Sanibel Flats

TWO

The last thing Ford did was jot down the registration numbers of the trihull boat tied to the mangroves. He also made a fast trip around the perimeter of the island, kicking grass and mud the whole way, making sure there wasn't a second boat still hidden somewhere.

There was not.

On the trip back he stopped at a bayside restaurant that had a phone booth and started to dial the sheriff's department in Fort Myers, but then remembered that Sandy Key and Tequesta Bank were in Everglades County, just across the line. He got the number of the local sheriff's department from the front of the book. He told the woman who answered: "A man named Rafe Hollins has been murdered. You can find his body on Tequesta Bank," and immediately hung up. At a 7-Eleven he bought a quart of beer—Coors in a bottle—then got in his boat and headed straight out into the Gulf, needing air. The sun grew huge at dusk, pale as a Japanese moon, and Sanibel Island materialized on the horizon as a thin black line on the gray flexure of sea.

It was nearly dark by the time he got to Lighthouse Point, and he ran beneath the causeway and turned south into Dinkin's Bay. At the mouth of the bay was a strand of beach where there were coconut palms and secluded piling homes. Jessica McClure lived alone in the last house, an old clapboard place with a tin roof that was built on a point among the gumbo limbo and casuarina pines. In his first weeks on Sanibel, he'd had occasional glimpses of Jessica standing at her easel on the dock: a striking figure in faded jeans and T-shirt, a tall, lithe woman with a private, introspective expression but a friendly wave. They finally met one morning when Ford was wading the sandbar across the channel from her house, digging beak-throwers more than a foot long with chitinous beaks and pairs of wicked-looking black teeth. Jessica had watched from the dock for a time, then climbed into her little wooden skiff and puttered over. She had waved again as she got out of the boat, strode to his side, and peered into one of the collecting buckets.

"Hum ..." She had looked up at him, her expression quizzical, interested. "They're sea snakes, right?"

Ford told the woman they were clam worms, as he got his first close look at her: pale, pale-green eyes, long auburn hair that was copper streaked in the fresh sunlight; her face like something out of a 1940s movie, Carole Lombard maybe, high oval cheeks, full mouth set in an expression of slight bemuse-ment, good skin and no makeup at all. She was probably in her late twenties but carried herself as if older; reserved but sure of herself; a woman who lived alone and liked it. She was almost as tall as Ford: the gawky, awkward teenager come of age whose beauty, in developing late, had probably spared her the self-consciousness common in beautiful women who had lived too long with the knowledge that they were always, always under inspection.

Looking into the bucket again, Jessica had said, "Clam worms, huh? I like the color, that iridescent green. They're really kind of pretty. "

In the collecting bucket, the clam worms were writhing, their beaks protruding and retracting mechanically. Ford told her that beak-throwers had to be dug carefully, not just because they were delicate, but because they could bite, and not many people would agree with her that the worms were pretty.

Jessica had said, "I guess most people wouldn't," which could have come off sounding self-congratulatory but didn't because she said it so objectively, a simple observation which pleased Ford. She was smiling, more at ease but still aware she was standing knee-deep in water with a stranger. "I'm Jessi McClure, the woman who's been waving at you."

"I know. You're the artist."

"And you're M.D. Ford, the guy who fixed up the old stilt house. But I don't know what the initials stand for, just that everyone calls you Doc." She was still smiling, but not giving it too much. "I asked about you the last time I was at the marina. So which is it?"

"Which is what?" Ford had picked up the bucket and was moving down the sandbar again.

"Do they call you Doc because of the initials, or because you have a lab and look at things under a microscope? Or maybe it's those wire-rimmed glasses."

"I had the initials before I had the microscope. Back in high school, though, it was because my first name is Marion."

"Marion's a nice name."

"Easy to spell, too."

They had spent the rest of the day together and then had dinner: Ford sitting across from her at a table at Gran Ma Dot's, feeling the sensual impact of her face, her body, but not quite sure he wanted to pursue the attraction. For one thing, he thought the quick pass might offend her. He had already found out she preferred classical music to cult rock, ocean swimming to aerobics, so maybe she was an anachronism when it came to curb-service sex, as well. For another, Pilar, the last woman he'd been involved with, had almost gotten him killed; worse, he'd been in love with her—a first for Ford. What he'd most enjoyed about the past year was living without the complications of romance; of doing whatever he damn well pleased without having to yield to the exigencies of emotion or the plans of some woman.

No involvements, he decided, not with her—at least until the rules had been established, the parameters set.

He saw her nearly every day after that; at first on the pretext of teaching her something about marine biology, then just because it was fun. Some evenings he would boat to her house on the point, or maybe jog the back way, come up quietly and surprise her. Other nights he would look out and see her porch light go on, a sure sign that she was leaving. A few minutes later he would hear her skiff's motor, and soon she would holler up from the darkness, "Hey, Ford—how about some company?" It was a couple of weeks before he finally kissed her; touched his lips softly to hers, then harder, feeling her mouth respond, feeling her body go soft and slack as her back arched slightly. But she had pulled away then, pressing his hand to her cheek, looking up with those eyes. "Whew ... I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to do that."

Ford had said, "I guess it just hadn't crossed my mind before," smiling with Jessica because it was such an obvious lie.

"Well, it's been on my mind. So maybe it's time we talked about it, huh? Do you know that I've told you things I've never told anyone? It's true."

"I'm flattered."

"Not so quick. Do you also realize that I've told you very little about my past? And you—you, you big lug, have told me even less about yours. In some ways we're complete intimates; in other ways, complete strangers. Don't you think it's about time we sort of dropped the shields a little; dispense with some of the cowshit?"

Grinning, Ford had said, "Sure," enjoying the way she phrased things: You big lug . . . dispense with the cowshit; but he was also aware, from the way her eyes bore in on him, that she was hoping for a more heartfelt response.

After a time she had said, "You've become important to me, Ford. I wake up in the morning anxious to get done with my work, wanting to hear the sound of your boat because, once you're here, it's like I can let my breath go and relax. I've had lovers before, Doc ..." letting that hang in the air until she saw that he wasn't going to respond, then continuing, "but I guess I've never really had a male friend before; a man who was an intimate. Maybe that's why I'm having a hard time with this. But you know what I'm getting at; we're close enough that you know what I'm trying to say. I can see it in those damn chilly eyes of yours. Help me out here, buster!"

Ford had laughed with her, but said nothing because he had absolutely no idea what she was trying to say.

"I like you, Doc. I like you a lot."

Ford waited, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. Christ, she's not going to start talking about marriage already, is she?

Jessica had pressed on. "It frightens me a little. I keep wondering what happens to intimate friends when they become lovers. What happens to them, Doc?"

Ford, who hadn't been with a woman since the day before he left Masagua, said, "Well, we could stick with it for a while—"

He meant they could try being lovers, but Jessica had interrupted.

"Then you're willing?"

"Ah . . . sure; more than willing." He had shaved until his skin burned and showered, just in case. "On a friendly sort of basis, I mean."

"I knew you could tell what was on my mind! You dog, letting me go on and on like that. It could be kind of like an experiment, Doc."

"An experiment, sure. That's one way of looking at it."

She had hugged him quickly, then stepped back. "I'm so damn weak! I was ready to jump into bed with you that first night. And just now, when you kissed me, my knees got all watery, like some schoolgirl. But I think you're right, Ford. Why not just be friends, a man and a woman, and see where it takes us? How many people have ever had that opportunity? You know ... I'd rather have you as a friend. And it's a great feeling knowing I can say that and you're not going to go away with a damaged ego, worrying about your sexuality or whether I find you attractive or not."

Finally realizing what he had just agreed to, and wincing at the force of her enthusiasm, Ford had said, "I'd be silly to worry about that," and immediately began to wonder about both.

In the weeks that followed, though, Ford regretted the misunderstanding less and less. Abstinence was frustrating, but it had its good points, too. There were no obligations, no hurt feelings, no bruised egos. Jessica told him things she probably never could have confided to a lover, and Ford began to take a distant, almost clinical interest in the emotional differences of men and women.

A couple of times, he actually came close to confiding in her.

Ford slowed his boat enough to look into Jessica's house. Lights were on and he could see the silhouette of wind chimes above the door transom and the outline of a cat in the window.

He idled toward the dock, turned into the current, and tied off. The metal box he had found on Tequesta Bank was beneath the console, and he considered carrying it in with him, but did not. Jessica switched on the porch light and stepped out just as he was about to knock. She was wearing a white strapless dress and her hair was combed long over one shoulder. She looked very pretty, and Ford realized he had never seen her in a dress before.

"Ford? That's you, isn't it?" She stepped out into the light, and Ford could see that her face looked different; decided it was because she was wearing makeup. She said, "I've been trying to get in touch with you all afternoon, kiddo. Where've you been? I called the marina twice and then boated over to your place. When are they going to put a phone in that house of yours—" She stopped suddenly and touched his elbow. "Hey, what's wrong? You don't look right. Your eyes look funny. You been drinking?"

"Drinking? Sure I've been drinking. But just a quart."

"You just look upset or something."

Ford said, "I got no work done; I was bitten by a bird. Mostly, I just need someone to talk to. Someone with a clear mind and an objective viewpoint."

"A bird?"

Ford held his hand up for inspection. "A vulture. That was after a couple of dozen of them dropped their load all over my shirt. Smell it? So maybe I can get cleaned up and we can go get something to eat. Or maybe you just got back?"

From the dirt road came the sound of a car traveling fast, and Jessica glanced at her watch. "Ah, damn it, Ford . . . that's why I was trying to find you. There's a party tonight on Captiva. A lot of New York exhibitors are going to be there, a lot of rich collectors. I've known about it for a month, and I wasn't going to go, but then Benny flew in unexpectedly. I wanted to ask you to take me, but I couldn't find you, so now—" She looked at the drive as a car turned in, still going way too fast. Dust was like smoke in the big car's headlights. "—so now I'm going with Benny. I told you about him, remember?"

"No ... I don't think so."

"Benny from the gallery. Benny."

"Oh . . . right. Benny. That one." It was the name of a man she had said owned the gallery in Manhattan that handled her work; the man who had also once been her lover, or so Jessica had implied. Ford said, "Well, that ought to be fun, you two together again."

She took his arm. "Don't be so damn big about it, Ford. Come on, at least meet him."

Benny swung open the door of the rental car and came toward them, walking fast. He was as tall as Ford, leaner, black curly hair styled close to the head, tight jeans, bright floral shirt open to the sternum showing glittering chains among the mat of chest hair, the cosmopolitan look with body by Nautilus.

"Jess! My God, it's great to see you!" Big hug and a kiss, arm thrown around her shoulder, taking no notice of Ford. "You look marvelous, just marvelous. Island life agrees with you. I've been telling everyone in the city you're in your Gauguin period, off in the sticks creating brilliant stuff."

"No, no, nothing like Gauguin, but I do have a couple of new things. ..." Jessica was smiling, too, happy to be talking about her work, but perhaps not as happy to see him as her forced expression made it appear, and a little uneasy as she made the introductions. Benny became even more magnanimous, catching Ford's hand just right, squeezing too hard, saying "To hear Jess talk on the phone, she doesn't have a friend in the world on this little island. I'm damn glad you locals are around to keep an eye on her," putting Ford right in his place with a big grin.

Ford said, "Well, us locals think the world of little Jess," giving the dryness an edge, but Benny was done with it, already leading Jessica to the car, saying "What is that smell?" and Jessica, glancing back, gave Ford a searching Are-you-going-to-be-all-right? kind of look.

When Ford didn't respond, Jessica said to Benny, "Oh, those damn vultures. You get used to it after a while."

Ford touched the throttle and the skiff jumped on a line through Dinkin's Bay toward a pocket of lights in the encircling darkness: the marina. He ran straight across the flats, not slowing until he came abreast of the double markers beyond the marina basin. His own house was a dim shape three hundred yards to the east: two small cottages under a single tin roof on ^ wooden platform, all built on stilts and connected to the shore by ninety feet of old dock.

It was Friday night, clean-up and cocktail time. Fishing guides hosed their skiffs after working the late tide and live-aboards were beginning to circulate among neighboring houseboats, drinks in hand, smiles fixed, everybody smelling of shampoo and looking for a party. Someone had put speakers out on the dock so that Jimmy Buffett seemed to be erupting from the water singing, saying that, on the day that John Wayne died, he'd been on the Continental Divide.

Two tarpon hung from the support over the cleaning table, one about eighty pounds, the other well over a hundred. With ropes passed through their gills they looked like giant aluminum herring, weird, misshapen, and Ford pictured the corpse. He stepped onto the dock thinking he could use a few beers, just as in the song, wondering where he had been on that day, the day that John Wayne died.

"Hey, Doc . . . come here, I ga-ga-ga-got to show you something." A man in khaki shorts and a long-billed cap was waving for him, Jethro Nicholes, muscular, dark-haired, one of the fishing guides. Nicholes was an easy laugher, good-looking, just a little younger than Ford. His stutter had burred the ego points, made him seem boyish, gave him an air of vulnerability not normally associated with men who opened Coke bottles with their teeth. Jeth made Ford wish more people stuttered.

Ford said, "Looks like you had a pretty good day out there,

Jeth." His own voice sounded strange to him, oddly carefree. "You bring in both for mounts?"

Nicholes was still motioning, wanting Ford to come the rest of the way down the dock, shaking his head as he said, "Naw, Ted Cole's boat got that one there; the littler tarpon. My people got this one. Hundred twenty-six pounds by the ma-ma-market scale. Older woman on my boat caught him, blond-haired woman." He was grinning. "God, what legs, Doc. Had me keep my arms around her waist part of the time. 'Fraid the ta-ta-ta-tarpon was going to pull her in. Had to concentrate like hell to keep my mind on the fish and offa what I could see when she leaned forward cause she had on one of those kind of blouses and didn't wear nothing underneath. I'm telling you, Doc, you wouldn't expect a woman her age to look like that. Lord, you'd need safety glasses, that's how those things stood up. And smell good? God da-da-da-damn she smelled good."

"Smell's important."

"Smell, huh? Like in biological stuff?"

"Yeah. Did MacKinley say anything about the phone guy coming? They were supposed to have my damn phone in a month ago. "

"Why would MacKinley tell me? If I want to see you, I can just holler out the door." He stared at Ford for a moment. "You mad about something? You don't look right."

"I've been drinking."

"Oh. Good. Hey, look at this. See here what I saved for you?" Ford had followed the guide to his charter skiff, a blue Suncoast with Jacks or Better in white script on the stern. He watched as Nicholes opened the forward fish box and pulled something out. "Nice little b-b-b-bull shark, huh? Hit a pilchard of all things. You still want 'em, don't you, Doc? For your fish-selling business, I mean."

Nicholes was talking about the marine specimen business Ford had started, Sanibel Biological Supply.

Ford took the shark by the tail and swung it over onto the dock, saying "Sure, I'll take the shark; I'll take all you can bring me." It was a male bull shark, about twenty pounds, and he could see that Jeth had clubbed it to kill it.

Nicholes said, "Tell you the truth, I thought you were kinda crazy, starting a business like that. I mean, what kind of a person would want to buy old sharks and stuff?"

Ford was standing by the tarpon, wondering how he could ask Jeth not to club the sharks without hurting his feelings. He said, "Mostly it's organizations—colleges and research firms. I got my first big order last week. Minneapolis Public Schools ordered twenty-eight sharks all dissected and injected. They ordered some sea urchin embryology slides, too, but I can't get those until this winter when the urchins are gravid. I can fill the shark order, though. See, the good thing about an order like that"—Ford kept his tone airy—"I can dissect the sharks, color-code the circulatory systems, send them off, and still keep the brains. I'm hoping I get some orders for isolated brain mounts. That way every shark I get does double duty. I won't have to kill so many that way. "

Nicholes suddenly looked worried. "Jeez, Doc, I didn't know you sold their brains. I clubbed the pa-pa-piss outta that little bastard. I didn't even know they had brains."

"You clubbed him? Oh yeah, yeah, I can see now. You open them up after that and their nervous system looks like somebody glopped dark paint all over. Blood clots. I don't sell the bull sharks anyway; they're for my own work. But maybe next time—"

"No more clubbing, Doc, honest to God. What happens, I bring them sma-ma-ma-mall sharks aboard and they get to thrashing around and the people just go wild, thinking Jaws, like they're gonna get their toes bit off. I swear to Christ it's like the white Amos and Andy Show. "

"Maybe if you just stick them right on the ice."

"Right, yeah, that's what I'll do. Stick them right on the ice. Hell, no p-p-p-problem. Hey, you see MacKinley, remind him he's got a package UPS delivered for you."

Ford had been squatting by the tarpon, picking off the dollar-sized scales, inspecting the rings as Nicholes began to ready the fish for the taxidermist. Now he stood. He was expecting a shipment of Riker mounts and two dozen Wheaton specimen jars. "You want me to bring you a bottle of beer back, Jeth?"

"Sure, yeah, if they got any left. That party's shaping up pretty good down there on the Chris Craft. They've been making ba-ba-beer runs bout every half hour. There's a convention of women doctors staying over at Casa Ybel. You know, the business-suit kind that don't wear no bras, like maybe they used to be rich hippies before their daddies paid their medical school. Things ought to get pretty lively tonight."

Ford said, "Oh?"

"Yeah. Women doctors ain't exactly bashful when they get a few drinks down them, and they're a thousand miles from the country club. I'm going to put on a shirt with those flaps on the shoulders and introduce myself as Captain Nicholes. You want to stick around? Bring your painter friend who lives out on the point?"

Ford shook his head. "I want to open up this shark before he gets stiff. Besides, Jessi has a date tonight."

"Oh, so that's why you're pissed off. I know just how you feel; especially a woman like that who lives off by herself and owns cats. Woman has one cat, she's just a pet owner. Woman has three or four cats, though, that's different. That's the type woman lives alone cause she wants to. I fell for a woman like that once. They shouldn't call it love, they should give it another name, like a disease, maybe."

Ford was already walking toward the marina office as Nicholes added, "I'd rather have a ga-ga-ga-goiter than have to go through that shit again."

MacKinley said, "They'll have your telephone in tomorrow." He was standing behind the counter counting money, enjoying it. MacKinley was a New Zealander who had sailed around, bummed around, before embracing free enterprise on Sanibel Island.

Ford said, "I heard that two weeks ago." Then, replying to MacKinley's stare: "I know, I'm grumpy. Jeth already told me."

"The phone guy said it took so long because they've been so busy they've been working overtime, plus they wanted to run the cable underwater, but it got too complicated with the permits and stuff. So the office finally said he could run the cable along your dock. They don't like to do that."

"Can I get four dollars in change for the pay phone? And two quarts of beer. "

MacKinley said, "You can use this phone if you want. "

"It's long distance."

"You can pay me when I get the bill."

"The pay phone's okay, Mack. "

"Oh, private, huh? You got a package and some mail."

Ford said, "I'll be back in a few minutes."

He dialed the number from memory. It was a Washington, D.C., area code, but the number would ring at a compound outside Williamsburg, Virginia. Because it was after normal business hours, a woman answered, saying "Federal Transportation Pool, answering service." Ford, who knew he was not speaking to the Federal Transportation Pool or an answering service, said, "Extension W-H two oh-one." The woman said, "Who's calling, please?" A year ago he would have replied with his cryptonym—something which had always made him feel silly. Now he gave his real name. The woman said, "I'm afraid the extension is busy. Can they return your call?"

He gave her the number and stood in the neon haze of the booth watching moths, slapping mosquitoes, waiting. He was about to walk across the shell drive into the shadows of the mangroves to urinate, when the phone finally rang. A man said, "I have a message to call a Mr. Ford."

Ford said, "I need to get in touch with Harry Bernstein, Central American Division, Branch One. I don't know what his cryptonym is anymore."

"Branch what? I don't know what you're talking about. Did you want the Federal Transportation Pool?"

"I'm on Sanibel Island, Florida. I'll be at this number between nine and eleven in the morning. If he misses me, telephone information should have my home number under new listings as of tomorrow. I hope. "

The man said, "I think you must have the wrong number."

Ford said, "Thanks. Tell Bernstein it's very important."

Ford was still in the marina office when Jeth Nicholes returned from his upstairs apartment, nautical in khaki shirt with epaulets. It looked as if he had maybe washed here and there and combed his hair, too. "I'm wearing cologne," he told them.

MacKinley said, "You might as well stay for the party now, Doc. Seems like the guests are arriving."

Looking past MacKinley, who was behind the counter, Ford saw a group of women in expensive leisure clothes. Creased slacks and pastel blouses; vacation women with tawny, tended hair, drinks in hand, careful expressions of professional control on their faces.

"I like women da-da-da-doctors," said Nicholes to no one in particular, all three men staring out the window. "They always look like they grew up taking vitamins and ba-ba-brushing their teeth."

"Right," said Ford, "I know what you mean."

Nicholes said, "Another hour or so the dancing'll start. Then about midnight the dirty doctor stories and maybe a little cryin' cause they've been through so much together. That kind of stuff. Then they're gonna want to swim in the bay, sure as hell. No clothes. That's when the real fun will start. You really ought to stay, Doc; find you a nice smart one."

Ford said, "I've got to take a shower."

"Now you're talking," said MacKinley. "Might change that shirt of yours, too."

Ford headed toward the door, then stopped. "Hey, Jeth.

How many people do you figure know the way into Tequesta Bank?"

"Why, you want to ga-ga-go?"

"No. I was just wondering, that's all."

Nicholes looked at the ceiling, thinking. "All that shallow water, and there's only the one little cut takes you in, and that's not marked. Not many, I'd guess. Hardly any at all, if you don't count the commercial guys. Unless they were in a real small boat and didn't mind tearing up their prop. Anybody could make it that way."

Ford said, "Thanks. I'll see you guys later."

When he had left, Nicholes said, "I like Da-Da-Doc. He's an easy guy to get to know."

MacKinley said, "Been nice having him around."

Nicholes said, "Smart, too. But in a booky kind of way. The kind of guy who puts his hand in the fan cause he's concentrating so hard on the manual."

After a time MacKinley said, "Doesn't say too much, though. You ever notice? Just asks questions and listens. Ends up, he knows all about you but you don't know anything about him."

"What's wrong with that? Ma-ma-ma-most people, it's the other way around."

"Nothing wrong with it. Just an observation."

Nicholes said, "Besides, what's there to know? He likes to wade around the flats, collect stuff, and bring it back for his microscope. Doc's idea of a home entertainment center is a six-pack of beer and a dead fish. A guy like him, you trust right away."

MacKinley was nodding. "I was just saying he's different, that's all."

THREE

Ford went through Rafe Hollins's address book while he fired the little gas stove and made dinner. He dumped a can of black beans into a pot, flipped pages as he chopped onion, garlic, squeezed in lime juice, added cumin, and put coffee on to boil.

He recognized seven names in the book, three of them from Central America. Only one of the names surprised him. Most of the entries were in ink, but his own name and the marina's phone number were written in pencil—an entry Rafe had probably made within the last few days. Ford leafed through the book searching for other penciled entries, and found two, both inserted above numbers written in ink. Ford reasoned that the inked numbers had been changed, and Rafe had penciled in the new numbers after calling information. Each of the numbers had a Sandy Key prefix, but he recognized neither of the names.

He could hear Rafe saying "I got to meet some of my buddies from Sandy Key. Make a little money to finance this thing ..."

Ford wiped his hands on his pants and went out the door across the roofed walkway and unlocked the room that he had converted into a lab. Against the far wall was a stainless-steel dissecting table angled slightly to drain. Above it on a shelf were rows of jars containing chemicals and preserved specimens: the comb jellies and nudibranches, the sponges and brittle stars, the octopi, anemones, and unborn sharks he had collected since returning to Florida. He switched on the draftsman's lamp and in a very neat, very tiny script, he noted five of the names, addresses, and telephone numbers on a yellow legal pad.

Beneath the names he wrote Wendy Stafford? then opened the metal box he had found on the island.

He removed one of the jade amulets from the box, a small parrot's head with wings folded close to the chest, and studied it under the light. It looked authentic, but he wanted to be sure. He crossed the room and placed the artifact on the dark stage of his Wolfe zoom binoculared microscope. He raised and rotated the binocular tube, dialed to the lowest power, and took off his glasses, focusing carefully on the parrot's drilled left eye. Through the illuminated lens, the jade—jadeite, really—was a brilliant field of translucent green, magnified seven times. Ford wanted to be certain of how the eyes had been drilled. The indigenous peoples of Central America had used wooden augers, string, and the cutting power of sand to fashion their amulets. Ford was looking for the trace spirals of a modern metal drill. Street shysters were selling mass-produced jadeite junk all over Central America, but this little parrot wasn't junk; he found no spirals. It was a little green god, cool to the touch, a dense little weight on the palm. Probably eight hundred years old or more, and Mayan, though it could have been Chorotega, Corobici, Brunca, or possibly even Inca—there had been trade between most of the Meso-American tribes. Ford didn't know enough about it to be sure.

He gave the other amulets a quick inspection, then took the plastic bag from Rafe's metal box and used a tweezers to extract a thin beige flake of residue. He dampened it, mounted it on a slide, touched the reflected light switch, upped scope power to 25x, and took a look: rough congealed particles; some kind of membrane. He choose another beige flake, the largest in the sack, and positioned it beneath the scope. This sample was blotched with a long dark stain. As Ford increased power and illumination, the hairline stain became a sweeping reddish-brown stroke that bled and faded into the beige membrane.

Ford opened the plastic sack once more and inhaled the faint odor of old leather—but now from another direction he caught a stronger odor.

Damn it!

Ford ran across the walkway into the room he thought of as his living area, and yanked the pot of burned beans off the propane stove.

Now he'd have to start supper all over again.

Through the window above the stove he could see the marina. Dock lights shimmered, strips of gold on liquid darkness, funneling out across the bay. Most of the boats were lighted, too, sitting in rows looking bright and Christmasy, vibrating with muted laughter, wild sentence fragments rising above the night sounds.

Ford listened to the party for a time as he made fresh beans, trying to pick out words, match voices with the silhouettes he could see on the docks. Then the hilarity began to underline his own sense of solitude; made him feel like an eavesdropper, so he decided to make a little noise of his own. He slid a cassette into the Maxima waterproof stereo system, The Beach Boys' Pet Sounds, cranked it loud, poured coffee in a mug, went out onto the porch and down the wooden steps to his fish tank while the beans simmered.

To make the tank, he'd taken a thousand-gallon wooden cistern built like a whiskey barrel, cut it in two, mounted it on the widest part of the dock, added a subsand filter and a hundred-gallon upper reservoir to improve water clarity. He'd spent a week checking pH, getting the raw water and overflow pumps just right, then began to slowly introduce some of the local flora and fauna: turtle grass, tunicates, sea hydroids, then a few common vertebrates, killifish, small snappers, immature groupers, then plenty of shrimp he had seined up so the fish wouldn't eat each other. Finally he'd caught three reef squid knowing that squid, because they were delicate, were good indicators of an aquarium's integrity.

The squid all died within three days.

Ford started over. He made structural adjustments. Got rid of the killifish—they attacked everything that came near them. Rechecked the tank's pH, fine-tuned the intake flow, and tried again, this time with two squid. Now he turned on the light above the tank—a bare bulb beneath a green metal shade—and watched fish scurry, saw the glowing ruby eyes of shrimp, finally found the two squid side by side, their wine-colored spots throbbing with, what seemed to Ford, outrage.

"You guys still alive?"

The squid held themselves suspended above the bottom, their keen eyes apparently fixed peripherally on Ford.

"Don't die on me. I've had enough of that for one day."

With the light on them, the squids' chromatophores were beginning to function, changing color from brown to pale yellow, matching the shade of the sand beneath them while their posterior fins fluttered, holding them in place.

Ford said, "Here it is, Friday night, and I'm talking to cephalopods. And everyone I knows at a party."

He switched out the light, went back up to the cabin, replaced The Beach Boys with shortwave, Radio Havana. He recognized the announcer's voice. She spoke a fluid, sensual Spanish that did not mesh with the way he remembered her: a nicotine-stained hulk he'd met at some long-ago embassy party. His mind slipped easily into Spanish, thinking in Spanish. He was jolted out of it, though, when the Hulk put on the New York Philharmonic doing Aaron Copeland's Dangon Cubano. Listening, Ford put snapper on to fry and ate alone looking out the window. The bay, calm in the June night, was a black mirror and the sky a basin of stars.

After the dishes were done, he found a local AM station on the shortwave. The news guy didn't say anything about the body of Hollins being found. Maybe the woman at Everglades County Sheriff 's Department thought he was kidding, a crank. No way of telling. But the idea of Rafe still out there, still hanging in the darkness, was oddly unsettling, and Ford decided to do some work to put it out of his mind.

* * *

Tomlinson came clattering out of the darkness in the tiny painter skiff he kept tethered behind the Morgan sailboat, the boat that had been his home since his arrival in Dinkin's Bay two months earlier—and probably years before that.

He tied up at the dock beside Ford's skiff and flat-bottomed trawl boat, stepped out waving with one hand, pulling his shoulder-length hair back into a ponytail with the other, calling "Hey, Doc, hey, man, what's happening?" Then he climbed onto the stairs, into the light, saying "Sittin' out there all alone, listening to that party going on—" Tomlinson, tall and bony, blond with a black beard, shrugged. "Really got to be kind of a bummer, you know? Thought I'd stop by."

Looking at Tomlinson was like stepping into the past and seeing a child of the Sixties with that look in the eyes, still hearing music, an old hand at psychedelic visions, a man about Ford's age who had weathered badly but had visited God often enough not to care. Tomlinson had taken to stopping by the stilt house off and on in the evenings, sometimes bringing a book to read while Ford worked; other times talking away, and Ford didn't mind. He liked Tomlinson and was glad for the company.

Ford had just removed Jeth Nicholes's shark from the ice. It lay on the outside cleaning table beneath the light of the twin overhead bulbs, its three-foot body in rigid curvature. Ford said, "How's it going, Tomlinson?"

Tomlinson said, "Are you kidding? How's it going? You've got to be kidding." He made a face, showing he was not as serious as he sounded, saying "You been listening to the music they're playing over at the marina? How could you miss it, loud as hell, man. Damn people at that party are deaf or something. Going to ruin their damn inner ears playing it that loud. There's been research done on that stuff."

Ford said, "I've got some beer up in the refrigerator, you want to go get it?"

"What?"

Grinning, Ford spoke louder. "I said I've got some beer."

Tomlinson said, "Oh," reaching his hand out, touching the shark with one finger. "My God, they're playing Twisted Sister. They're playing Van Halen. They're playing Prince, man. Rot their damn brains, listening to junk like that. These kids today, huh?" Tomlinson shuddered. "What kind of beer?"

"I didn't even look in the sack."

"A cold beer'd be nice right now."

"Make sure you get the refrigerator closed tight. The door's got a bad seal."

Tomlinson stopped at the top of the stairs and looked down into the shark pen. The floodlight made the water the color of strong tea, and, beneath the surface, three black torpedo shapes cruised slowly into the light, following the perimeter of the pen. Tomlinson said, "Why they always swim that way, man, that direction? Every time I come here, those three big sharks are always swimming the same way, the same speed. It's weird, like they're police dogs or something."

Ford looked up from the cleaning table briefly. "I don't know why. Sharks in captivity almost always swim clockwise. In Florida, anyway. Not in Africa, though. It was different in Africa. They swam counterclockwise. Someone somewhere probably knows why, but I don't."

"You think if I fell in there, all three of them would nail me? Eat me up?"

Ford said, "If you fell in, the noise would probably scare them so bad they'd bust through the wire, so don't, okay? It's hard enough just getting them to eat fish."

Tomlinson returned with two bottles as Ford took up the scalpel and made a long cut, opening the small bull shark's belly. He penned back the skin as the huge gray liver slid out, spilling over the edge of the cleaning table as if trying to escape. He pushed the liver away and found the larger of the fish's two stomachs and snipped it open with scissors, front to back. Inside was a litter of catfish spines and bits of shell and crab carapace. Tomlinson said, "He was hungry, huh?"

"Could be. This is its cardiac stomach, the one they can expel through their mouths, inside out, if they want to get rid of something they can't digest."

"Then why's it still have all that gravelly junk in it? They can't digest that kind of stuff, can they?"

"Some of it probably. But I'm not sure."

Tomlinson finished his beer quickly and now opened Ford's bottle. "You want this?"

"No. Go ahead."

"Sharks are your thing, huh? You told me that's what you've been studying, what your work's all about."

"Now it is. For a long time my main interest was biolumi-nescence. Phosphorescence. You know how sea water sparkles?"

"Yeah, man. Boat leaves a bright trail at night. I love it. Like green fire."

"Only it's cold light caused by tiny organisms that light up when they're disturbed. I got interested in a little crustacean called an ostracod. It gives off a pale-blue light; very pretty. Put a bunch of ostracods in a tube of water, shake it, and they give off enough light to read by. The Japanese used to collect them and dry them. During the war, Japanese officers would take a little ostracod powder in their palm, moisten it, and read dispatches in dark-out situations."

"Dormitory chemistry," said Tomlinson. "I used to be good at that."

The skin around Ford's eyes crinkled when he smiled. "From ostracods I went into the single-celled bioluminescent organisms, things called armored flagellates. That was my main interest for a while. Then I went to fish. Tarpon. The tarpon is one of the most popular gamefish in the world, yet hardly anything is known about its life history."

"But now it's sharks."

"Temporarily, anyway. Just bull sharks. I don't know that much about them yet. No one does, really. I got interested when I was in Africa. Second to Australia, there used to be more shark attacks off the coast of Durban, South Africa, than any other spot in the world. The Durban businesspeople have spent a lot of money enclosing the public beaches with nets. The shark responsible for most of the attacks is the Zambezi shark. It's called that because it goes up the Zambezi River into fresh water." Ford tapped the fish he was working on. "This is the Zambezi shark. Our bull shark. The same species. Then I was in Central America. In Lake Nicaragua and in a Masaguan lake they call Ojo de Dios, God's Eye, there's a freshwater shark that is extremely aggressive. Attacks on people are so common that the natives won't even bathe in the lakes. The Maya considered the shark a deity; some still do. Used it in their glyphs, their carvings. They still refer to the sharks as El Dictamen, The Judgment. You'll see an occasional boat on the lake, but that's it. Natives consider swimming out of the question. "

"And those are bull sharks, too? All the same fish, right?" Tomlinson was combing his fingers through his hair, getting into it.

"Right. So I'm interested in the bull shark for a couple of reasons. Why is it more prone to enter and live in fresh water? Why's it so aggressive off South Africa and in Central America, but not here? It's one of our most common sharks, but this area has had only four recorded shark attacks in the last hundred years, none fatal. Those attacks may have involved bull sharks, no one knows. Even so, with all the people who swim here, the chance of shark attack is statistically insignificant. Why?"

Tomlinson said wasn't that always the stumper, why? "But what a great way to make a living, man. Catching stuff and selling it. This is what you've always done?"

Ford said, "No. Just now." Still using the scissors, he clipped away the fish's spleen, then sections of the pinkish-white pancreas and the long rectal gland at the posterior end of the intestine. He was going slower now, using a probe to reveal the shark's urogenital system, pushing apart the cloacal opening with his fingers, then using the probe again to see if the abdominal pores were closed. They were not. He said, "I got my degree when I was still in the navy. When I got out, I couldn't get a job in marine biology, so I went to work for a company that could send me to the places I wanted to go. I worked for them and did my research on the side."

"Like some kind of international corporation?"

"International, right."

"World conglomerates, man. You don't have to tell me. They recruited us heavy back at Harvard. Once I got in the wrong line and almost ended up working for IBM. LSD and IBM—that's a business trip for you. I was messed up. Thank God I couldn't remember my Social Security number, or I'd probably be in New York right now. Paris maybe, wearing a tie."

Ford looked up from the shark. "Harvard? You went there?" It was the first he'd heard of that.

"For seven years, man. Seven long years. And I don't mind saying, toward the end, morale was at an all-time low. You go for a doctorate at the university, you better expect to take a written test or two."

"A Ph.D.?"

"Eastern religions. My master's was in world history, but I figured what the fuck, why not shoot for enlightenment? Sometimes you got to go for broke."

Ford said, "I'm going to segment this shark's brain, then weigh the parts. How about a couple more beers?"

"I've got a number all rolled and ready ... in my pocket here someplace if you're interested. " Tomlinson was patting his pockets, searching.

"A number?" Ford knew what it meant, but it didn't register right away.

"A joint . . . someplace."

Ford said, "I thought you said you don't do that stuff anymore."

Tomlinson was smiling, suddenly sheepish. "Can't find the damn thing anyway. Maybe I did quit." He was still patting his pockets. "Yeah, I guess that's what happened. I musta quit. How about another beer?"

"Good idea."

Ford used a fillet knife to remove the skin from the shark's head, then a scalpel to scrape away the cartilage that protected the brain. There were blood clots from the clubbing Jeth had given it. Ford washed the clots away and found the cerebellum, neat as a walnut above the optic lobes. Tomlinson watched while Ford segmented and weighed the brain, and then they sat out on the dock for another hour, talking, listening to the music and the noise of the party at the marina. Ford established that Tomlinson did, indeed, know a lot about world history; probably even enough to have majored in it at Harvard. When Ford went to bed at 1 A.M., he looked toward the mouth of the bay to see if Jessica's porch light was still on. It was . . . and it was still on when he awoke at three, made a trip to the head, then lay awake thinking. . . .

FOUR

Ford had found an old number for Harry Bernstein, so he got the operator, clunked in a pocketful of quarters, and listened to a distant, distant recording in Spanish: line disconnected, muchas gracias. He hadn't much hope for it anyway. So he waited around the pay phone, hoping Bernstein would call him. As he waited, Ford took out the photograph of Rafe's son. Jake Age 5. What was it in the faces of children, he wondered, that created the impression of innocence and keyed in some adults—himself, to name one—the urge to shield them from all harm? It was more than bone structure and the absence of facial lines. It had to be more than an experiential judgment, too, for children sometimes demonstrated the capacity for great cruelty. Perhaps the source of the emotion was some deep coding in the DNA, evolved during speciation to protect the young from marauding adults; a built-in check for the preservation of species. It would be a good one to bounce off Tomlinson some night. Whatever it was, the boy's photograph communicated that innocence: the slight, shy smile and the wide brown eyes staring out as if waiting for something; eyes that trusted and expected only good things.

Ford wondered what the expression on the boy's face would be if photographed now, this moment; wondered if young Jake still had access to that expression of trust, of pure expectation. What would it be like to be an eight-year-old boy in a strange country, unable to understand the language, stolen from his father by strangers? The child was getting the adult course in terror, and the sense of urgency Ford felt wasn't alleviated by the fact that Bernstein didn't call.

At noon, he ordered a fried conch sandwich from the marina deli and went in to talk to MacKinley. MacKinley was sitting behind the cash register reading a magazine called This Is New Zealand.

"Have I gotten any phone calls, Mack?"

"Had one this morning, but they didn't leave a message."

"A man?"

"Nope. A woman. Might have been that artist friend of yours out on the point."

"Oh." Ford nodded toward the magazine MacKinley was reading. "You getting homesick, Mack?"

"Homesick? Don't think of the islands as home anymore. Left when I was sixteen, and haven't been back." Speaking with a New Zealand accent, MacKinley added, "Still have a fondness for the place, though. Like to look at the pictures—but that's as close as I care to get. All those sheep, you know. And the women aren't as pretty. Unless you go to Australia. The women in Australia are something." He put down the magazine. "You missed quite a party last night, Doc."

"It sounded fun."

"I met a lady urologist. Good dancer, as I remember."

"Hmm ..."

"Two of the women turned out to be speech specialists. About midnight, they got into an argument about the best way to treat Jeth's stutter. Somehow the three of them ended up in Jeth's skiff, out there in the bay all alone. He made it back just in time to take his morning tarpon charter." "Was he still stuttering?"

"Between yawns. The lady doctors were happy. Getting on quite well together. Jeth looked a bit drawn, though. Rather pale, I should say, like he'd had a tough football match. " "Maybe Jeth should send them a bill." "Exactly what I told him."

Ford had found the Fort Myers newspaper and began to leaf through it.

MacKinley asked, "Did your telephone man show up?" "Yeah. He's out there working on the cable right now." "For the first two months you said you didn't want a phone. Said you didn't need it. Now you can't wait to get it in."

"Sometimes I'm just plain fickle," said Ford. "Other times I'm just plain wrong. " He turned to the inside page, local section and saw that Rafe Hollins had made the late regional edition:

The body of a Sandy Key man was found yesterday evening on a deserted island by Everglades County Sheriff's deputies. The body of Rafferty Hollins, 36, was discovered on Tequesta Bank, a remote island in Curlew Bay three miles from Sandy Key, after an anonymous caller contacted police. According to a department spokeswoman, Hollins was found with a rope around his neck, hanging from a tree. The death is being treated as a probable suicide pending an autopsy.

Everglades District Court issued a warrant for Hollins's arrest recently on kidnapping charges following the disappearance of his 8-year-old son who was in the custody of Hollins's estranged wife, Helen Burke Hollins. According to the Atlanta office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the case was under investigation by a federal magistrate, but no warrant had been issued. There is no information yet available on the whereabouts of the child.

A former Sanibel Island resident, Hollins was a star high school athlete. According to newspaper files, he was drafted by the Kansas City Royals in the 16th round following graduation. Hollins played one year at the Royals' Sarasota baseball school before enlisting in the Marines. He was award the Silver Star for valor.

"What?" Ford realized that MacKinley was talking to him. MacKinley was standing at the counter, looking at the paper. "I asked if you knew that man. The one who did himself in on Tequesta Bank. You were just asking Jeth about Tequesta Bank yesterday, weren't you?"

"I knew him. I knew Rafe pretty well." Ford was thinking Suicide? How in the hell did they come up with that?

MacKinley said, "Seems a damn shame. Child involved and all. Did he seem the type?"

"To kill himself, you mean? No. Absolutely not. Rafe wasn't the type."

"You seem very sure." "I am sure."

"Then maybe the newspaper has it wrong. It happens, you know."

"They were quoting the Everglades County Sheriff's Department. An indirect quote."

MacKinley shrugged and went back to his chair. "Can't pay much attention to those Sandy Key officials now, can we?" "Oh?"

"Well, that's what people around here say. Sandy Key is one of those Florida phenomenons, you know. Instant city. About fifteen years ago, just before I arrived, a financial group bought the whole island. And it's a very large island. First thing they did was get rid of the* old fishing shacks. Second thing they did was start spraying for mosquitoes. The damn bugs are the only thing that kept that area from building up a long time ago. The environmentalists were all in an uproar, said they were spraying way too much. But the developers barged on, kept spraying, and platted their own city: churches here, shops there, apartment complexes in one section, residential houses in another. All concrete block, thank you very much, no wooden structures allowed. Within six years, it was the largest city in Everglades County. They petitioned to become the county seat, pulled a few financial strings, and got it. Now all the public services there are a closed shop. Law enforcement, medical examiner, all appointed offices—the development group controls them all. Sea-life Development, that's the name of the group. When elections come around, they let their citizenry know the proper way to vote. They don't always have good people in important positions, but they always have their people."

"Voters stand for that?"

"Places like Sandy Key attract a certain kind of buyer. They like rules. Everything nice and neat and sterile." MacKinley pronounced it stair-ile. "And they are very loyal in return. Their bumper stickers say 'We Live On Sandy Key and Love It.' That type. Maybe your friend didn't fit in. Maybe they don't care enough to check everything out properly. But if they made a mistake, you'll never hear about it."

"The sheriff of Everglades County doesn't admit his department makes mistakes?"

"The sheriff is Mario DeArmand, a New Jersey builder who's a big stockholder in Sealife Development Corporation. He was appointed by the board. The city manager is ... I forget his name. But he's from New York, one of Sealife's major investors, and he was appointed, too. The district attorney is from Long Island, and he's also chairman of the board. The whole city is run like that. Like a bunch of big kids acting out their childhood fantasies, wearing uniforms and playing with sirens. Everyone stays in line, or the corporation gets rid of them. Sandy Key is a bright, sunny, cheerful place with almost no crime. If you don't believe me, just read the Sandy Key Sentinel, the corporate-owned newspaper. Suicide is a nasty business, but murder is so much nastier. The corporation might lose a condo sale or two if word got out there was a murderer on the loose."

Ford said, "Maybe someone needs to do some poking around down there if the medical examiner agrees with the sheriff's department. Stir things up a little," but he was thinking about that name: Mario DeArmand. It was one of the names Ford had found in Rafe's address book.

"You, for instance?" MacKinley was smiling. "Forgive me, Doc, but you really aren't the type. I'm sure you're very good in your field, bookish and studious and exacting and all, but weaving one's way into the heart of a corrupt government is an entirely different job of work. People like DeArmand are little tyrants, and tyrants have the unhappy habit of turning nasty when their competence is questioned. That sort of thing calls for someone shifty and devious; bit of a liar, too, I'm afraid. I really can't see you in that role, Doc. As Jeth says, you're a nice, quiet man; a person who can be trusted. I think you should leave the muckraking to those more suited for it."

Ford was smiling, too. "Maybe I'll just write a letter to the newspaper, tell them what I think."

"There you are. That's an idea. But there's a possibility in all this I think you should consider first."

"What's that?"

"That your friend really did commit suicide. "

Jeth was just docking with his morning charter as Ford stepped outside, still listening for the pay phone. Nicholes looked grim as he tied the lines; the four big men sitting in his skiff looked grimmer. MacKinley poked his head out, saying "Those guys are pissed off about something. Look at them. I knew they'd be trouble before they even got in the boat. I told Jeth that."

Ford walked out onto the dock, hands in the pockets of his khaki fishing shorts, interested. Jeth was saying "You can ga-ga-ga-get out now," stuttering worse than usual, upset.

"Hear that boys? The ca-captain says we're allowed to leave. Always have to do what the ca-captain tells you, even if he's the screw-up that let our tarpon get away." Talking as if he were joking around, this wide-bodied man with a sunburned face twice the size of his hands jumped out, dark hair gray at the temples, early forties, pack of cigarettes in the pocket of the bathrobe he wore over a bikini bathing suit and a huge belly. Probably a little drunk, too, from the way he teetered. "Ca-ca-captain? I owe these men of mine an apology. See, they're the top salesmen in my company, and they worked their asses off to win this Florida trip. I wanted to give them a taste of big-game fishing, but it seems I chose the wrong man for the job. Fellas, I'm sorry. But it's a good lesson. I didn't do enough checking around, and I admit it. Proves even the boss makes an occasional mistake. Did the same thing off the Yucatan, hired this rookie to take me after blue marlin, and I swore I'd never let it happen again. I've fished enough around the world to know within a minute whether a guide knows his ass from a bunker, but I was wrong this time, and I'm sorry. You deserved better. " Making a speech right there on the dock, people in boats listening, Jeth Nicholes turning red as he cleaned up, pretending not to hear.

"It's okay, Mr. Willis. We had a good time anyway." The three subordinates were sticking by the bossman, jockeying for position in the executive pecking order, backing him all the way.

The big man, Willis, said, "Just one of those ba-ba-bum decisions," laughing because he was mature enough to take the good with the bad.

"That's enough! God da-da-damn it." Nicholes slammed down the line he had been coiling and jumped out of the boat, facing the four men. "I ma-ma-missed the ga-ga-gaff on one tarpon. I a-a-a . . . 'mit it. Said I'm sorry, and I ca-ca-can't do no more than that," his stutter so bad he could hardly talk.

Willis took a step toward him, now the cool-headed negotiator. "But you can do more than that, Captain. In my business, we give the client what he wants. We work our butts off to make sure our clients are happy. That's how we built our reputation; ask anyone in Ohio. When a client isn't happy, we give him his money back. That's exactly what you're going to do for us. Give us our money back."

Nicholes's jaw was working, but no words were coming out. He finally croaked, "Okay . . . just ga-get . . . leave."

"You sure you want to do that, Jeth?" Ford had moved up the dock, hands still in pockets, smiling good-naturedly. "These guys paid you to take them tarpon fishing, right? Well, you took them. You don't owe them a thing."

Willis turned a cold eye on Ford. "I don't see how this is any of your concern, friend."

Looking past the big man, Ford asked Nicholes, "How many tarpon did they have on?"

Nicholes started to say something, then held up five fingers.

Willis said, "Friend, I personally think you ought to get the hell out of here before you get yourself into trouble." He reached into his robe, took a cigarette in his lips, and lit it.

Ford said, "You had five tarpon on, which means you and your party lost four. Right? And I think I overheard someone say Jeth missed a gaff? Well, everyone makes mistakes. You guys made four of them. Jeth made one. But it sounds to me like you had a pretty good day anyway. I don't know any fishing guide anywhere who tries harder than Jeth to keep his people happy, and that's the truth. So why don't you just drop it?"

Willis looked at his three salesmen, made an open-handed gesture; lecture time again. "This is why it's good to get away from the office occasionally, gentlemen. Reminds us what happens when a man drops out. Loses that competitive drive. You end up a boat bum like the ca-ca-captain. Or one of the beach bums like my friend here who has nothing better to do than hang around a marina, poking his nose into places where it doesn't belong." He looked at Ford. "See, I know your type, friend. Can't make it in the real world, the business world, so you come down here and mix with people who have made something of themselves, act like a real person. Frankly, I don't have time for people like you. So now you can get the hell out of my way, buster."

Ford was still smiling, blocking the dock, but beginning to sweat a little, hoping he could find some way around having to actually fight the guy, thinking I haven't punched anyone since Coronado, but also thinking this pompous bastard had it coming. He said, "You're trying too hard, Willis."

The man looked at him. "I'm what?"

"I said you're trying way too hard. See, you've got those three junior executive types at your heels, judging you every step of the way, and you can't let them see you back down now, can you? They'll smell blood, maybe get ideas about taking your job. What are you, the president of some small company? No, you flinched. A vice president then—"

"More than you'll ever be, friend."

"But you'll probably never get to be president. Only the really good ones make it in the executive world, and the good ones would never mock a guy who stutters. They have too much style—something you don't have, Willis. You know it, so you try too hard. You talk too loud, and you bully people when you can—like Jeth there. Jeth takes a swing at a customer, and he's liable to lose his license. You're not smart, but you're shrewd enough to know when you're on safe ground. "

"I don't have to stand here and listen to this garbage—"

Ford moved to block his path once more. "But I'm not done, Willis. And you're going to stand right there and find out what it's like to have some stranger browbeat you in public. I tried to be nice; you had your chance. Now you're going to listen. Let's see . . . you drink too much and you smoke your two packs a day, and the blood pressure is way too high, but you've got to keep pressing, have to run hard to stay ahead of the parade, because these guys and probably a bunch of others are just waiting for you to drop. Now you're not sure what to do because I'm standing smack in your way. Some stranger who doesn't fit into your pecking order. And you may have to actually fight it out, and right now you're thinking you have twenty pounds on me, but you'll have to make that first punch count because you're lugging a lot of fat and you don't have much wind, and you could end up looking very, very foolish. So I'll give you an honorable way out, Willis." Ford stepped back, creating enough room on the dock for him to pass. "I admit it. I'm afraid you might connect with that first, punch. So go climb into your rental car, drive to your nice motel, sit around the pool with a fresh drink, and joke about what you would have done to me if I'd said one more word." Ford looked at Nicholes. "You're not going to give them their money back, are you Jeth?"

"Na-na-no way, Doc. He just had me so mad I ca-couldn't think right."

Willis was saying "He's a coward. There, that's putting it pretty plainly. Said so himself." His face was grayish, and the three junior executives were looking here and there, avoiding his eyes. "Nothing but a fucking nobody coward. I wouldn't waste my energy on a nobody like him."

Hearing something, Ford cocked his head: The pay phone was ringing. Maybe it was Bernstein; Bernstein finally calling from Central America. Miss this call and he'd have to go through the whole process again, maybe have to wait another day. He turned to trot toward the phone and, as he did, the creaking of the dock and a guttural grunt gave him just enough warning. He pivoted sharply, feeling the wind-wake of Willis's right fist sail past his face. Willis's follow-through left him teetering sideways on the dock, and Ford hit him in the stomach, hard, kicked him behind the right knee, and caught the big man as he fell, wrapping his left arm under Willis's right elbow and arm, clamping his hand around Willis's throat, putting just enough pressure on the carotid artery and the elbow to pin him immobile on the dock.

The phone was still ringing.

Ford glanced at the junior executives, all three of them shifting nervously, not quite sure what to do; Jeth Nicholes standing behind them, ready. Ford said, "Willis, you just had a spell of very bad judgment, " talking as he put enough pressure on the man's elbow to make the joint creak; watching Willis's eyes pinch, the flesh on his cheeks flush then mottle. "If you're smart, you won't try it again . . . friend." He released him abruptly, turned to run, but Willis got his foot out, tripped him, and Ford dove headlong onto the dock, almost into the water. Looking up, he could see MacKinley running toward them, a baseball bat in his hand.

"Mack! Get the phone!"

"What?"

"The phone!"

"I already called the police."

"Not that phone!"

A crushing weight hit him from behind, and Willis was on him, punching wildly. Ford rolled away, heard the big man's shoe smash into the planking by his face, wrestled his way to his feet suddenly not able to see so well. Where in the hell were his glasses?

Willis was coming at him, a big blurry shape pawing like some kind of boxer. Behind him, Nicholes was systematically wrestling the junior executives into the bay.

"Not now, Willis. I don't have time right now."

"Ha! That's what I thought . . . coward, trying to talk his way out."

Ford saw a big shadow coming at him, Willis's right fist. He batted the fist into a harmless trajectory and kicked him in the side of the leg, missing the knee. Willis stumbled forward, grabbed Ford by the shoulders, scratching at his face and eyes with his fingernails. Ford smacked him in the throat with his open palm, then whirled 360 degrees, his elbow out like an ax. Willis walked right into it, taking the elbow flush on the nose, blood spurting as he backpedaled into a piling and tumbled into the water.

"Jeth, make sure that asshole doesn't drown!" Ford was already running.

"Hell, Da-Da-Doc, looks like he's dead already. ..."

Ford sprinted past MacKinley toward the pay phone, forced his way through the crowd that had gathered, skidded around the corner of the office, and lifted the receiver just as the caller hung up. He rummaged through his pockets to find a quarter, remembered he didn't need one, and dialed zero.

A woman's voice said, "Good afternoon, operator."

"Operator, I'm at a pay phone. Someone just tried to call here from Central America, probably Masagua. I need the number they called from. It's important."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I have no way of getting that information."

"Yes you do. You're in an office, right? One of the operators there had to work the call. Ask around. She can call the operator in Central America; the number had to come up on her equipment—"

"I'm very sorry, sir, we don't provide that service."

"You can try, though—"

"I'm sorry, sir."

Ford slammed the phone down, patting the pockets of his shirt absently, looking for his glasses. Then remembered he'd lost them back on the dock. The adrenaline was still pumping through him; his ribs hurt, and he could feel the raw burn of the scratches on his face. His stomach was grumbling; maybe he was going to throw up. He walked back to the basin where the junior executives, all soaking, had just fished Willis out of the water. His bathrobe was open, showing the big hairy belly, and his face was bleeding, split from nose to left eye. MacKinley moved to Ford's side and said quietly, "He's already talking lawsuit. I think he means it, too.

From the near distance came the sound of sirens.

Ford stepped over and kicked Willis on the sole of his sandal. "I hear you're thinking about pressing charges, fat man."

Willis looked up groggily, pressing a towel against the flaps of split skin. He slid back slightly when he saw Ford. "You just wait . . . just wait till my lawyers get through with you. You and this crummy marina and that idiot fishing guide—he's guided his last trip. You have no idea who you're dealing with, buster. No fucking clue."

Nicholes was glaring at him. "Don't worry about it, Doc. He started it. We all saw. They can't ta-ta-ta-touch my license for this."

Ford said, "You go right ahead, fat man. Stir up a lot of trouble. If you do, I may just have to call your wife. Your number won't be hard to get. The marina has the name of your motel, and the motel will have your address back in Ohio."

"My wife . . . ?" He struggled to his feet. "Now just what in the hell does my wife have to do with—"

"Remember the waitress you made a fool of yourself over the other night? Or was it last night? Well, she's a friend of mine, Willis. If your wife doesn't believe me, I'll have my friend tell her. What was it you said to that waitress again?"

"You son of a bitch—"

"Let's go, Mr. Willis." One of the junior execs had him by the arm, trying to steer him away. "I think we ought to go before the cops get here. And you're going to need some stitches."

Willis jerked his arm away. "He's bluffing. Can't you see that? He doesn't know the waitress."

"Then how did he find out? Come on, Mr. Willis. I think everyone here agrees we should go."

"Bullshit! You think I'm going to let this creep suckerpunch me and get away with it! I'm staying right here—"

The junior executive took him by the arm again, but much harder. "Willis, for once in your life, just shut that big mouth of yours and do what you're told. I'm not going to stand around and let you embarrass us more than you already have. "

One of the other men took the other arm. "He's right, Mr. Willis. I'm getting a little sick of it myself. Let's go."

They half walked, half pushed Willis to the parking lot. The police pulled in just as they started their car.

Watching, MacKinley said, "I think it's time for Mr. Willis to think about a career move. Those men are never going to look at him the same again. And word spreads fast in a corporation."

"Damn, Da-da-doc, damn ..." Nicholes was back in his skiff, moving things that didn't need to be moved, burning nervous energy. "We lucked out. That bastard woulda had us in court all year, and I ca-can't afford no lawyer. It's a good thing you know that waitress."

Ford was rubbing his ribs. "I don't know the waitress."

"What? You're ka-ka-kiddin'?"

MacKinley studied Ford for a moment; reappraisal time. "I'm surprised you'd take a risk like that"—he looked at Nicholes—"being the nice, quiet soul you are."

Ford said, "With a guy like Willis, there was bound to be an offended waitress somewhere on the island. It wasn't much of a risk."

"And honest, too. Not the least bit sneaky or shifty."

Ford said, "If you guys don't mind, maybe you could help me find my glasses?"

Ford was lying on his bed in the stilt house. He wanted a beer, but his ribs hurt too badly to get up, and there was a fly buzzing around and he didn't want to deal with that either. His elbow hurt and his knees ached from the fall he had taken. His hands were fine, though. He'd learned a long time ago never to hit anyone with his hands unless he absolutely had to. Ford looked at his fingers without moving his head, wiggling them. Yep, they were fine.

The door of the next room banged shut and a man pressed his face against the screen. "All done, Dr. Ford."

"That's good."

"Nice black phone, just like you asked for. Desk model. I put it on your desk."

"Ah, the desk."

"Sure you don't want a call-on-hold model? Or maybe redial? Push a button, redials last number you called. Now the cable's in, I can do anything you want. We got all kinds of models. Mavbe match the decor."

Still not moving his head, Ford considered the ceiling and the walls. They had gray phones? There was no decor to match. "No, thanks. Black's just fine."

"Dr. Ford, you don't mind some advice. Well, I saw you lay it on that guy with the big mouth. Best thing to do after something like that is make sure you keep moving, get some kind of exercise, maybe do some work. You don't, you're not gonna be able to get outta bed tomorrow."

Ford shifted his eyes enough to see the man standing at the screen. "You really think so?"

"Absolutely. I saw the spill you took. Made me hurt from where I was standing. But I'll tell you, that guy didn't have much experience to take a swing at you. Those wire-kinda glasses you wear and those baggy clothes might fool some people, but me, I take a look at a man's shoulders and his wrists. Guy your size, the asshole was just plain nuts."

Ford was wondering how the telephone man would react if he asked him to get him a beer.

"Anything else I can do for you, Dr. Ford?"

"Ah . . . no, nope, not a thing. I'm going to get up and do some work here pretty quick. Maybe go for a run."

"Best thing in the world for you. Well, enjoy. Your phone works fine. Have a nice day."

Ford closed his eyes. "That's nice."

FIVE

Bernstein called at dusk, just as Ford finished dissecting ten of the twenty-eight small sharks he needed to fill the order from Minneapolis Public Schools. He'd taken the phone man's advice and gone to work. Why not? Phone men met knowledgeable people every day, and probably gleaned all sorts of useful information while buckled onto those poles, listening in on private conversations. He'd forced himself out of bed, did sdme pull-ups, dove off the dock and swam for twenty minutes, out to the first spoil island and back. Halfway in, he felt something brush past; something big and mobile, in the water right there beside him. Ford stopped, his heart pounding, but then this huge creature ascended, exhaling foul breath, looking him right in the eye. It was a manatee, about half the size of a Volkswagen, and Ford began to laugh, spitting water.

"If you're looking for romance, you're blinder than I am."

The sea cow submerged, rubbed past again, then came up behind him whoofing warm air.

Ford swam the rest of the way with the manatee following, goosing him along. He got out, changed clothes, began to ready the dye and dissecting instruments, and the manatee was still there, hanging around the stilt house, stirring the water with its huge fluke tail. He'd had manatee come up to his boat and rub themselves before, but never anything like this—of course, he hadn't swum with many sea cows.

He watched the animal for a while; watched it finally swim away, then took the ten sharks from the cooler. Small blacktip sharks, one to three pounds, their bodies cobalt colored, as if sculpted in metal. He worked carefully with scissors, scalpel, and dissecting pins, laying open the bodies and exposing the circulatory systems. He used red dye for the arteries, injecting the latex slowly into the dorsal aortas to begin, watching the efferent branchial arteries take definition like the branches of red rivers. He used blue latex for the veins and yellow for the hepatic portal system, enjoying the precision of the work; everything nice and neat, clear to the eye and the mind. He packaged the sharks in formalin and laminated barrier bags for shipping, and was just cleaning up when the phone rang. It was Bernstein, 1,800 miles away, but a clear connection, only a slight echo.

"Buck! I'm glad you called. I appreciate it; I really mean that."

Harry Bernstein said, "The message I got said it was important so, sure, what you expect?" Dour, suspicious, Bernstein was a tall, effete Texan who spoke Spanish with a drawl so southern that he sounded like Slim Pickens in a badly dubbed movie, so everyone called him Buck. He spoke English, though, without accent, or in black dialect when he was angry. With a black mother and a Peruvian father, Bernstein had been pulled in all kinds of directions, social, ethnic, and sexual. He had taken Ford's post in Masagua; hadn't liked it then, and there was no reason to think things had changed. Ford knew he must tread lightly.

"I heard you're doing a great job down there—"

"You haven't heard shit, man. You're calling 'cause you want something. What you want?"

"Come on now, Buck. You've got no reason to be mad at me—"'

"Reason to be mad at you? Man, I got no time to be mad at you. You been reading what's going on down here? Bombs going off, taking hostages, shootin' people in the streets. Even your buddy Rivera is losing control, his goddamn guerrillas up there in the mountains splitting into all kinds a' factions."

"My buddy? Juan Rivera was never my buddy."

"Helped him start a baseball team for Christ's sake. And you the one got them uniforms, balls, bats—"

"Buck, Buck, what's more American than baseball?"

"Rivera's a damn communist, man. But you out there taking the hit-and-run signal from him, tellin' him when to squeeze bunt and double steal. Aiding and abetting the fucking enemy, you ask me. Playin' pepper with guerrillas ..."

Ford said that's what they needed to talk about, the guerillas, and he was about to tell him about little Jake Hollins, but Bernstein, still angry, cut in. "And you aren't going to say a word about President Balserio, are you? Man's gone off his rocker, walking around in robes talking about stars and moons and shit. Whatever it was got stolen from the Presidential Palace got him crazy. Happened on your watch, but you think me and my people can find out what it was—"

"Everything I know is in the files, Buck. You're taking this stuff way too seriously."

"Seriously my brown ass! Mayan artifacts got stolen, that's all you wrote down. Mayan artifacts. That's all it was, why he so worried? Why things so crazy up at the palace? You know his wife's retreated to the convent? Hasn't seen anyone for ten months—"

"Convent? Which convent? I need to get in touch with her—"

"That's just what you don't need to do, man. Balserio won't give me the time of day, but he still sends aides around every now and again to inquire bout you. Where's good old Ford? Ev'body liked Ford. His Excellency like to see that man again. They smiling but got firing squad in their eyes, and you wonder why I think you know more than you're telling? A fucking looney bin is just about exactly what this place is. But not a soul in the world blames you . . . Shit."

Ford said, "Look, Buck, listen for just a second, will you? Take a deep breath, okay?"

"I don't need no deep breath. Just tell me what you want."

"What I want is just a little of your time. Okay? The son of a friend of mine was kidnapped. By some group in Masagua. Indios. Smugglers probably, maybe guerrillas, I don't know. I just found out yesterday."

"They just kidnap him yesterday?"

"No, five, maybe six days ago. I'm not sure about that either."

"Why'nt you ask your friend for more details, do this thing proper, Ford? Go through the right channels for once—"

"My friend's dead. The proper chain of dialogue is to contact the FBI herej and they contact Balserio's law enforcement people. What good will that do? Most of Balserio's people are on the smuggler's payrolls, and they couldn't find the guerrilla camps even if they wanted to—which they don't. ''

"But the FBI would contact the CIA people down here on the sly. They'd find the boy. You listen to me, go through channels, let the CIA take care of it. Leave me alone."

"If your son had been kidnapped, would you want the CIA trying to help? They'd send in a squad of marines, automatic weapons, and air support."

"I don't have no son."

"Come on, Buck, you've got to help me on this. The boy's only eight years old."

Bernstein said he didn't have to do anything; the kid was no concern of his; he didn't like kids anyway.

Ford said, "I didn't ask you to help, Buck. I said you've got to help." He let that settle, listening to beeps and echos, the silence of long-distance telephone.

"Are you trying to blackmail me?" Speaking slowly, the black dialect disappeared. "You're out of your mind if you think you've got something on me. I have a clean file, man. I know that for a fact—"

"Buck, I would have never used this. Never in a thousand years. But we're talking about the life of a little boy here, the son of a friend of mine ..."

"You son of a . . . you had me followed, didn't you?"

"I didn't say that."

"Those first two weeks I was down here, I kept thinking someone was following me, but I thought, shit, they got no reason. I was on vacation, man, my own private time—"

"This is important to me, Buck. I never wanted to use it, and I'll never use it again."

Bernstein said, "Well, you try using this, you sneaky motherfucker," and slammed the phone down.

Ford returned to cleaning the dissecting table, thinking maybe he had misread Bernstein, not given him high enough marks, but then the phone rang almost immediately, and Ford knew he'd read him just right.

"Ford? Buck. Ah . . . sorry about getting mad like that. I mean, you just really pissed me off. Let's admit it, that was a pretty shitty thing, having me followed."

Ford was looking through the window of his lab: The sun was a great gaseous orb of fire; the bay, molten. At the marina, the dock lights were just coming on: pale, pale rays on a lake of bronze. He said, "I do admit it, Buck, and I'm sorry. That was pretty crummy, trying to leverage you like that. I should have known you're not the type to tolerate it."

"Well, yeah, I guess that's my rep, not being an easy guy to push."

"I was stupid to even try."

Bernstein said, "But I was thinking about that kid. You know, out there in the jungle with those Indios, probably seeing blood sacrifices, watching them go crazy on psychedelic mushrooms and . . . well, Christ, the kid's probably scared shitless. "

Ford was still looking out the window. At the marina, Jeth Nicholes and the other guides were washing their boats, another charter done. Across the bay, Tomlinson was meditating on the bow of his sailboat, sitting naked, blond hair hanging down. Naked? Yeah, no doubt about it, naked. Holding a stick of incense, too. Ford said, "The boy has to be scared, Buck. Like I said, he's only eight."

"Look, for someone that young, and the kid of a friend of yours . . . he's dead you say? Your friend."

"As of yesterday. Murdered."

"The Indios that took the kid?"

"I thought it was a possibility. But not now. He was murdered by someone around here. In Florida."

"For the son of a friend of yours, I guess I could help. I don't know what got into me. This mess down here just has me mean or something. What do you want me to do?"

Ford had Rafe's address book by the phone. "You have something to write with? I want you to check out three names for me. Ready? The names are Julio Zacul, Raul Arevalo, and Wendy Stafford. Find out where they are, what they're doing, if they know anything about the boy. I know the last two personally, but Zacul only by reputation."

"I know Zacul by reputation, too, man." Bernstein pronounced the name Zack-COOL, giving emphasis to the Mayan guttural, like a growl. "He's one of them that split away from Rivera; got his own band of guerrillas. Zacul got the boy, he's probably already dead. How the hell am I supposed to get in touch with him?"

"You can talk to people who know Zacul; people who've worked for him. Come on, Buck, there's nobody around better than you at that sort of thing." Ford wondered for a moment if that might be a little strong, too obvious, then decided not to bother qualifying it. Bernstein wouldn't recognize flattery. "Another angle is, whoever has the boy is smuggling something out of the country or into the country. My friend was flying for them."

"All the guerrillas smuggle stuff into the country and out of the country. They send out dope or refined coke, and bring in raw coca leaves from Peru. Or guns."

"It may have been arms, but my friend told me it wasn't drugs."

"Maybe he was lying."

"Maybe. Write this down, too: My friend's name was Rafe Hollins. He could have used an alias down there, I don't know. The boy's name is Jake Hollins. Brown hair, brown eyes, cleft chin."

"Looking for a brown-eyed, brown-haired boy in Masagua. That's just great. Aren't too many of those around. " The sarcasm returning as the submissive Bernstein began to fade; an asshole to the end. "And what do I do if I find him? You going to come down and get him out?"

"I had to sign papers saying I wouldn't return to Masagua for two years, you know that. Company rules. Besides, you say Balserio's men are after me. That I don't understand at all. They have no reason." Ford listened carefully, gauging Bernstein's tone.

"Ah, shit, I don't know. Maybe I said that cause I was mad at you; overreacting. They just keep asking, that's all. Maybe they think you can help them find whatever it was that was stolen." A little too airy; Balserio wanted him, all right. Then: "But why you need a visa, man? Just fly into Guatemala, sneak across the border. Get in touch with me. No one has to know you're here. Not even our own people."

Ford thought, Right, so you can have me arrested, put me in some Masaguan prison for twenty years. He said, "That's a good idea, Buck. Maybe the best idea. We can talk about it. But first you need to locate the boy."

"And what about that other matter—my first two weeks here? Man, that really was some shitty thing to do, I hope you know."

"What I'm going to do right now is type up a memo on my old stationery, in triplicate. I'll postdate it, make it a week before you arrived, and say I received word Rivera's people were considering plans to intercept you, give you a powerful narcotic, then photograph you in various compromising positions, all staged, all without your knowledge or cooperation—"

"Photos? You got fucking photos, too! You one sneaky . . . careful dude, man."

"I'll keep the pink sheet for my files, send you the blue and the white. You should put the white copy in an envelope, address it to D.C., then shove it down behind the desk or a crack or something, make sure it stays there—"

"Behind the desk?"

"If the matter ever comes up, the people in Washington are going to want to know where their copy went. Things get rough, you can have them help you look for it. They'll find it right behind the desk, a piece of lost mail. "

"Yeah—sneaky, sneaky. But what about the prints and the negatives? I want those, too."

"I'll send the memo tomorrow, and everything else I have as soon as I get it together. Things are kind of messy around my place."

"How long?"

Ford said, "About as long as it takes you to get that information I need."

He hung up wondering what Bernstein had done during his first two weeks in Masagua that had him so worried.

More improper channels: Ford got the home number of Sally Field, not the actress; the one who worked for the Operations Data Board of National Security Affairs. Sally was thirtyish, lush in a deceptive, secretarial sort of way, a dedicated government employee who had only one passion outside of her work: the bedroom. The bedroom was to her what golf or skiing were to her co-workers. She liked men, all kinds of men, but she was selective and discreet. She told Ford she'd kept a record of every man she had ever been with—in code, of course, because her men often held public office. In the diary, each man was graded in a variety of categories (Ford hadn't asked what categories) so she could look back and have fun remembering when she was old and single. "Because I'm always going to be single," she had told him. "No husband could put up with my hobby." When Ford met her, there were forty-three entries in her book. By the time she confided in him, he was already number forty-four. He had always avoided promiscuous women and probably would have avoided Sally had he known in advance. But the woman was a devotee, and Ford admired dedication wherever he happened to find it.

Sally answered—sounding sleepy, he thought. But no, she wasn't busy; he wasn't interrupting. She hoped he was calling because he was either in D.C. or on his way. "You are one of my favorites, Doc. One of my very, very favorites. I hope you know that."

Ford knew that. He also knew that each of the other forty-three were favorites, too. "I'm in Florida, Sally; calling to ask a favor. A professional favor."

Her tone changed, from sleepy to slightly severe. "Oh, Doc,

I hope you don't. I never mix business with pleasure. Never, ever. I'm very serious about my job, you know."

"I know that. I wouldn't ask under any other circumstances. But this is important." Ford told her about Hollins and the missing boy, adding "All I need you to do, Sally, is run a computer check on a few names for me. I need some background information, that's all. Anything you can come up with."

"That's all you need?" She was relaxed again; relieved. "I can do that on my coffee break; make it as thorough as I can, and that's as thorough as you can get. How many names?"

Ford gave her the spellings of the names and what little other information he had.

She said, "Okay, okay," her voice changing; her dictation voice. "Last name T-o-m-l-i-n-s-o-n; God, I can't even pronounce his first name."

Ford said, "Me neither."

"Jessica M-c capital-C-l-u-r-e; my competition, I suppose?"

"Just a friend."

"You know, Doc, sometimes you're just a little too calculating—running background checks on friends. I don't want to sound critical, but isn't that a little compulsive—"

"Didn't you run my name through the computer, Sal? When we first met?"

"Touche; you win. You're as careful as I am—which is why the files say you were so good at your job, I guess." Then she said, "The first man, Mario DeArmand, sounds familiar. Should he?"

"Maybe. He's from New Jersey. The eastern seaboard area. Now he's a county sheriff in south Florida."

"And the other names?"

"I don't know much about them. That's why I'm calling. It's possible there's something that connects them all. If there is, I need to know what. I also need to know if any of them work for our government—work for it on any level. "

"You're getting into a pretty touchy area there, Doc."

"But with the best of motives."

"Well, I'll do what I can. Shall I call you tomorrow or send the printout Federal Express? No, wait. Tomorrow's Sunday. I won't be in the office until Monday."

"The sooner the better. You can give me a summary on the phone, and then we can talk about anything else you want, Sally."

She was laughing. "I've already told you too much, Ford. After you left that night—what was it? four years ago?—I kept asking myself why I'd told you about my little diary. I've never told anyone else about it. My God, we hardly knew each other, and I trusted you with information that—"

"Diary? Don't know what you're talking about. As in dear diary?"

"See? My instincts were right. I knew I could trust you. And Ford? I check these names for you under one condition. You have to promise to take me to dinner within the next . . . three months. No excuses."

"By September. I promise."

"And you never break a promise, do you?"

"I've broken several."

"An honest man, I knew that, too. I gave you a very high mark for honesty...."

Ford made six more calls, one to New York, the rest to Everglades County, Sandy Key. He tracked down the funeral home that was to take possession of Rafe's body and found out the body would be cremated, that there was to be no funeral, but there would be a private memorial service. Rafe's older brother, Harvey, had made the arrangements. He would be flying from West Virginia tomorrow, so the service would be Monday, 1 P.M. Flowers should be ordered from Sandy Key Floral Shop.

Unless the coroner worked weekends, it didn't make sense for them to release the body so soon, so Ford called the Everglades County Medical Examiner's office and got a man who said there was no one there right now. Ford said, "You're there." And the man said, "But I'm not the one to talk to."

"I need to know if the autopsy on Rafferty Hollins has been scheduled."

The man said, "Hollins? It's already been done. They did it this morning, right after they brought him in. At least I guess they did—all the paperwork's been finished."

"Can you read me the report? The official proclamation of death."

"You a friend of the family or something? I don't think they give out that sort of information."

Ford said, "It's public record. They have to give it out."

"The guy hung himself, I know that much. Death by asphyxia, I guess. But I don't think you're right there. They don't have to give it out. They never have before."

"Does it say death by asphyxia on the death certificate?"

"Look, buddy, there's no one here right now. The medical examiner plays golf on Saturday. You're gonna have to call back. Or try the funeral home, they might have a copy. "

"If he plays golf, who did the autopsy?"

"How should I know? Doc musta come in early. Call the funeral home you want to know anything else."

Ford called the funeral home again and got the same lady he had spoken with earlier. "No sir, we don't have a copy of the death certificate. We have no reason to keep a copy."

"But you have to have a copy before you cremate the body, right?"

"We don't do cremations on the grounds. Everglades Crematorium provides that service for all the funeral homes in the county. On a contract basis."

"Then why are you taking possession of the remains after cremation? That makes no sense."

The woman said, "I'm afraid it's state law, sir."

"Is that what you told Harvey Hollins, the deceased's brother?"

"Of course I did, sir. It was my obligation."

Ford said, "Lady, there's no state law that says a funeral home must be involved in the dispensation of a body. What you told Mr. Hollins was a lie, and you did it so you could get your kickback from the crematorium and your kickback from whatever florist you've cut a deal with on Sandy Key, and so you could carve out a little piece of Mr. Hollins for yourself. I suppose you told Mr. Hollins not to worry about choosing an urn, and that you would be happy to fill out all the insurance forms—if there are forms involved in this case—so you can carve yourself an even bigger piece."

The woman said, "I'm afraid I don't like your tone of voice, sir. In times of bereavement, most decent people consider talk of money to be in very bad taste—"

"Which is exactly why the people of this country pay out more in a year to funeral homes than the government spends on providing them with police or fire protection. Lady, I'm going to make sure Mr. Hollins lets me have a look at your bill. There better not be a charge for embalming and the cremation fee better not be padded, and under no circumstances do I want to see your deluxe model last-for-eternity bronze urn on the list. Keep it fair, lady. ..."

And the line went dead.

With a growing sense of urgency, Ford dialed Everglades Crematorium. The remains of Rafe Hollins were being disposed of much too quickly, and Ford had no idea what he could do to stop it. What he did know was that, with no body, there would be no way to prove Rafe had been murdered—short of a confession. A man answered, and Ford asked when Hollins was scheduled for cremation.

"Who wants to know? You with the family or something?"

Why was that always the first question? Ford decided to take a chance. "I'm with the Florida Department of Criminal Law, the governor's office. We're thinking about red-tagging the remains pending an investigation by our office."

"You're shittin' me—whoops. I mean, you don't want us to do it?"

Ford said, "That's exactly what I mean. If we decide to go ahead with the investigation, we can have the papers to you by . . . Tuesday," trying to buy some time so he could . . . what? Contact some newspapers; maybe get a good investigative reporter interested. With luck and the promise of publicity, there was a chance the governor's office might actually be involved by Monday afternoon ... a slim chance.

The man said, "Who's this speaking?"

"Captain Lewis, FDCL."

"Hang on just a minute, Captain Lewis."

Ford sat listening to the silence, thinking. Even if the guy fell for it now, there was no way they'd hold the body through Monday on the strength of a phone call. But that, at least, would give him tomorrow, Sunday, to get something going; an extra day. No one in government worked weekends.

"Captain Lewis?"

Ford said, "Yes."

"I'm real sorry, Captain Lewis, but I'm afraid you're a little late. They just ran him through . . . cremated him, I mean. Came out 'bout ten minutes ago. But look, we did everything we're supposed to do. Called the medical examiner, got approval just like the law says; observed the forty-eight-hour waiting period—"

"Forty-eight hours? They didn't find the body until late yesterday. And the medical examiner wasn't even in this morning. He plays golf."

That set the man back; made him even more nervous. "All I know is, we got a call direct from the sheriff, and around here that's as good as the medical examiner. The sheriff does that sometimes; fills in when Doc Carter is busy or out of the county. He said everything was in order; said for us to go ahead. You got any more questions, maybe you should talk to him."

Ford said,"You're sure the body's gone?"

"I caught them before they put the ashes in the pulverizer but, yeah, it's gone all right."

"Then maybe you can tell me a couple of things. What's the death certificate say about the cause of death?"

"Well . . . wait a minute, we got a copy here someplace. I got the coroner's tag. That good enough? On the tag it says asphyxia due to hanging; be the same on the certificate unless you want me to read it direct—"

"Any notations about whether photographs were taken or fingerprints made?"

"Well . . . no, but they usually do that. They don't have to, but it's normal procedure—"

"Who ordered the cremation?"

"The family, probably . . . wait a minute—they got that written right here on the tag, too. That's kinda weird. Usually the order comes in separate, not on the medical examiner's tag. But it says here cremation by request of Mrs. Helen Burke Hollins. That's the guy's wife, I guess. Maybe his mother. You want us to put a hold on the ashes? Pieces of bone now, mostly. You promise to get the papers to us by Monday morning, we can do that."

Ford said, "No. You can release the ashes. "

He had one more call to make, an anonymous call, but that would have to be from a pay phone. He wanted to contact the FBI; give them what he knew about the boy. Just in case everything else failed. . . .

SIX

Ford idled into the marina to get his evening quart of beer. He was tired of the talk of death; felt like kicking back and taking a good, deep bite of life for a change. Several of the women doctors had returned, looking relaxed in beach clothes, shiny hair combed just so, standing there on the dock talking to Jeth. Ford pretended to study his mooring lines until Nicholes called him over and made introductions. There was one he liked: Dr. Sheri Braun-Richards. Short blond hair, nice athletic body, something solid behind the blue eyes and a smile that didn't strain.

Ford listened politely until he had established she wasn't one of the neurotic nonstop talkers or one of the man-haters who had girded herself in the flag of feminism, then struck up a conversation. She was a gynecologist from Davenport, Iowa. Had a confident manner and a quick sense of humor. Ford laughed at her stories because they were funny. And did he live all alone on the gray house out there, the one built on stilts? Must be nice hearing water lap all night long. She had always been interested in marine biology, but knew nothing about it, living in Iowa all her life. Ford could see the evening taking shape; could see it in Dr. Braun-Richards's blue eyes. Nothing overt, but not coy; aware that a subliminal process of selection was going on; aware that, because she was on vacation, there was no time for the normal presexual proprieties. Ford liked that awareness. And he had gone long enough without a woman.

"I think someone's calling you." She was pointing at the marina office, amused that he hadn't heard MacKinley banging on the window.

MacKinley was holding up the phone. Ford said, "Don't go away."

"We might be down on that big blue sailboat." Not committing herself to stand there and wait, but making sure he knew where she would be. That was good.

"I'll probably be going back out to the stilt house in a little bit. You and your friends could stop out, look around, maybe have a beer."

She knew what that meant but played right along. "Sounds interesting. But I think I'd have to leave my friends here. They met some people on the sailboat last night." Getting better and better. Why hadn't he thought to take a shower after work?

She drifted back into the circle of conversation, a pretty woman in white knit shirt, cut-off shorts, with the good legs of a tennis player. Ford headed for the office.

It was Jessica on the phone. She'd gotten his new home number from information; tried and tried but it was busy all afternoon. Then it wasn't busy, but he didn't answer and she was wondering why he hadn't tried to call her. "Doc, I hope it's not because you're mad at me for abandoning you last night."

Ford said don't be silly, he wasn't mad—looking out the window, watching Dr. Braun-Richards.

"Well, I wouldn't blame you if you were. Benny came on like such an ass. Doing his Mr. Macho routine. Working in the art world, living in Manhattan, he has a thing about proving he's not gay."

Ford said he hadn't noticed, Benny had seemed like a very nice guy—enjoying the clean lines of Dr. Braun-Richards's body as he spoke on the phone; the soft facial contours, the way she laughed ... a little bit of the college girl left in those cut-off jeans.

"Then maybe I can take you up on your offer to have dinner. A little late, but my treat."

"Dinner?" Ford had a redfish fillet and a mackerel in the refrigerator. He'd planned on cooking. "Dinner would be nice, sure. But I was going to hang around the marina tonight. Jeth said he might need a little help . . . with some things."

MacKinley looked up from his magazine, his eyebrows raised. He knew that Jeth didn't need any help.

Jessica's voice dropped, softened. "I'd like to see you, Doc. Just for a little while if I can. Please? There's something I'd like to talk with you about."

Ford watched Dr. Braun-Richards step onto the blue sailboat with the others, accept a drink from the owner. Ford said, "Well . . . sure. For a little while. You want me to come out now?"

"The sooner the better."

Ford said, "Now . . . ah . . . well, sure. For a little bit. I can tell Jeth to wait."

"Don't sound so anxious!"

Ford freed the lines of his skiff, aware that Dr. Braun-Richards was watching. Jeth was on the sailboat with the others, and Ford called, "I'll be back in about an hour."

Nicholes, who didn't know why he should care, called back, " Bout an hour . . . right."

The sailboat owner had his hand on Dr. Braun-Richards's shoulder, trying to show her something, and she turned away as Ford said, "I'll probably go straight to the stilt house when I get back ... if you want to stop by."

Nicholes said, "In ba-ba-'bout an hour . . . right."

Jessica's house: ceiling fans, throw rugs on pine floors, rattan furniture, hatch-cover coffee table near the fireplace, two cats lounging on the Bahama couch, another atop the stereo, un-framed paintings stacked in every corner, the odor of an old beach house mingling with the smell of paint supplies, incense, and cats.

When Ford pulled up to the dock, Jessica stood beneath the porch light leaning against the door frame, hip thrown out, hand behind her head, looking like a bus-stop blonde in a 1930s movie. But the hair was long auburn, and she didn't linger, meeting Ford at the steps, falling into his arms, hugging him.

"Boy, I missed you." Then led him into the house, holding his hand. She was shaking.

"Are you okay?"

She swung down on the couch beside him, her hand coming to rest on his thigh. "I am now. I missed you, that's all." She was wearing faded jeans and a white T-shirt—braless, too, which made Ford take a breath because he could see her in the soft light of the lamp beside the couch. She said, "I feel like such a jerk going off and leaving you last night. You had something you wanted to talk about, and I could tell it was important, but I just left . . . and you're my best friend. For some stupid party so Benny could push my paintings."

"You didn't have fun?"

"A lot of smiling and nodding and everyone so superior, talking about Rauschenberg's latest breakthrough and the next political fund-raiser—my God, what happened to your face?" She was touching the scratch marks on his cheek tenderly, concerned . . . her own face becoming blurry to Ford's eyes at close range: Lombard filmed through a filter; a genuinely classic face.

"I took a spill at the marina. Tripped on the dock."

She kissed his cheek, then his lips, too, very softly. That was a new one. "You big clumsy lug. Yesterday it was vultures, today the dock. You need someone to look after you."

"Took the skin right off, huh?" Like a little boy with a scrape.

"I've got some antibiotic cream in the bathroom—" She was already standing. "You're sure you don't need it? Then some wine. Last night a very fat, rich man gave me a twenty-year-old Chardonnay that is supposed to be wonderful. He said he bought a case at auction, and I'd hate to even guess what it cost him."

"Wine," said Ford. "That would be nice." He would have preferred Old Milwaukee to old Chardonnay, but why be ungracious?

She went into the kitchen, patting each cat on the way. Ford stood, hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts, heard Jessica call for music and touched the digital buttons of the stereo until he found public radio: Dvorak, maybe, with a lot of timpani. Then he studied the paintings. Over the fireplace was a big print by Chrzanoska, a sole-eyed woman with a pearl headpiece, holding a cat over her bare breasts. There was something haunting in the woman's eyes, something that reminded him of Jessica . . . and he found it touching that she did not display her own work as prominently. Some of her watercolors were on the side walls: wading birds feeding at low tide; an old man in a wooden skiff; storm clouds approaching a lone mangrove island, everything frozen in an eerie bruised light. There was a canvas on the easel, too, something new, and he peeked beneath the paper dust guard to see a man wading the flats. The man wore only brief khaki shorts, his thigh muscles flexing as he lifted his leg to take a step, very wide shoulders, body hair covering the rib cage. An impressionistic treatment, but anatomically suggestive in certain details and oddly sexual. Only the hands, face, and some of the background hadn't been finished.

"You weren't supposed to see that. Not yet." Jessica stood holding the wineglasses, uneasy. He had never seen her embarrassed before. It changed her face; gave it a nice color. She said, "It's not done. I wanted to wait, get my courage up because . . . it's you."

"Me? I don't have a face."

"It's not done yet, silly."

"That's the way I look when I go collecting? And I thought I wore boots."

"Ah, Doc, please don't chide me . . . and don't smirk like that." She bumped him with her shoulder as she handed him his wine. "I've been trying to make myself paint what I feel, not what I see. I got into such a rut; that's what coming to Sanibel was all about. I don't know that I was ever really good, but I was successful; my first shows got great reviews. I'm just trying to find that thread again, the honesty that's in me. It's a hard thing to get back, honesty. Once you've lost it, it's damn hard to recover . . . and you've heard this speech way too much, over and over from me."

He had heard it. Jessica had been in New York only for a year before being embraced by some powerful critics who heralded her as the Renaissance stylist of American impressionistic gothic—whatever that meant; Ford didn't know. They said she was breaking old ground in a new way, and for a couple of years she could do no wrong. But then she fell from grace. In the eyes of the critics, everything she did was wrong and, worse, she had invested badly, spent lavishly; ended up in debt with a bunch of paintings that wouldn't sell. She had borrowed from her agent until her agent dropped her, and that should have been the low point, but it wasn't. For the next year she lived in a Greenwich Village flat sleeping all day, avoiding work at night, doing drugs in hip discos and fighting depression. She wasn't quite twenty-five. But then she somehow caught herself. She got a low job on some marketing firm's ladder, worked hard, lived cheaply, and paid off the debts. And saved enough to rent this working retreat on the island.

Jessica said, "You don't like it, do you?"

Ford looked at the canvas again. There was the man striding through shallow water, a wedge of mangroves and the bay behind him. A squall was coming, pushing a burnished green light, and the water was a roiled green with wind feathers in random streaks. It had taken great precision for her to capture that mood of randomness, that sense of the inexorable, yet she had controlled it so that the coming squall dominated the bay, but not the man. The view was from the man's side: revealing, powerful .. . somehow a little troubling, too, but not lurid. Ford said, "No ... I like it, Jessi. I like it a lot. Am I really that hairy—"

"Oh, you men—as if that matters at all. And you're smirking again."

"I've never seen myself on canvas before."

"Why should I be so embarrassed about this? I just wanted to try and do something different, something strong. Show the male form in an attitude that wasn't cheap or glitzy. I'm an artist, for Christ's sake, and there should be no taboos—quit that smirking!" She was laughing, the tension gone. "Drink your wine and shut up. No, don't shut up. Tell me what was so important yesterday; the thing that made me feel like such a shit for going off and leaving you."

Ford said, "You said you had something to tell me."

"I do. But not now." She was sitting on the couch, looking over the lip of her wineglass. "It'll keep."

Ford said, "Did you know a man named Rafe Hollins?" then watched her carefully as she stared into his eyes for a moment before saying "No; no, I don't think so—should I?"

"I found your name in his address book. There was a telephone number, too, but with a New York area code."

It was an old number, disconnected. Ford had tried it.

She puzzled over that, sipping at her wine, then said, "Wait—is he a pilot?"

"He was."

She was nodding. "Okay; right. I know who you mean. A couple of years ago, when I was thinking of moving down here, I wanted to fly over the area in a small plane, really get an idea of where the best places to live might be. I called the municipal airport to see about a charter, and I ended up in one of those small helicopters they use to spray crops. I think the pilot's name was Rafe; kind of an odd name—I don't remember his last name—and he flew me around all morning. He didn't have to charge much, he said, because it was a company helicopter or something. Big guy; very nice looking in a cowboy sort of way, but a little too loud for my taste. And he did things to try and scare me. Flew very low; made sharp turns. I guess he thought it would impress me. It didn't."

Ford said, "That was Rafe. Did you ever see him again?"

Jessica said, "No." Then: "Why were you looking through his address book?"

"Yesterday afternoon I found his body on a little island south of here—"

"His body? You mean he was dead?"

"As in very dead. I wasn't sure it was Rafe at first. Vultures had been working on the body for a while, so it was hard to tell—"

Jessica had her hand to her mouth, incredulous. "That's why you came here in such a mess! And you were bitten! My God, Doc, don't be so nonchalant. Tell me what happened!"

So he told her about Hollins. Told her about high school, the phone call and finding him on the island, finding the gems; some of the rest of it, but keeping it simple while Jessica listened, making sad faces. "My God, that's awful. Just terrible. But are you really sure it was him?"

"I am now. I thought maybe Rafe had killed someone accidentally; someone he was supposed to do business with and, in a panic, tried to cover it up by planting his own wallet on the corpse. It would have been a dumb thing to try, but people often do dumb things when they're scared. It was Rafe, though. If he wasn't dead, he'd have gotten in touch with me by now. He needed me to help get his son back."

"What are you going to do, Doc?" Jessica was on her feet, looking for the wine bottle, truly upset.

Ford said, "There's not much I can do about Rafe. For some reason, someone in Everglades County wants his death to appear as a suicide. They may have had a hand in the murder, but I don't see sufficient motive. Rafe went through a nasty divorce, and a local judge got involved with his ex-wife, but they'd already taken his son and his money; why would they want his life? It's more likely someone on Sandy Key decided that Rafe was unimportant enough to sweep under the carpet, avoid all the bad publicity, and then they could still look for the murderer on the sly. That's what I hope happened."

"But there has to be someone you can call; someone who can find out for sure if he was murdered or committed suicide—"

"He was murdered. There's no doubt about it."

She said, "I know he was your close friend, Doc. But that doesn't mean he couldn't have gotten very sick; sick enough to take his own life." The gentle voice of reason, reminding him.

"You think I'm making an emotional judgment. I'm not. Take the suicide note. It said: I just can't take it no more; something like that. Illiterate; real hicky in big, rough block letters. Well, that's a role Rafe liked to play: the backwoods redneck role. Talked real slow, real southern, like he was dumb as dirt. But he only did it around people he didn't know very well, and always for a reason. He liked to use it to bait the self-important ones, the snobs. He'd start asking dumb questions, and these people would kind of look at him like a bucket of meat, and he'd keep asking questions, getting sharper and sharper but still with the hick accent, until he had made them look like complete asses. Rafe was a very bright guy. Articulate on paper. I went to high school with him."

"That's the only reason you think he was murdered? The way the suicide note was written?"

"No. But the note's part of it. It tells me Rafe didn't write the note. And it tells me quite a bit about who did. Whoever wrote the note didnt know Rafe very well, but they knew him—and probably on a business or professional level. Why else would he have played the redneck role other than to use it to some kind of advantage? In their conversation or conversations, Rafe wanted the person to think he was dumb. And they believed the act enough to try and mimic him on paper. So that leaves us with some reasonable suppositions: The person who wrote the note was involved with Rafe in some kind of business dealing. He was probably an American originally from the north, probably articulate, probably egotistical—all necessary for Rafe to make his redneck routine work."

Jessica was looking at him. "My God," she said. "The logical mind."

Ford was warming to the subject, arranging it in his mind as he talked. "Whoever wrote the note was the murderer or one of the murderers. That's the working hypothesis. Match it with some of the other things I saw on the island, and you come up with an even clearer picture. It was probably two men. They didn't known much about boats or knots, so they had to come in a very small boat—the kind that doesn't carry more than two people. The water's so shallow, they wouldn't have made it to the island otherwise. They beached at the same cove Rafe beached his boat; they weren't comfortable in the woods, and stuck around for a while after Rafe was dead, probably looking for something. The emeralds, maybe, but that's an assumption. They didn't find what they were looking for Thursday, the day they killed him, so they came back yesterday for another look. A big golden-silk spider had a web across the path from the cove, and someone had walked through it. Rafe was tall enough to hit it, but he wouldn't have—he grew up in the woods. The man who walked through the web was coming from or going to his boat; probably going, because he was preoccupied, wasn't watching. It only takes a golden-silk spider about three hours to completely rebuild its web, and the spider was a little more than half done when I got there.

"Another thing: Rafe thought he had no reason to fear the killer or killers. If they arrived before he did, he would have seen their boat in the cove. If they came afterward, he would have seen them coming across the bay. So they were probably there on a business deal. He wasn't taking social calls. And they were probably buying, not selling.''

"Sherlock Holmes," she said. "You're almost scary, Ford. You know the color of the man's eyes? What he had for breakfast?" She was half serious. "You think they were there to buy the emeralds."

Ford said, "If they were, it knocks down an earlier assumption: that Rafe had taken the emeralds from the men who ultimately kidnapped his son. He wouldn't sell something he thought he needed to trade for his son. But it doesn't matter what they were there to buy and it doesn't matter what else I know. The death certificate says death by hanging. Even if the coroner took the time to find out what really killed Rafe—and I doubt if he did—the autopsy report will support the death certificate. The body has been cremated, so the killer is in the clear. If there's no body, there's no way to refute the autopsy."

"But couldn't the police test the ashes some way? You hear all about those police labs; they can tell everything from a little piece of carpet fiber, tiny things like that."

"After cremation—man or animal—the only thing you can test for in the lab is metal content in the bones. The metallic poisons, like arsenic, aren't destroyed by fire. I doubt if Rafe was poisoned, but, if he was, they wouldn't have used arsenic. Arsenic tastes bad. It has to be given in small doses over a long period of time."

"You're an expert of poisons, too?"

"No, but seventy-five percent of the aquarium fish bought and sold in the U.S. are originally stunned and caught through the use of poisons. All over the world they're killing the reefs by dumping cyanide just so collectors in this country can fill their tanks with pretty tropicals. It's come up in my work before; I know a little."

"So there really is nothing you can do—about your friend, I mean."

"I could get some kind of investigation going into the odd procedures of Everglades County, but it wouldn't clear Rafe. Plus it would just take away from the time I need to find a way to free Rafe's son. When I ran into him that time in Costa Rica, Rafe was looking for work. I gave him the names of some people. I thought they might help him. So, directly or indirectly, I played a part. I helped get him involved with the people who kidnapped his son."

Jessica said, "You can't blame yourself for that, Doc."

Ford looked at her for a moment. "Why would I blame myself? I meant that I'm one of the early links in a long chain; the one best suited to trace the events that followed. I've already contacted a guy I know in Masagua. He's on the National Security Affair's field staff—they're the ones who recommend what the CIA should or should not be doing. It's this guy's job to cultivate contacts, make surveys, assemble data; like a combination librarian and investigative reporter. The NSA sets up their people with cover jobs—they have him publishing a small

English-language newspaper—and he pokes around the country, filing reports. He's looking for Jake right now. If the NSA guy can get him, I'll sell the emeralds and set up some kind of trust fund for the boy . . . maybe make sure he doesn't go back to his drunken mother."

"They're that valuable?"

"There are two; each about the size of a bird's egg. "

She stiffened a little, showing her concern. "Tell me you're not keeping them at your place, Ford. You're too smart to keep something so dangerous."

"No one knows I have the emeralds. Besides, I put them in a place no one would ever look—down the mouths of some preserved sharks. In my lab." Ford took a drink of wine. All that talking, and he wanted a beer. He got up and went to the refrigerator.

As he came back, Jessica was saying it was so damn sad such bad things could happen to people; really feeling it, her head on Ford's shoulder, and he could smell the shampoo scent of her hair. The poor little boy out there all alone. His father dead and a mother that probably didn't care—her arms around Ford now, holding him. Then she was kissing his neck, squeezing him, touching her lips to his cheeks, and it was becoming something else, no longer grief. Ford pulled away. "Whoa, what's going on here, lady?"

Jessica looked up, eyes moist but smiling. "Sometimes you're such a bastard for details; getting everything straight."

"I thought we had an agreement."

She said, "Our experiment. That's why I called you." Her fingers were on his thigh, then his abdomen, touching softly, drawing designs. "I want it to end tonight." Like a little girl, not looking at him.

Ford let her fall against his chest, slid his hands along her ribs brushing the firm weight of her breasts . . . thought of the painting, and almost said something silly to lighten the mood.

He did not.

* * *

There would be no need for CBS, Ford was thinking, not if every woman in the world looked just like this.

No need for television, lawyers, Playboy, toupees, Doonesbury, war, or Dr. Ruth Westheimer. The end of competition and contrivances: A good dose of natural selection, that's what the world needed. Jessica's brass bed was on the second floor. A quarter moon floated above the bay and the window was swollen with filtered light. Jessica lay naked on the sheets. Her hair was wild upon the pillow, lean legs as if carved from marble, nipples still erect, breasts pale white, full, rounded beneath their own weight, pubic hair iridescent in the moonglow, an amber tangle as if illuminated by internal light. Bioluminescence, it made him think of that.

Ford had his head upon her chest, looking toward her toes, toward the window. He could feel her breathing, feel her heart beat. He was looking down the soft curvature of her stomach, seeing muscle cordage and ribs flex with each breath, and he was thinking there was a finite number of times he would be with this woman and there ought to be a way to lock onto a moment such as this, to preserve it, but there wasn't. Never would be.

"My stomach's growling. But I don't feel hungry. Can you hear it growling?" Whispering, her eyes closed, Jessica had her fingers in his hair.

"Uh-huh. Like a mariachi band. Keeps playing the same song." Her voice was deeper, huskier in the quiet after-time, and he thought of Pilar Balserio. It had been like that with her, the change in voice. He'd admired Pilar for years, wanted her the whole time, but was in bed with her only once and then back to the States. Something that intimate, and no way to hold on. It left a yearning. . . .

"Did I scratch you? You don't need any more scratch marks, Ford."

"Minor cuts and abrasions, that's all. Well worth it."

"Didn't bite too hard?"

"Um . . . nope . . . everything intact."

"It's just that ... it was the first time it ever happened with me. That release, like they write about. I used to think they were lying ... or I was frigid. God, I thought my heart was going to stop. Like in Cosmopolitan."

"You're not frigid. I'll sign papers."

"You believe me . . . that it was my first? It really was."

Ford answered, "Of course I believe you," not sure that he did, but it didn't matter.

She was silent for a time, stroking his head. "You were mad at me last night for going to the party."

"No. I did some work. Tomlinson came over. I went to bed early. I wasn't mad. "

"You haven't asked me anything about it, being with Benny. Are you sure you weren't upset?"

"That's your business, Jess, not mine."

She touched his jaw until he turned his head to look at her. "Sometimes I don't know when you're serious or when you're not. You're the warmest listener I've ever met. But then you talk, and it's that cold act of yours. I'll tell you anything you want to know, Ford. Anything. " And sounded as if she meant it; as if she wanted him to ask her things.

Ford said, "Tell me how Benny tried to get you in bed," not because he wanted to know, but because it seemed like a safe question.

"You're so sure he did. I was surprised."

"He's a former lover. He came more than a thousand miles to see you. You live alone, he was alone. Tropical night with moon. And you were surprised?"

"Your logical mind, I forgot. We left the party early, about eleven, and he wanted to take me to his place. He just invested in a condo and he was all excited, said he wanted my opinion on how it should be decorated. I insisted he bring me home. Then he said he'd pulled a shoulder muscle or something. Executive boxing is the current fad in Manhattan; the ex-Ivy Leaguers go down to the club and slug it out over lunch. He's supposedly very good; it was an excuse for him to say he was, anyway. He wanted a massage; a rubdown, he called it. His shoulder hurt. But he had to take off his clothes to do it properly, and that's when I told him to leave. He got huffy, then he thought the he-man approach might work, force me a little. I threatened to slap him, I really did." She giggled, an odd sound of delight. "That really got him. He had already unbuttoned his shirt, and he looked so silly. He left right after that. Benny likes to show off those muscles. You two are such opposites; you and those baggy clothes. You, I had to picture in my mind; imagine. It was nice."

Ford was thinking about Jessica's porch light, but he said, "You're talking about the painting."

"Yes. Painting . . . from what I imagined. I hope you don't mind, Doc. I think it's the best thing I've done in a long time. But I'd do it differently now. Your back's wider, your body hair is lighter. You're nicer in real life."

Her hands were on his back now, sliding down, searching, and Ford rolled to his side. "Are we talking about the same painting?"

"Well . . . you have to allow me some creative latitude. Not much, though." Smiling as she found him, inspecting. "I've decided to call the piece Sanibel Flats. I thought about Littoral Zone, one of those marine biology terms. Doc—" The touching stopped now, but she was still holding him. "There's something else I need to tell you." An edge in her voice, as if she had put it off long enough.

"Umm . . . it's getting tough to concentrate." But listening carefully.

"I'm leaving for New York day after tomorrow. It was Benny's idea, but I think he's right. I need to circulate more. People don't just buy art, they buy the artist. There's a big show and an auction on Wednesday. It's a private show, but they'll let anyone in who looks like they have lots and lots of money. A few of my pieces are going to be included. I'll be back by Friday. Benny flew out this morning, made the reservations. I insisted on a Friday return. I just don't want you to worry about Benny and me. There's nothing there. Do you believe me?"

Ford said, "You have no reason to lie to me, Jessi," looking for a reaction that didn't materialize. Jessica kissed him and they didn't talk anymore.

Her nose touching the cool glass of the upstairs window, Jessica McClure watched Ford go down the porch steps, across the dark yard to the dock where moonlight broke free of the trees and showed him plainly. She liked the look of him, the shape of him and the way he moved, and when he stepped into his boat she could almost feel the weight of him on her; a good feeling both comforting and sensual, and she cultivated the feeling, reluctant to let it go, as she watched the little skiff carry him away.

"Why don't you stay the night, Doc?" asking even though she knew his mind was made up; could tell by the methodical way he buckled his belt and found his shoes, but interested in what his excuse would be.

"Because ... I don't want to."

That simple. It made her smile, the honesty of it. Maybe that's what she loved in him most—his honesty, or at least his frankness; and just thinking that surprised her a little.

What I love in him most. . . .

She was in love with him, though she hadn't said it to him, or even admitted it to herself. In love with him . . . the way he looked, the way he felt, the way his hard hands touched softly, softly, and the way he settled onto her couch, his distant, driven expression slowly replaced by a look of contentment as she lighted the candles and put on music. He was becoming home to her, and maybe she was becoming home to him—and perhaps that's what love was.

Jessica pulled jeans on over her panties, a baggy T-shirt, and went downstairs thinking about what it would be like to live with Ford, thinking she wasn't getting any younger, thinking of the way it might be: him out in his lab (a new lab in an old house they would buy and she would decorate) while she finished her own work, and they would take turns with the cooking (he was a good cook, that she already knew); two professionals with different work but one life, and she needed to start having children soon . . . and that was part of this new realization, that she was in love with Ford. Her biological clock was ticking away, and she needed to get started. She needed a husband. Ford liked children—he'd said so. The way he talked about those poor Indian kids in . . . Guatemala, was it? . . . hunting in the garbage dumps for food. The memory had hurt him; she could see it in his eyes. He was a strange man in a way, and his coldness sometimes frightened her, but he would be a good father. And at night, when the kids were in bed, they could sit together outside on the porch, talking about future things, things they would do together, and about their past. . . .

Their past . . .

The thought of that crackled through her fantasy, shearing it at the foundations and scattering it like so many leaves.

You stupid, lonely hitch—mooning around like some soap-opera housewife.

Why the hell didn't Ford ever ask her any questions about it? That would have made it so much easier. Would have made it seem less like a confession. But that was wrong, too, and she castigated herself: You call him out here to explain things to him, but instead you lie to him and hustle him into bed. He would have understood! He could help! Nothing surprises that man. . . .

Jessica put the kettle on for tea, then walked back into the living room, patting each cat and whispering its name. She stood before the easel, flipped back the dust cover, and considered the painting. The wading man stared back at her, his faceless expression a pale void. She hand-cranked the canvas higher on the easel wings and began to prepare the palette cups, the smell of gesso primer and linseed oil coming strongly from the sketch box. But then the telephone rang.

Well, the big softy is calling to say good night.

Smiling, she went to the phone, picked it up, and her expression changed. She said, "What do you want?" Then: "Goddamn it, Benny, I'm done with all that. No more! Absolutely not! You said we had a deal!" She listened for a time, and her voice grew dull: "Okay . . . okay . . . okay." Then she said: "Don't ever call me this late again, you son of a bitch," and slammed down the phone.

The kettle was screaming, and she ran to the kitchen. She was trembling; she wanted to throw something, she wanted to curl up in a fetal position and bawl like a baby.

Instead, she turned off the stove and went back to the easel, forcing a coldness upon herself, knowing that the only escape, for now, was in the oblivion of work, thinking: You've survived worse. . . .

It was nearly 1 A.M. by the time Ford got back to the stilt house, dropping his boat off plane way early just in case the happy sea cow was around. The marina looked sleepy, all the lights shimmering and a few solitary silhouettes on the docks. He turned on the lights of the fish tank. There were the squid, back in among the rocks and the sea anemones. They looked a little pasty, lethargic. That worried him. He'd do a salinity check tomorrow. Check the oxygen content, too.

He went upstairs, put hot water on for tea, tuned in Radio Havana, stripped off his clothes. The fresh water supply was a wooden cistern above and beside the tin roof, heated by the sun. The shower was outside on the side deck, and Ford stood under the shower lathering, rinsing, lathering again. Singing a little bit, too: "Moon River" in Spanish; good old Radio Havana. He was just reaching for his glasses when he heard a noise, someone clearing a throat. And there stood Dr. Sheri Braun-Richards, looking starched and athletic, holding one hand against her face like a blinder.

"Hey!"

"My gosh, I thought for sure you had a bathing suit on or something." She was laughing, not looking at him.

"Hold it . . . I've got a towel here—" "People don't do this sort of thing in Iowa, you know. Walking around naked, singing in the middle of the night. I think there are laws against what you do in Iowa. I'm almost sure of it."

"I just put it . . . someplace. Glasses all wet . . . wait; no, that isn't it—"

"It's okay, it's okay, I'm a doctor." Laughing harder, coming up the stairs. "Here—here's your towel," handing him the towel. She stared directly into his eyes as Ford dried himself, amused, but a nice touch of frankness. Ford liked that. He said, "I have some clothes inside." "That's one way to keep them clean. Very innovative." "You and your friends stayed late. I was hoping I'd see you again, but I got held up." Already lying about Jessica. But he was just being friendly, he told himself, a good host, and there really wasn't any question of morality because he expected nothing from Jessica and she expected nothing from him . . . and now he was lying to himself, too.

Dr. Braun-Richards was saying "Two of my friends went back to the hotel. Another is on the blue sailboat . . . probably for the night. For the first couple of hours, I stuck around hoping to see your lab. Then I didn't have a ride. So I've been talking to Jeth. I've heard all about you."

Ford wrapped the towel around his waist, adjusted his glasses. "I can give you a ride. Or you can borrow my bike, my ten-speed. " Which sounded as if he were trying to get rid of her; he could see it in her face. So he added, "But, if you're not in a hurry, I could show you around. I usually stay up late working. " Which seemed to make her feel better. "Jeth told me that. He said you're like a hermit out here. All you do is work in your lab and drink a quart of beer every night. Sounds like a nice life to me, Ford. Oh yeah, he told me something else; told me several times, in fact. He said you never take any time for fun, not even women." Giving that a wry touch, aware of what Jeth was trying to do. "He said you're just too involved with your work. I admire that kind of dedication, but Jeth says you need to relax more. The people at the marina worry about you. Yes, they're very worried about you, Doc Ford."

Jeth the matchmaker; a dangerous avocation for a man who stuttered so badly. Ford was rolling his eyes. He said, "I'm very touched," already computing his recovery needs, all considerations of morality abandoned. After the multiple sessions with Jessica, he wasn't sure his body was up to it, and it wouldn't do to disappoint a doctor. She'd diagnose some kind of structural infirmity, intellectualize it. He said, "Come on. I'll show you around," trying to buy some time.

He did, too, and had a nice talk. Dr. Braun-Richards asked good questions, showed the right interest, had a nice way of listening; smiling, nodding, always a step ahead but willing to wait. When Ford offered again to drive her back to the motel, the doctor said, Tjn not going to be shy about this," sounding a little shy just the same. "Oh?"

"You're going to make me say it? Okay. I'll say it. I leave for Davenport tomorrow, back to the same old routine. But tonight I'm still on vacation. Tonight I'm with a man I like; a man who doesn't live in singles' bars, wear gold chains, patronize women, or seem like the type I'd need to read a blood test before feeling comfortable kissing him." The shyness was gone, and she was closer now, touching his forearm, looking up at him. "I like you, Doc. And I'm in no rush to go back to my motel room."

Ford glanced at his watch. Not even two hours' rest. He kissed her gently and felt her breath warm in his mouth. Then she was in his arms and she shuddered as he touched the small, sharp point of her breast, firm beneath the material of her blouse, but didn't understand at all when he said, "I'm in no rush either. ..."

Two-thirty a.m., and Dr. Braun-Richards said, "You're looking mighty proud of yourself, Dr. Ford," yawning, stretching catlike, as sweaty as if she had just finished five sets at the club.

"What? Naw, not really." