity's the worst."

"But now—like Arizona. Great place to run, Sanibel."

"A day like this," I said, "it's perfect."

"Good surface, too." He was talking about the bicycle path. We were headed northwest toward Captiva. Coconut palms and oaks; egrets spooking—everything moving past in a blur. He said, "Makes me want to stretch it out a little bit."

"Stretch it out all you want," I told him, hoping like hell he wouldn't— but he did.

That's the way it went for the next three miles or so. Ran way too far, way too fast, each of us pushing the other. We didn't talk. I didn't have air enough to speak, and my throat was too dry had I tried. I had the strong impression that it was equally painful for Jackson, but the stubborn little bastard wouldn't quit. And just when I was beginning to wonder which would fail first, my lungs or my courage, Jackson said in a raspy wheezing voice, "So it's kind'a like the tree-falling-in-a-forest deal. If we both keep this up, will anyone be around to hear our hearts explode?"

I broke stride, laughing. Began to walk in a slow circle, hands clasped and overhead, sucking in air. Jackson was doing the same. After a minute or two, when I was able, I said, "Uncle. You win."

He grinned. "Bullshit. I can't even remember the last quarter-mile or so. I died way back there."

"Nope. That was a stupid kid's stunt I pulled. You gave me exactly what I deserved."

"You?" He seemed honestly perplexed. "It was me. I was trying to run you into the ground. Soften you up a little so we could talk. I mean, no offense, but you don't exactly look like a runner. I figured you for a nine-minute-mile guy. The way you're built. One of those 'Oooh, look at the birds' or 'Oooh, aren't those flowers pretty?' types."

I said wryly, "And you're such a wispy little bit of a thing. Lucky for me I'm not the kind to judge people by their body types."

Jackson was nonplussed, wearing an expression that read, Damn. He said, "Three years playing defensive back at Maryland, four years in the Marines, and very few people ever stuck me like you just stuck me, Ford." He placed hands on hips, bent deeply at the waist, sucked in a little more air before extending his right hand. "So call me Ron from now on."

"Okay . . . Ron." I took his hand. "But tell me one thing: Why soften me up before talking? What's the point? I've told you everything I know."

"I don't doubt it. But I've got a problem." He had begun to walk along the bike path, back toward Dinkin's Bay. "The problem is, I drove up to Sulphur Wells yesterday. About my sixth time just for this case, trying to talk to people, make a few contacts. What do I find? I find your buddy Tomlinson. The guy never called me for an interview, by the way. So I spent half an hour or so talking to him there. He's kind of an . . . unusual person."

"Unusual" wasn't strong enough—Tomlinson, the dope fiend, had just spent ten minutes with me on the phone, pondering everything but the air quality on Sulphur Wells, but he couldn't take the time to tell me he had been questioned by the police?

"I have to admit," Jackson said, "the connection kind of surprised me. Jimmy Darroux's widow, your buddy. Knock on the door and there they are. Less than a week after the husband gets fried at your marina. Mrs. Darroux is a real looker, your buddy's there smiling at me. But kind of nervous. Both of them living there under the same roof."

I stopped. "All cops make Tomlinson nervous. I think he took one too many shots to the head back in the sixties. He was the draft card-burning, protester type. So if you're still thinking that I or Tomlinson had anything to do with the explosion last Thursday—"

He made an impatient hushing motion with his hand. "Relax. Don't be so damn touchy. If I thought either one of you had anything to do with it, you wouldn't see me until I had the cuffs ready. No—it's kind'a strange, you can't argue that. That's all I'm saying. Your buddy and the widow. If I hadn't already checked both of you out pretty closely, I might come to a different conclusion. But I did, so that's not the problem. It's something else. I figure, maybe you can help me with it, maybe you can't."

I began to walk with him again. Said, "So tell me about your problem, Ron."

Ron Jackson's problem was that residents on Sulphur Wells wouldn't talk to him. Weren't being very helpful at all. Not just the people of Gumbo Limbo, either. Same was true of the island's other small settlements: Barrancas, Key Lime, Rancho, and Curlew.

The Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco, and Firearms was assisting in the investigation, Jackson told me. Which meant the A.T.F. would do the lab work, all the intricate, complicated tracing of evidence, while he and one other detective did the local legwork. But after half a dozen trips to the island, Jackson had yet to assemble much more than was already in Jimmy Darroux's police file.

"It's getting embarrassing," he said. Judging from the rueful tone of his voice, he meant it.

One of the reasons the job was so tough, he said, was that his department didn't have a single cop who had roots on the island. There were a couple who lived on Sulphur Wells, yes. One had grown up there. But none were from the commercial fishing community. Because of that, he said, the normal sources for gathering information weren't there to cultivate.

We were still walking along the bike path. I did most of the listening; he was doing most of the talking, explaining how it was. "I told you I once worked in D.C.? You go into one of the projects there, one of the housing slums, it was like that. Code of silence. Never tell the cops anything. In a way, I didn't blame them. They're practically living under siege. Nothing much good had ever come from the outside, so why help? I'm starting to think it's the same sort of thing on Sulphur Wells."

I was thinking: Is he telling me this for a reason? But I said, "Could be some similarities. The fishermen have spent the last couple of years under attack. The attacks have come from some sophisticated sources; sources they were never equipped to deal with. The state government, newspapers, regional publications. Probably people who live on their own island. Not everyone's a commercial fisherman up there. They've got a few retirees, a few businesspeople. People who probably see themselves as sportfishermen. They got it from all sides. That would make anyone defensive."

"See?" Jackson said. "Already you're helping me get things clearer in my own mind."

I thought: Quid pro quo; you'd better give me an explanation in trade. But I said, "There's an additional element you wouldn't find in the projects. A reason they probably don't want to talk to you. The commercial fishing community can't afford any more bad publicity. One of their outlaws torched some boats and was killed in the process. There's a good reason they want it to stop right there." I explained to him about the injunction the commercial fishermen had filed, and about the economic relief they were soliciting from the state. Then I said, "The point of your investigation is to find out who helped Jimmy Darroux build a bomb, right? So you can add some more commercial fishermen to the list. More bad publicity. Or else you wouldn't be talking to me."

Jackson became noncommittal. Evasion is always couched as innocence. "I'm just trying to collect what I can, see where it takes me. Hell, I don't know much more than you do, Ford."

I was tempted to start running again, make him suffer just for lying to me. If my legs hadn't been so noodle-weak, I might have. Instead, I said, "So maybe we ought to drop the subject. Usually—what I do when I run?—I take time out to enjoy the birds."

He said, "What?"

"Birds. When I run, I like to look at the birds."

He made a groaning noise. "Jesus."

