Dead of Night

22

I telephoned Fish and Wildlife and told the lady in charge that the shark was now free, and that one of the helpful amateur skippers on-scene had collected the remains of the net for disposal.

Mission accomplished. But I felt sick.

Rona had fetched her overnight bag from the car. While she used my house to freshen up, I took a warm shower beneath my outdoor cistern, changed into fresh shorts and a gray wool shirt that felt good, because the temperature was falling along with the winter sun.

Back in the lab, I leaned over the computer keyboard to make sure I could open the files Frieda had sent. No problem. There were three documents, nothing but numbers. There were spaces between some blocks and columns of numbers, and some punctuation, too.

It was a substitution cipher, but it wasn’t obvious.

There was also a note from Frieda. Painful to read. It ended: “I know my brother would have wanted these files to go to you, old buddy. He admired your work so. Opposite sides of the same coin-if Jobe believed that, he made a good choice.”

I didn’t like the way I felt, so I turned from the computer and dialed Dewey’s number. I’d already spoken with her twice that day.

No answer, so I left a message. Told her to call when she got back from Christmas shopping in the big cities of Davenport, Moline, and Bettendorf.

Hearing her voice made me feel better. We are all prone to behave as if our friends are as enduring as the stability they contribute to our uncertain lives. The death of one punches a hole in that delusion. It leaves us clinging, for a time, to our protective bubbles, staring off into the void, until other friends rally to patch the communal leak.

The death of a friend reminds us that nonexistence is a cold and solitary place.

As I waited for Rona, I stood outside on the deck. I sipped my first beer of the evening, then lifted the bottle northward, in the direction of Tallahassee. A private toast. Stood thinking secret, reflective thoughts until Rona appeared. The lady wore black slacks and a silk blouse the color of wet pearls. She’d combed her black hair until it glistened, and added a touch of makeup to made her dark skin darker.

As I walked her to the marina, I told her she looked very elegant, and meant it. It surprised me that she flushed, embarrassed. “Thanks. I get so flustered when I hear something like that because I was such a gawky nerd for so many years. My body didn’t start to fill out until I was in my thirties, so I’m not used to compliments. I’m just now starting to enjoy what it’s like for men to be interested. Oh, and Doc”-she touched my arm; this was personal-“I’m so sorry about Mrs. Matthews. That I had to be the one to tell you.”

I said, “She was a good woman. You told me I needed to see where she died for myself? I think I’ll drive to Kissimmee tomorrow, and have a look around. Tonight, though, I think Frieda would want us to do what she did whenever she visited these islands. Have fun.”

The party was reaching its cruising rhythm…

We’d missed sunset, but the earth’s rotation continued to spill color over the horizon. Above a mangrove rim, the western sky was streaked with citreous mesas, bands of key lime and orange. Behind us, high shoals of cirrus clouds were a firestorm of lavender.

Mack had the dock lights wired to a timer, and they’d just come on: pale pearl bands on a bay streaked with bronze. Added to the light show were the marina’s Christmas decorations. Every houseboat, sailboat, cruiser, and sports fishing boat was trimmed with strings of holiday bulbs-red, green, or strobing white. Almost every mast or fly bridge sported a climbing plastic Santa, a lighted Christmas tree, a reindeer frozen in flight, a white cross or Star of David.

I paused outside the Red Pelican Gift Shop next to the bait tanks, my eyes taking it in, attempting to fix the scene, in memory: seeing the docks, the sky, the multicolored lights, the rows of boats. Seeing islanders mingling near picnic tables covered with platters of food; the marina’s Christmas tree-actually, an Australian pine, twelve feet tall-decorated with fishing lures, and greetings cards from clients around the nation. Beneath the tree were stacked piles of presents, brightly wrapped and bowed.

Frieda had liked this place. She would have enjoyed being here now.

Beside me, Rona said, “Gee, what a great little marina. It’s kind of warm and old-timey, the way the shops are built next to the docks. Everything wooden, but like the wood has gotten way too much sun. And I love the Christmas decorations. I can see why so many people are here.”

This edition of P’COT had attracted a big crowd, which was not unexpected. Dusk on the islands is a soft, sociable time of gathering. There are subtleties of color, scent, and sound that can only be appreciated outdoors, which is why almost everyone heads for the beach or the bay.

On this Friday evening, along with the couple of dozen marina inhabitants there were also several dozen guests. Everyone roamed the docks, drinks in hand, ricocheting from one convivial pod of souls to another, while Captain Buffett sang about gypsies in the castle, then the Beach Boys sang about St. Nick’s sled of candy apple red, music blasting from speakers mounted atop the fly bridge of Dieter Rasmussen’s Grand Banks trawler, Das Stasi.

Dieter is the resident shrink, a duly licensed psychiatrist, and an expert on all kinds of things related to the human brain. He and his stunning live-in Jamaican girlfriend, Mira, were sitting aft in swivel chairs. They waved. I pointed to my watch, telling them I’d stop by in a few minutes.

I searched the crowd, looking for the Internet guru. He was standing with a group of locals that included Laken. Lake was wearing shorts and an oversized Red Sox baseball jersey. Tomlinson was dressed in… a suit? Yep. One of the white silk suits he’d mentioned. Looked like a rock star. Or a homeless drunk who’d gotten lucky at some Salvation Army store.

The two of them had become buddies. It was easily read in their brotherly chiding, the private laughter. They did things together when they could: batting practice, sailing; a lot of time hanging out-which was worrisome until Lake took me aside and asked me to tell Tomlinson to knock off the antidrug sermons.

Straight-faced, I’d replied, “We’re talking about the same Tomlinson?”

Yes, the same.

Tomlinson was worried about being a poor role model, so he’d been overcompensating, hammering out lectures on the dangers of cannabis and similar evils. It was getting tiresome, Lake informed me. He had no interest in the stuff to begin with, and asked me to tell Tomlinson to resume his own drug use-or whatever it was he did-because, lately, the man had been a pious, strung-out pain in the ass.

His new role as entrepreneur had something to do with it, too, I was sure.

But Tomlinson looked relaxed and at home on this night. His eyes had a contented, sedated glaze. He was barefooted; had a red hibiscus blossom tucked into the lapel of his white silk jacket. Both added to the impression of tropical elan.

I hadn’t been in a mood to socialize but was now glad that I’d come. There was nothing I could do to change what happened to Frieda. Later, I’d give the e-mail documents a more thorough look. Maybe invite Tomlinson to focus his big brain on the puzzle. Lake, too, of course. He’d be flying back to Central America on Sunday, the same day I was leaving for Iowa. So I wanted to spend as much time with him as possible.

I suspect all parents enjoy secretly watching as their children interact socially. That’s what I did now, taking pleasure in the easy way the boy handled himself; in the shape of his face, his mannerisms, the snatches of his laughter that filtered through the party din. I was so lost in thought that I couldn’t help but stumble a little when I heard:

“I don’t want to be nosy, but I’ve got to ask: Where’s your girlfriend?”

I turned to look at Rona. She’d drifted off, but was back again. I stammered for a moment before managing to say, “Huh?”

“I’m asking about your girl. You’re involved with someone; it shows. But here it is Friday night, and she’s not around. She wasn’t with you in Kissimmee, either. What’s the deal?”

The lady investigator had recombed her wild surfer’s hair to the side-different but interesting. I noticed that her eyes were a lucent amber in the late light.

“Her name’s Dewey, and she’s living in Iowa. We were good friends, then it became more than that. She’s pregnant. My child. The baby’s due mid-May.”

Pregnant. That jarred her, but not for long. “An Iowa girl? You’re not the kind of guy who preys on tourist ladies looking for a fling. They’re plenty like that in Florida, but you’re not one of them.”

“Thanks.”

“How’d you get together?”

“Dewey’s not a tourist; she’s local. Owns a house on Captiva, but Iowa is where she wants to be right now. It’s a little farm; been in her family for generations. Nesting instinct?” I shrugged. “Tradition, maybe. I visit when I can. I leave Sunday to spend Christmas.”

“She moved away?” I found the undertone of disapproval unsettling. “You two are having a child, but she’s halfway across the country? That’s an… interesting arrangement.”

“She’s got midwestern roots; sees Iowa as a healthier, safer place. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Safer. I see.” Her flat tone said I was being stupid.

“Yes, safer.”

“Whoa, whoa. Don’t get pissed off, Doc. I saw that flash in your eyes. Holy cripes, like sparks. No offense intended.”

“I’m not offended. Unusual people sometimes make unusual decisions. That’s one of the reasons I like her.”

Rona stared at me intensely for a moment with her Polynesian-colored eyes, her expression puzzled: What makes you tick?

“I don’t know your girl. I’ve never been in her position. Don’t go getting bigheaded, but it’s hard to imagine being with a man who makes a woman feel safer than you. On Night’s Landing, the way you handled yourself. Dealing with that shark. What you’ve just described between you and your girlfriend sounds more like a test than a relationship.”

I glanced away as she added, “I’ve been tested a time or two. Personally, I don’t think lovers give tests unless they secretly expect their partner to fail. Or want them to fail.”

I found her quick assessment unfair, but I avoid debate when the subject’s personal and private. I heard myself chuckle in the way men do when they want to dismiss the complicated subject of relationships by trivializing it. “I don’t pretend to understand women. Especially pregnant women. I do whatever it takes to make her happy.”

Rona replied cryptically, “When men say things like that, they think they’re kidding. They’re actually right. But only half right.”

She looked toward the docks then and waved. “Hey, there’s your friend Mack. I think I’ll go join the party.”