"Have you noticed all the pretty flowers we have on Sanibel? Too much talking ruins the scenery."

He said, "Okay, okay. Enough."

I said, "It can't be all give and no take."

"I see that. So I tried, okay?"

"I doubt I can help you anyway."

"What'll it take for you to give it a try?"

"Simple. Tell me what I'm getting into. And why. That's all. You tell me that, we'll talk. You can't tell me . . ."I shrugged, letting the sentence trail off.

We walked along while he mulled it over. Finally, he said, "Where I grew up, up on the Chesapeake, my grandfather and his grandfather were oyster-men. My dad, he got seasick, so he went into the state troopers. So it was my job to help Grandpa. I'm telling you why I'm interested. Understand?"

I said, "The Chesapeake. Nice area."

"We did a little striped bass fishing, but mostly oysters. I saw what happened to our fishery—hell, they nearly netted it clean—but I still had mixed feelings about the regulations, and then the bans, because I was one of them. One of the fishermen, see? It was like, who the hell are these outsiders coming in telling us what we can and can't do? So I can understand that a little bit. It was pretty nasty. Seeing it happen, you know? What happened to the people."

I said, "Oysterman, huh?"

He held out his arms and smiled. "I didn't get these forearms in a weight room. Tonging oysters; a forty-five-pound rake. My grandfather'd drop a galvanized chain off the stern of the boat. He could tell when we were on oysters by holding the chain, feeling the vibrations. Made a pretty fair living, too. I bought myself my first car with tonging money. But it wasn't the environmentalists who finally put us out ofbusiness. It was the way the water quality went to hell when all the new people started flooding in."

I said, "So you do know a little bit about it."

He was nodding. "About the kind of people involved. I imagine they're about the same. Most of them are pretty good people. Solid. Don't ask for anything, stay out of trouble. In D.C., the kids couldn't wait until they were old enough to qualify for welfare. First of the month, some of the lines were four blocks long. On the Chesapeake, a lot of those men and women, the government couldn't force them to take it. Welfare? Not them—they had too much self-respect. Personally, Ford, I admire that. I don't know much about the situation here. Maybe it was smart to ban the nets, maybe it's all a bunch of crap. I do know it's a shitty situation. And I know . . . well, there was this thing that happened when I was a kid." He made an effort to continue, then: "Ah, hell—"

I tried to goad him along. "You mean with the commercial fishermen."

Jackson thought for a moment, not sure he wanted to go into it. Finally, he said, "Let's just say I saw what can happen when people are pushed into a corner. I was like, seventeen, and this kid I knew got burned really bad. For what? Some idiotic demonstration. Trying to get even because his dad had to sell out, look for new work. It's not a nice thing to see."

"No, I imagine not," I said.

"Five thousand people get laid ofFby General Motors, it's no big deal, right? But somehow, it's different when it happens to people who . . . just do what they do, on their own. No unions to back them up, just them, just people. Know what I mean? So what I'm saying is, I'd like to get in there, if I can, and stop some of it before it starts. Yeah, I'd love to nail the whole Jimmy Darroux business shut. But I'd also like to get the right people under my thumb before anyone else gets hurt." He looked at me. "To do that, to stop anything, I need information."

Which I had already guessed. I said, "You think because Tomlinson is involved with Hannah Darroux, I can pry information out of him, then feed it to you."

"Maybe. She's an important woman on that island. People wouldn't tell me much, but I learned that. She's an insider, and I'd be willing to bet she knows a hell of a lot more than she told me or the A.T.F. guys. But no—" He was making his gesture of impatience again. Apparently, we were getting off track. "Where you could help is, the people I talked to on Sulphur Wells, the people I've talked to around here. Your name kept popping up."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. That surprise you?" Jackson had a crafty, troublemaker's smile. "Maybe you were with the National Security Agency so long you're not used to that. Where you were a ... a paper shuffler, right?"

Who the hell had he been talking to? "What I am," I said, "is a biologist."

His expression said: Sure, buddy, sure. He shrugged. "Okay. We leave it at that. What I'm saying is, you're the only guy who seems to be accepted by both communities. The sportfishing guys are your buddies, right?"

"I know quite a few of them, yeah."

"This guy on Sulphur Wells—Tootsie Cribbs?—he told me you were about the only so-called sportfishing guy who came down on the side of the netters. He said you spoke for them a couple times at meetings."

I'd known Tootsie since high school. He ran a little fish wholesale place in Curlew. "I did that. Yeah."

"People on both sides of the line know you, they respect you. That's the way I read it. Couple of people on Sulphur Wells mentioned you. Said you come over there sometimes and buy fish and stuff for your lab. Know what they said?" He looked very smug—I was the guy he'd lured into a schoolyard footrace. "What they said was, they think you're fair."

I said, "Spare me the flattery."

"No, I'm serious. Fair. That's the word."

"They think that? Good. But what you're saying is, you think I can act as an intermediary. My question is: What's left to mediate?"

"For one thing, I know some of the sportfishing guys are going around with guns. That's bullshit. They catch someone stealing their outboard, what they gonna do, blow them away? Kill somebody over a motor? You can start there. Talk it around among your friends. Reason with them. They ever shoot anybody before? They have any idea what it's like?"

I got the impression that Ron Jackson had . . . and did.

"And on Sulphur Wells . . . some of the other commercial places, too. I've heard—not from a very good source—but I've heard they have some real nasty stuff planned. Most of it's probably talk. People, you get them loaded up on whiskey . . . hell, you know the type. They like to talk big, but very few are actually stupid enough to do the big deed. That report about somebody stretching a cable across some markers—" He gave me a nudge: See? Your name again! "That report tells me we've got a couple of legitimate bandits. Sure, if you can get some information out of Hannah Darroux . . . love to have it. Through your buddy Tomlinson, I don't care how. Go over there and buy some more fish, ask around. Don't get the wrong idea. I'm not deputizing you or anything. If I thought you were the type to go out and strut around, bang your chest, we wouldn't be having this conversation. This isn't official. I'm asking a favor. Keep it low-key, nothing obvious." The crafty, troublemaker smile again. "But there I go telling you your business."

"That's your proposition? I find out what I can, help you keep a lid on things?"

He was nodding. "How many times do cops have a chance to stop trouble before it starts? Yeah, you could help me do that. Little things. You hear something, you give me a call. We get back, I'll give you my cellular number, my beeper. Anytime, day or night." Ron was pleased with how this was going. I could tell. "Up on the Chesapeake," he said, "maybe if some cop had jumped into the middle of things, Terry . . . that friend of mine . . . would have lived beyond the ripe old age of nineteen."

"There's one thing you've left out."

"There is?"

"Yeah. The bomb. Tell me about Darroux's bomb. Why it's got you on the move. Why you don't believe he built it by himself."

"I never said that."

"Let's not play games. Darroux was the impulsive type, right? He gets mad, he starts a brawl. His wife tries to lock him out, he smacks her. A guy like him wants revenge, he might steal some engines, or he might dump some gas and light it. My guess is, you read him the same way. But your people found something at the marina, something at the bomb site, that tells you whoever made the bomb had to do a little tinkering first. They had to sit down and think it out. That wasn't Darroux's style." In reply to his quizzical glance, I said, "You know a little bit about fishing. I know a little bit about bombs. Accelerant flare, remember? Point of detonation?"

"Okay. So, if you were a pissed-off netter and wanted to torch some boats, how would you have done it?"

"You trying to steer me off the subject?"

"No. I'm trying to decide if it would make any difference me telling you something I'm not authorized to tell you."

I thought for a moment before saying, "Do you want casualties, or just structural damage?"

"That's the scary thing. I don't think the people who built this bomb cared."

"That simplifies it. Then all you need is an initiator, a power source, and the accelerant. The accelerant is easy—go to a gas station or any hardware store." I touched the cheap Ironman model watch on my wrist. "I've got enough voltage right here to detonate a standard commercial blasting cap. So power source is no problem. But even that's a lot more complicated than it needs to be."

I described a couple ofbasic explosive devices—booby traps, they were once called.

When I was done, Jackson gave a soft whistle. "The first two, I've heard about. Lids from a tin can, a clothespin. Sure. Very effective, very easy. But that last one. A Ping-Pong ball and a hypodermic needle? Jesus, that one's spooky. That one really would work?"

I almost said, "I've seen it work." Instead, I said, "That's what I read. Since the late sixties, the revolutionary types have published black market booklets on the subject." I listed some of the names.

Jackson knew them. We talked about that. We talked about the lunatic fringe. We talked about the political far right and the political far left being different sides of the same frightening coin. We talked about dangerous times, and maybe Australia would be nice, or New Zealand. Go down there to Auckland, watch the America's Cup races. Finally, as we turned at the shell road into Dinkin's Bay, Jackson began to tell me about the bomb. "What the A.T.F. people found," he said, "was enough to tell us that it was probably too sophisticated for Jimmy Darroux. Like you said, he was the impulsive type. This bomb would have taken some sober thinking and some reading."

"The A.T.F. is sure about that?"

"Yeah. What they found were the leg wires from a blasting cap, some bits of wire from the internal workings of an outboard motor, and a chunk of timing switch off a battery charger."

I said, "So, when they trace the components back, you'll have your bad guys."

Jackson was shaking his head. "The wire was from a two-hundred-horse Mercury built two years ago in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, sold out of a Bonita Springs marina to a guy we've already interviewed. He reported the motor stolen three months ago. The battery charger was the type fishermen use to keep their trolling motors charged up. Same thing. It was on a boat stolen last month. Listed on the insurance claim sheet along with the other stuff the owner had on the boat. Everything the A.T.F. found was stolen material."

"The blasting cap?"

"The leg wires were off a Combie Model 305 L-P, made within the last two years and used commonly by contractors. Build roads, blast rock quarries. That sort of thing. The A.T.F. people haven't been able to trace it that fine yet. They're not sure they'll be able to. A blasting cap always maintains a paper trail—least, it's supposed to—but there are a bunch of them out there."

That was certainly true. I'd used blasting caps to do fish-census work on small bodies of water.

Jackson said, "So that's what we're faced with. We'll have your standard pissed-off, drunk commercial fishermen out there setting fires, stealing engines—maybe stretching cables. We'll have your standard pissed-off, drunk sportfishermen out there trying to get even. But a guy who will sit down with a book, figure out how to make a bomb, then actually do it— that's a whole different animal."

I said, "Yeah, but they're novices. There's no doubt about that." In reply to Jackson's upraised eyebrows, I added, "Jimmy Darroux? The guy who carries the bomb isn't supposed to get blown up, right?"

Chapter 11

That afternoon, I motored over to Tomlinson's sailboat to get the gear he said he needed. I had no idea what time Hannah would come by to get his stuff. Presumably, she would be out mullet fishing, so it might be dusk or it might be midnight. Some perverse side of me hoped it would be late; the later, the better. I was, perhaps, suffering what the writer Jack London, in his letters, referred to as the urges of "animal-man." It is described less succinctly now: horny . . . pocket-proud . . . three-legged and dumb. All of which were accurate enough, but realizing it made me feel no less insipid.

Even so, motoring toward Tomlinson's No Mas, I tested out potential scenarios: Invite Hannah in, show her around. Put on some music—see if she liked Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young as much as The Doors. Offer her a drink—that was the sociable thing to do. Someone had left a bottle of wine in my refrigerator, but it had been opened . . . three weeks ago? Maybe longer. Well. . . she might enjoy it anyway. It couldn't be any stronger than that sulfur-water tea of hers. Let her walk around my place, wineglass in hand . . . feel the vibration of her weight through the wooden floor—just like at Gumbo Limbo, where she'd traced the shape of my ear with her fingernail, and told me about watching me take my rain barrel shower.

Then I caught myself. Was it happening again?

As I stood at the controls of my boat, I made a conscious effort to shift the subject to other matters. , . .

No problem. Not at all like the previous Thursday night when, for a short time, I had so clearly demonstrated symptoms of obsession that I still found it surprising ... a little troubling, too.

I smiled; spoke aloud: "You dumb ass." And thought: If I invite Hannah in, it will only be to gather information for Jackson.

But, at the same time, my perverse side whispered: A glass of wine . . . music. Remember? No strings attached. . . .

Once on Tomlinson's boat, I didn't even have to step down into the cabin to realize that no, there was not sufficient ice in the man's ice locker, and yes, the fish fillets had been unhappily decomposing in this happy vegetarian home.

So, using a plastic bag in lieu of gloves, I dropped the mess overboard. Was tempted to drop the plastic bag and plate overboard too, but enough people were already using the coast as a garbage dump. Finally decided what the ice locker needed was a bucket of Clorox water, a lot of scrubbing, then a good airing out. If it wasn't done now, the stink would seep into the cushions.

Each time I lifted out some remnant of macrobiotic, vegetarian goo, each time I had to lunge up out of the Clorox fumes to suck a fresh breath of air, I reminded myself that Tomlinson would not have hesitated to perform the same nasty task for me.

If he wasn't too preoccupied to think about it. . . .

When I got back to my fish house, Janet was just finishing up. By my reckoning, she had notes on four separate hours of tarpon observation, those hours spaced between ten a.m. and five p.m. She looked pretty proud of herself, standing there in baggy jeans and brown sweatshirt. Stood by my side as I went over her field notes on the clipboard; had a nervous habit of licking her lips whenever I paused over an entry or seemed even mildly confused.

"At this point—" She was pointing to one of the field sheets I had composed. "That's when the man showed up to see you. Uh—"

"Ron Jackson," I provided.

"Yeah, but what happened was, I lost my concentration, so I was unsure if I'd seen Green Flag roll first or the Red Threat, so I just—"

"The Red Threat?" I asked, smiling at her.

She whacked me on the sleeve and said, "You spend four or five hours watching a bunch of fish, I'd like to hear the names you'd give them! You know, from history class? The red threat?" As if I were being dumb. "I'm a teacher, for God's sake. You think they only let us teach one subject at a school with only four hundred kids? But what I was telling you about was that entry—"

"The other fish is Green Flag? Is that like Greenpeace or—"

"As in the green flag Moslems? In Egypt, but after the decline? Geez, Ford, you must read nothing but journals."

Now I really was beginning to feel dumb.

"Okay, okay, they are very . . . well thought-out names."

Janet lowered the clipboard. Had a nice little energy in her laugh. "You think it's silly, don't you? Naming the fish. Honest now, all the time you spend with them, you've never gave them names?"

I had never even named my boats. "Let me think here—"

"Because to me, they seem to have individual. . . It's like they behave differently, one not like the other. The Red Threat, he's the mobile type. He doesn't wait for the others to act, he just does it. Swoops around in there when he's in the mood, and the others follow." She paused, looking at me. She was serious. "You never have favorites?"

"Well. . ."

"But don't think it influenced any of my observations," she added quickly; she'd realized what I might have been thinking and wanted to put my mind at ease. "Everything's there on the field sheets, just how I saw it."

I took the clipboard from her, leafed through the sheets. "You know what you've done here? When Breder and Shlaifer did their work back in the forties, they observed their tarpon for one hour a day over a period of twenty-two consecutive days. Today alone, you've broadened the standards."

On the field sheets were entry columns for: "Time; Water Temperature; Rises per Fish Hour; Greatest Time Between Rises; Percent of Minutes with No Rises." Each column was neatly filled with her penciled entries. Four pages—one for every hour of observation. I said, "I don't expect you to spend every day sitting with those fish. . . . What I'm saying is, you've already done four days of work here." I glanced at the clipboard again. "Looks like very good work, too."

She was pleased. Made self-deprecating remarks about how she had been a little sloppy here, could have done a little better there. I put my hand on her shoulder; felt her pull away instinctively, then relax enough to lean briefly against me. "It's all fine. Hell . . . it's great."

"I can keep working on the project?"

I told her, "Lady, it is now our project. If I get around to publishing something on it, instead of saying Breder-Shlaifer it'll say Mueller-Ford."

"Nope—you've got to at least take top billing."

"If I ever get to know the fish on a first-name basis, then we'll discuss it."

We stood there talking about the project. We shouldn't be surprised, I told her, if our results differed from Breder-Shlaifer, because we were doing the procedure in January. They had done it in June, when the water was much warmer. Then we talked about the possibility that at least some tarpon behavior was social behavior . . . and of course, mature fish might behave differently than immature fish . . . and Janet said it might be interesting to see what happened if a glass plate was suspended at the water's surface so that the fish could not roll.

"That procedure's been done," I told her. "Even in water that was heavily oxygenated, the fish died. Might be interesting to duplicate that one, too, try to find out why—"

"Oh, no-way," she said with feeling. She glanced toward the tank: the Red Threat, Green Flag, and the others were in there. "I couldn't be a part of that."

I dropped the subject. Mostly what I did was wrestle with my own conscience. It was getting late. The sky had taken on the slate-gray and raspberry hues peculiar to the Gulf Coast in January. High, high up in corridors traveled only by tourist jets and the combat jockeys, wispy cirrus clouds showed the pathway of global winds. But down in Dinkin's Bay it was balmy, warm. ... It was also dinnertime. I owed Janet a dinner . . . owed her a lot more than that for all her work. But I also knew that if I left, I risked missing Hannah. Why hadn't Tomlinson offered a time? Why hadn't I asked? Or he could have had Hannah call me on the VHF . . .

Caught myself and thought: You're a dumb ass, Ford. A familiar charge from a familiar source.

I looked at Janet standing there: solid, pudgy, plain face, short mousy hair, good eyes. Saw that a little light had come back into them after her day with the tarpon.

"You want to go get something to eat?" I was saying it before I had even decided to speak.

"Are you sure you have the time? There's not something else you'd rather—"

I took her by the elbow and steered her toward the boardwalk. "Mueller, just give me time to grab a shower and change. Twenty minutes?"

Nice smile; a touch of irony in it. "Make it twenty-five, Ford. I'm the one who's been working. Remember?"

We chose the Lazy Flamingo, near Blind Pass. One of the few restaurants on Sanibel or Captiva that had a kicked-back, shorts-and-thongs, out-island quality to it. Since they'd closed Timmy's Nook, anyway. Heavy raw wood furniture, ceiling fans whirling, some palm thatching for effect. Go to the bar and place your own order, then sit in your booth while the waitress brings beer that is served from buckets of ice.

I chose the raw conch salad, lots of onion and lime juice. Also ordered the grilled grouper sandwich, plus a large Caesar salad—heavy on the anchovies—an order of fries . . . and garlic bread.

Janet said, "Is that for both of us, or just you?"—her tone pleasantly sarcastic.

I told her that a day spent on a chair watching fish was slothful compared to the day I had had. She ordered the grilled grouper . . . canceled it, just asked for the Caesar—the extra weight she carried was probably on her mind—then we found an open booth by the window. She sat there looking around; I guessed she was wondering what to talk about— there's a limit to how much can be said about fish. So, when I felt the silence become strained, I told her about the Ford-Jackson hell run. Which got her laughing. She said she could just picture us out there, two huge kids lumbering along, both of us too stubborn to quit. I told her about Tomlinson's icebox. She made the appropriate grimace of disgust, but had to add: "Have you ever looked into his eyes? Tomlinson has the most wonderful eyes. I know he's . . . unusual. Where I'm from? He'd be considered some kind of eccentric up home."

I said, "I've yet to find a place that wouldn't consider him eccentric. That's on his quiet days."

"I know, but... he has the most. . . gentle way about him. Don't you think? You meet him, you feel as if you've always known him. He . . . empathizes with people. No, that's not the word." She puzzled over it for a moment before saying, "He feels for people, that's what he does. Not just empathizes, but gives you the impression he actually feels what you are feeling. I don't know how he does it. Telepathy? I'm not sure I believe in that. But somehow he does it, and he seems like . . . such a nice and gentle man."

I took a sip of my beer; should have considered it longer before speaking, but I asked the question anyway: "Is that why he's the only one you told why you left Ohio?" Saw the reaction in her face—a nervous, stricken look—and instantly regretted my words. Reached out, patted her hand. Said, "I'm sorry. It's none of my business. I had no right to ask."

She sat there for a moment—at least she hadn't pulled her hand away—head down, staring at the table. Finally, she lifted her face to me— the cloudy expression of shell shock had returned—then asked in a small, small voice, "Tomlinson told you?" as if she had been betrayed.

There have been times in my life—too many times, I'm sad to admit— I have spoken or acted so unthinkingly that I do not doubt that civilized people would be better off if I simply returned to the jungles where I spent so many of my years. Build myself a bamboo hut. Hang a sign over the door: Beware the Big Dumb Shit. Use a stick to bang a hollowed-out log if I absolutely have to communicate.

I took her hand in both of mine, and squeezed. "No, Tomlinson wouldn't do that. All he told me . . . the only thing he told me was that you and he had had some long conversations. Because I know Tomlinson, I assumed the rest. It's one of my eccentricities—prying into other people's business just to remind myself how rude I really am. Which is a nicer way of saying that I'm way too nosy. I'm sorry. Please believe me, Janet."

It was a while before she spoke. I sat there feeling helplessly big and clumsy. Finally . . . finally, she patted my hand . . . looked at me with cool, remote eyes and said, "Of course I believe you. I'd . . . like to tell you about it. But it's not easy for me. It's taken a long time to—"

"Forget it," I interrupted. "When you're in the mood, I'm ready to listen. A couple of weeks from now ... or after we finish the tarpon procedure. Or not—you decide." I glanced around at the busy waitresses. "Jesus, where is that food?"

A gusty sound of laughter burst from her lips—an emotional release. She said, "No one would ever say that you have kind eyes. But you're kind. I used to watch you around the marina, and you seemed ... so remote. Like you're there, but you're really someplace else. When I first saw you? That's what I'm talking about. You actually seemed kind of scary."

"I scare myself," I put in helpfully. Didn't add: Beware the big dumb shit.

"But then I saw the way you treated that poor man. From the explosion? And the way you are with the others around the marina. Mostly, though, I know you're kind because you let me do all the observations today, and I know—don't tell me otherwise, either—I know you really wanted to do it."

"Baloney," I said. "I took advantage of you. I lazed around on the beach and did other childish things while you worked. Which is why I'm paying the tab." The food was coming. I was more grateful for the opportunity to change the subject than the chance to eat.

We ate in silence for a time. Good raw conch salad, good sandwich. When we did talk, I was careful to keep the topic within safe borders. Fish, biology, running. She spoke of trying to lose weight—I could hear the frustration in her voice. These are modern times. All men and women are required to fight hard to maintain the preferred Prime-Time American uniform: thin. But it's harder on the women because they must not only be thin, they must be fashion model-gaunt. Television commercials, like certain poisons, have to have a cumulative effect. So Janet was one of the ones who battled daily in an attempt to match the images they saw in the mirror with the images pressed upon them by the television screen.

As she picked at her Caesar salad, she said things like, "If I just had more willpower . . . exercise till I drop, and things still don't seem to change much . . . have you heard of that new powder diet?"

I said things such as "Genetic coding . . . the effective storage system of wandering Nordic tribes . . . think in terms of fitness, not fat."

When we were finished, I walked her outside toward my old Chevy pickup truck. I'd had the engine overhauled recently, the brake pads and brake lines replaced, then had the truck painted a very handsome—I

believed—shade of navy gray. I liked the pearlike shape of the cab, and the fact that its six-cylinder engine was so simple that even I could work on it. The color seemed to match the functionality of the truck.

That was what I was explaining to her—why I maintained an old truck rather than buy a new one—when, as I reached for the passenger's-side door handle, Janet suddenly took me by the elbow and said, "Let's walk." She used her chin to motion toward the beach across the road.

So we walked. It was a good night for it: blustery January sea wind pushing surf onto the beach, making a surging, waterfall roar. Black night with a new moon drifting down the western sky; winter stars gauging the velocity of scudding clouds. Tropical Mexico and the jungles of Yucatan were somewhere out there, beyond the far range of horizon. But here, on Sanibel, a Canadian wind culled sand from the beach and stung us.

We were walking south, away from Blind Pass. Probably walked five minutes or so before she pulled my arm tight to her—an attempt to conceal herself, I sensed, rather than a gesture of affection—and she said in a steady, controlled voice, "I want to tell you about what happened. It would be good for me to talk about it, they . . . That's what I've been told. But it's not easy, and I want you to understand that I'm getting better. I don't want you to think I'm the kind who goes around whining about poor me me me. But there are things—I know this now—there are things that you can't keep bottled up inside."

I said, "Then you probably need to talk about it."

She sighed. I could feel her body shudder involuntarily. "Okay, what happened was, the reason I left Ohio was ... I had what you would call a nervous breakdown. Those words—nervous breakdown—you hear them all the time, so they don't seem like much. You know, so-and-so had a nervous breakdown? But when you go through it . . . it's not so simple. I was convinced that I really had gone . . . gone completely insane. Only I hadn't. The doctors, it took them a long time to convince me. I spent nearly a year under their care, and it was several months before I finally began to believe that I wasn't really crazy, I was just reacting to . . . what I'd been through. I was suffering severe depression and what they called anxiety attacks. These things, the attacks, would seem to just descend on me—in the classroom, at the store, anyplace. Like poison gas almost, and it was the most terrifying experience. . . ."

She paused, trying to wrestle her emotions into control. I said, "You don't have to go on with this. You became ill. Human beings are susceptible to illness—there are emotional viruses just as there are physical viruses. So now you're in Florida recuperating, and things are going better—"

She tapped my arm, hushing me. "That's not it," she said. "I'm avoiding it again. I started to tell you what happened, and that's what I'm going to do." She cleared her throat. . . made a brave attempt to continue, then completely broke down. I patted her, I made little clucking noises. She told me what she could in little spurts. Over the next hour and several miles of beach, the whole story came out. She kept saying, "I know worse things have happened to people."

Sadly, it was true. But not much worse.

As early as grade school, Janet had known that she was not, and would never be, drop-dead attractive. But she grew up with enough good people, and enough self-esteem, that it didn't matter much. At one point she said, "You've seen those women—women who are smart and talented but, because of the way they look, they end up with men no one else would have? I wasn't going to let that happen to me."

She didn't. She dated occasionally, but not much. What she did was wait . . . and wait . . . and wait until just the right man came along. Four years ago, he finally did. His name was Roger Mueller. Roger worked for some state agency, and he was assigned to the northwest section of Ohio. Roger was good at his work. He also played bluegrass music—even made his own instruments—and had personal interests that were far-ranging. He liked to read. He liked to laugh. True, he was no screen idol. What he was was an average-looking but very kind and decent man. Janet fell madly in love with Roger; he fell madly in love with her.

"From the moment we met, it was like we were meant to be together," she told me. "Roger felt the same way. All those years, he'd been waiting for just the right person to come along too. Then, to finally find each other . . ."

They married. They bought a small farmhouse north of town, which they completely remodeled. Did all the work themselves after dinner, on weekends. Because they both wanted to start a family, part of the remodeling included a nursery just off the master bedroom. The first year it didn't happen, but the second year it did. Janet was pregnant. "Up to that point, I'd had a good life," she said. "Pretty well-adjusted and happy. Then to find Roger and get pregnant, too. . . . I'd never imagined that kind of happiness."

And that's when the big hammer fell.

Roger was driving home late after work one snowy night. On the same road, coming from the opposite direction, was a woman who had no license because of her long history of alcohol abuse.

All that Janet could remember from that night, and the week that followed, was a highway patrolman coming to the door . . . then a nurse crying with her, at her bedside, because of the miscarriage.

Janet tried to resume her teaching duties, but couldn't function in the classroom. She took sick leave, but couldn't function at home. Finally, she ended up in a hospital, then a mental health facility.

"Learning how to deal with the panic attacks," she said, "was the thing that finally convinced me I wasn't completely crazy. When I'd feel one coming I'd keep reminding myself what the doctors told me: The attacks were unpleasant as hell, but they were harmless. All that fear was being manufactured by my own brain. I didn't have to control it. All I had to do was learn to wait it out, and it would leave. That's when the attacks began to go away, and I began to get better."

We were walking north now, quartering into wind. Janet had cried herself dry. Her voice was weary, but solid; it had an even timbre that I liked. The woman was a survivor. She would be okay.

"I came to Florida because they suggested I have a complete change of scenery," she said. "They said I was well enough for it. I'd had enough solid weeks in a row. Buying the houseboat ... I don't know—living on a boat was something I'd wanted to do since I was a girl. I had the money from the insurance, so . . ." She shrugged. "It still isn't easy. I feel myself getting scared sometimes, all the old fears coming back. But I've learned to ignore it, and it doesn't last. I'm glad I ended up in Dinkin's Bay. The people there are . . . such a funny little group." She chuckled. "I think the other night— at Perbcot?—was the first time I'd really laughed in a long, long time. But the best thing . . . the best I've felt since it all happened, was taking notes on your tarpon today. It was all so . . . focused, watching those tarpon ... so analytical that I didn't have time to feel any emotion. You know? Those tarpon, the way they behave. Every movement is so strong and sure. Perfectly alive, no regrets, no fears. Right there in the tank, living and so damn . . . pure.

We had been walking side by side. Now she laced her arm through mine. "What happened to Roger and our . . . our family . . . was a terrible, senseless, tragic thing. I know that, yet there's nothing in the world I can do to change it. But Roger was no quitter, and neither am I."

I said, "I think you're going to be fine, Janet."

"Maybe. No, I will be okay. I don't let myself think about the future. I take it one day at a time. I wake up in the morning and try to think good thoughts. Do the same when I go to bed at night. I miss him. I miss them both. It will be a long, long time before I'll be able to get involved with anyone else emotionally or physically." She looked up at me and added quickly, "That's not bitterness, Doc. It's what I know is best for me. I'm going to live a constructive life. As soon as I can, I'll go back to work. I miss my kids. For now, though"—she put a fist to her mouth and stifled a yawn—"what I need now is a lot of time. And probably the same thing you need after listening to all my blubbering—some sleep."

We walked on in silence. For some reason, I started thinking of this looney old uncle of mine, Tucker Gatrell, who lives down in the Everglades. Tuck had an old gator-poaching and drinking partner by the name of Joseph Egret. It was Joseph who once told me that life was scary enough to make a sled dog shiver. How an Everglades Indian knew anything about sled dogs is impossible to say. But Joseph was right. I couldn't relate to Janet's account of psychological problems—Tomlinson often claims that emotion is the only quality I lack as a human being. However, I could relate to her sense of loss, and I was impressed by her determination. The good ones do not always die young; neither do they ever, ever quit. They keep finding ways to create and construct, struggling all the while to endure, because we are, above all else, a species of builders—though it seems that more and more aberrant destroyers live among us.

Janet was one of the good ones. The good ones always find a way.

When we got to the truck, I leaned down and kissed her on the top of the head. Told her, "Just don't be late for work in the morning."

Chapter 12

It was a little after eight p.m. when Hannah Smith arrived to get Tomlinson's gear. I was in the lab, futzing around with a box of old slide plates that I had collected over the years. Some people keep scrapbooks; I acquire slides. One of my favorites is of a newly hatched tarpon that is still in the eellike leptocephalus stage. Beneath the lowest power of my Wolfe stereomicro-scope, the tarpon resembled a thread of translucent ribbon that was attached to a set of dragon jaws spiked with needlelike teeth.

If tarpon continued to grow in that form, if they did not metamorphose into an entirely different animal, no human being would have the courage to go near the water.

I had the goose-necked lamp on, clamped to the stainless steel lab table. In the next room, I had a new selection of Gregorian chants on the stereo. As I tinkered with the slides, I also |J deliberated over my decision to provide Ron Jackson with whatever information I could gather. I had agreed to help him, of course. I am not the Rotarian type; one who attends meetings, then volunteers for good causes. Nor am I a political animal. My previous work left me cold on politics. But I do believe that if you live in a community, you are obligated to contribute what you can. Jackson's offer was an opportunity to play a small part. Maybe I could help, maybe I couldn't, but I would try.

I had already spoken with Felix and Jeth about their armed patrols. They were tired of doing it anyway, they said, and agreed that it was a bad idea. They said they would try to talk some sense into Nels, and the other guides around the island.

Other than that, I had provided Jackson with the first names of the two troublemakers I knew about: Julie and J.D., whereabouts unknown. Gave him the name of a Sulphur Wells man that I remembered Hannah mentioning in association with boat thefts: Kemper Waits. Also told him about the sportfishermen in the big-wheeled truck who, presumably, had tried to vandalize my aquarium.

It wasn't much; I told him I would try to do more. In return, Jackson had promised to ask the Sanibel police to keep a close eye on my place.

So I was sitting there mulling over different methods I could use to gather information. Legal methods, I had to keep reminding myself. I was so involved with the novelty of that, plus my slides, that I had almost . . . almost. . . forgotten that Hannah was coming. Which is when I heard the outboard whine of an approaching boat. Heard the boat slow to idle, then felt my house jolt slightly as the boat swung up against the pilings of the dock. Heard a twangy, alto woman's voice call: "You coming out, Ford? Or you want me to come in and get you?"

I turned on the big deck spotlight, pushed my way out the screen door . . . and there was Hannah. She was wearing yellow Farmer John-style rain pants and a damp green T-shirt. The pants bib was cinched up with suspenders. Her black hair was frazzled by the wind, and she had used a red ribbon to tie it back into a ponytail. She stood toward the bow of her little boat, one arm thrown lazily over the PVC tube she used to steer it, and was grinning up at me: wind-burnished skin, dark eyes, white teeth, creases of dimples running from cheek to chin.

"Tell you the truth," she called up, "I liked the way you were dressed better last time." Referring to my outdoor shower.

"Are you always so dirty-minded, Hannah? Or just with me?"

"Not always," she answered wryly. "And not just with you." She was tying her skiff to the pilings; using a very simple quick-release knot that very few boaters seemed to know anymore. Stood there for a moment, hands on hips, before saying, "I've already had a pretty good night. You want to see?"

I clumped down the steps and swung onto her boat. She kept things neat. There was a wooden push-pole stowed along the plywood-thin gunwale, a bailing can, and a couple of bottles of outboard motor oil wedged into the stringers so they wouldn't bounce around while she was running. An orange gas can was placed out of the way, just behind the tunnel of engine well. Pretty new engine: ninety-horsepower Yamaha. Toward the stern was a big fiberglassed icebox. Astern of the box was a bundle of nylon gill net. The net's brown foam plastic floats were buried among the folds of translucent nylon, like Christmas ornaments.

"I caught a pretty good mess," she told me as she hefted up the lid off the icebox. "About eighty head of blacks, and maybe a dozen silvers."

I looked into the box to see a slag heap of cobalt-silver fish, most of them close to a foot and a half long. The black mullet—known around the world as the striped mullet—is a strange-looking creature. It has a blunt, bullet-shaped head and big saucer eyes. It is as aesthetically pleasing as an old Nash Rambler automobile. Because a mullet feeds mostly on detritus and other vegetable matter, it has a gizzardlike stomach that pre-grinds food before passing it into a freakishly long digestive tract.

Earlier in the century, a Florida court once ruled that the mullet, because it had a "gizzard," was actually a bird—thus freeing a commercial fisherman who was charged with fishing out of season. The incident is but one measure of what a strange fish the mullet is.

As I peered into the box, Hannah said, "I did a strike off Cape Haze and did okay. You know that point just before you go into Turtle Bay?"

That was a little north of my normal cruising area, but I was familiar with it.

"I took most of them there. Then I struck this little sandbank I know near White Rock and got the rest. I'd have more, but I know Tommy needs his things, so I run down here to see you." Big smile. "Didn't want to get here so late I had to haul you out of bed. That wouldn't be polite."

Tommy? It took me a moment to translate: Tomlinson.

I told her, "We don't want to keep Tommy waiting. I've got his stuff sacked, ready to go."

"You going to invite me in?"

I hesitated, then said, "Sure."

She closed the ice locker and followed me up the stairs to the house. Oohed and aahed at my fish tank. Asked me questions about the telescope—"That planet with the rings around it. Can you see those?"— then focused her attention on the bookshelves. Because I have the volumes arranged alphabetically, by author, she had to get down on hands and knees to search. I knew what she was looking for—one of Tomlinson's books. But instead of helping, I stood there and watched. It was hard not to watch: big woman in slick yellow pants, haunches poked up into the air, the pendulum swing of loose breasts against damp T-shirt. She seemed to fill the room; filled it with her size, and with a musky odor of girl-sweat, fish, strong soap, and salt water. Felt the urge to change the music on the tape player—get rid of that damn Gregorian chant stuff—and offer her some of that finely aged wine in my refrigerator. i

"Here's one!" She had one of Tomlinson's books. Was opening it as she stood. "Even got his picture in the back. Isn't he a cutey?" Now she was leafing to the front. "Whew, this one's a little heavy, though, huh? I've only come across four or five words that I understand."

"Not what you would call easy reading," I agreed. "It has to do with the concept of infinity ... I think. Something about all motion and change being an illusion. That reality is actually static and immutable."

Hannah had an index finger to her lip, trying to follow along. Said, "That's why I like you two guys. You're smart, both of you—not that I'm not. I'm probably just as smart, only sometimes I wished I'd gone to college."

"With Tomlinson, a college education is no help. I'm just repeating what he told me. It's like . . . if you drop a rock, the rock has to fall half the distance to the ground before it can fall the remaining half. Right? But then the rock must fall half the distance of that. So on and so on. Logically, the rock should never reach the ground. What his book does is question the existence of distance and motion."

She closed the book and looked at the dust jacket. The title was: No End in Sight.

"How many copies you think it sold?"

"I think Tomlinson probably gave away more copies than he sold."

She thought that over. "Well, my book is going to sell. I want people to know about the kind of people we are. And the mullet fishermen, what's being taken away from us. So I don't want any of that falling-rock bullshit in my book. I'll remind him when I get back. Oh yeah, I almost forgot—" She reached down into her Farmer Johns and handed me a folded sheaf of papers. "It's the first chapter. Tommy's already working on the sixth or maybe the seventh. He wants to know what you think. He said you'd be a good . . . what'd he call it? ... a good barometer for the average reader."

I took the sheaf of papers. Said, "What a nice thing for Tommy to say."

I opened the papers and looked at the cover page. It read: People of the Same Fire.

Hannah was watching over my shoulder. "That's Tommy's title idea. He says the Indians up in the Carolinas and Georgia—the ones who moved down to Florida and net-fished?—that's what they called people from . . . not exactly the same tribe, but who were related. Yeah, related. The Creeks, I think he said."

I started to fold the page over, but she stopped me. "I was thinking maybe just call it 'The Hannah Smith Story.' Real simple, you know?"

Turning the page, I said, "You may want to trust Tomlinson's judgment on this one," and I began to read:

"I am the direct descendant of Sarah Smith, one of four incredible giant Smith sisters who did as much to settle this Florida wilderness as any eight men half their size. They may have not been net fishermen, but they had fishermen's blood in their veins.

"Sarah was my great-grandmother, and was known as the Ox Woman throughout the Everglades. My great-aunt, Hannah Smith, was my namesake. Hannah was called Big Six because of her height. She made her own way in the world until some bad men down on the Chatham River murdered her and, it is said, used a knife to cut the unborn baby from her stomach before they tossed her carcass into the river. But Hannah was stubborn. She still wouldn't sink.

"I am the spiritual sister of both women. But between the two, I probably favor Hannah. So I am well named . . ."

I refolded the chapter, placed it on my writing desk. "Tomlinson wrote this?"

"I wrote it, then he changed it, then I changed what he wrote. That's the way we're doing it," she said. "It's my book. He's just helping."

"Pretty gruesome story about your great-aunt—"

"Gruesome or not, it's the truth. That's what I mean to do, tell the truth. Sarah and Hannah woulda both wanted it that way. Believe me, I know because—"

"Because you were born with a veil over your face?"

She fixed me with a sly look of appraisal. "That's right. I know all kinds of things because of that. The gift of second sight—that's what my mama called it. What I'm askin' you is, do you think it'll sell? The book, I mean. From what you read."

"With your picture on the cover, I think it'll sell a lot better than No End in Sight."

"Is that like a compliment? Or just a tricky way of sayin' you don't like it?"

"It's a compliment. I'll read more later, but I liked the first page just fine."

She thought about that. Then: "So what you're sayin' is you think I'm pretty." Talking about the cover I had suggested.

"Pretty's not quite the word. Attractive. Very attractive."

"Dressed the way I am, soaked from fishin'?"

"That's part of your appeal."

Hannah had a wide, full mouth with sun-chapped lips that didn't seem to hurt her when she smiled. She was smiling now, a kind of sleepy, lazy, amused smile. She put the book down and walked toward me until her bare feet were nearly touching my toes. "I like you, Ford. You're big enough to look me right in the eyes, only"—-she made her bell-tone chuckling sound—"only you don't spend a lot of time looking at my eyes."

Which, of course, caused me to stare directly into her eyes: dark, dark eyes; irises flecked with gold beneath the glittering windows of cornea.

Heard her say, "Is it true?"

"Is what true?"

"What the guys around the docks tell me? They say my nipples show their shape even through a rain jacket."

I was just starting to reply to that when Hannah touched her fingers to the back of my head, pulled my face to hers. Kissed me very softly . . . then used her tongue to wet my lips . . . kissed me again, harder—until I took her by the shoulders, swung her around, and held her fast against the wall. Smiled at her, and said, "Hannah, I'm at your service. But before we go any farther, I want to know just what the hell it is you want from me."

"See? No bullshit." She was laughing—enjoying it. "That's just what I told you, Ford; just what I like about you. The way you go right for that little soft part of the throat."

"With Tomlinson, it was the book. What do you want from me? That's all I'm asking."

She levered her arms up over mine and freed herself. "Oh-h-h ... I see what you're gettin' at. You think I screw guys just to get something." She wagged her index finger at me: Naughty, naughty, naughty. "That's where you're headed. Well, you're wrong. How many men you think I've taken to bed in my life?"

"That's none of my—"

"Come on, now admit it. Damn right you want to know. You're thinkin', Yeah, I'd like to, but you're not the type to just hop in the sack with any ol' slut."

"Wait a minute, Hannah, I never—"

"Hell, I don't blame you. The way some women go around jumpin' on any pecker that can stand up and smile. Me? I've had five men, counting Jimmy, which I wish I didn't have to. That don't include the playin' around, touchy-feely make-somebody-happy business. The just-for-fun stuff. Five." Now she clamped her hands on my shoulders. I was shaking my head—a tough woman to deal with—as I allowed her to pivot me around and press me against the same wall. She pursed her lips, like a teacher questioning a rowdy student. "Now what about you? More than five?"

"Well, I'm older than you—"

"More than a dozen?"

"I used to travel a lot; never been married—"

"More than twenty?" She saw my expression and hooted, "So who's the slut, Ford? Men, they're the sluts, and boy oh boy, you don't like it when the tables get turned!" She released me, found the back of my neck with her hand. "You want to know what I want from you, Ford? Yeah, pick your brain about fish farming. That's what I want. I'll do that, 'cause fish farming's about the only thing left when they ban the nets, and that's the business I'm starting. I can see you up there at Gumbo Limbo, giving me advice on where to dig ponds, what kind'a pumps to use. That'd make me happy, sure. But from me? If banks accepted blow jobs, you'd never have a nickel to your name."

"So why the strong come-on?"

"Goddamn, Ford! You got to have everything spelled out?"

"Let's just say I'm the shy type."

"Sure. Like I'm the queen of Paris, France."

"I want to know what the rules are, that's all—"

"No rules. Not for you, not for me. No rules ever—"

"Then I want to know why!'

She cupped my face in her hands, and leaned forward until our noses were nearly touching. "I like you. Is that so hard to believe? I like the way you look, the way you move. I like the way your brain works. It's because I saw you, and I knew, that's why. That evening I saw you outside, taking your shower. Took one look and I thought, yep, we'll get our chance one day. You think I go round asking the name of every man I meet? Then up to Tallahassee, I heard you at that meeting. Same thing: It came right into my mind, the picture of you and me. You didn't strike me as the crazy jealous type. The type to yammer at my heels like most of 'em." She moved her hands on my face; paused to straighten my glasses. "Ifyou knew how many men I got tailing after me, half sick with tryin' to get me in bed. . . . Well, you wouldn't be standing there talking, 'cause I can change my mind anytime I want."

I stared into her eyes, and said, "Nope. No you can't. Time's up." Pulled her to me, kissed her . . . felt her mouth open and kissed her harder. Found the suspender straps, nudged them from off her shoulders . . . and the rubber rain pants dropped to her ankles. She lifted her knees and kicked them away.

Nothing on beneath but cheap white cotton panties.

I had my hands cupped over her skinny little rump, still kissing her . . . let my hand drift up over the washboard convexity of ribs. . . felt her sharp intake of breath as my fingers found the heavy underside of her breast, then traced that soft curvature to the length and heat of nipple.

Hannah pulled away abruptly, stripped the T-shirt up over her head, and shook her hair free of its red ribbon. Stood there naked but for the drooping panties, and I released a long, slow breath, staring at her: Whew. . .

Which caused Hannah to smile—See what you would have missed?—and then she said in a husky, sleepy voice, "You can jump out of'em now, or I'll yank 'em off for you."

Meaning my pants.

Moments later she had her long fingers curled around me, leading me toward my single bed as if steering a cart. "Big Six," she was saying. "Big Six . . ."

Wondered: As in number six?—as I listened to her make her bell note sound; a woman living her vision, enjoying it.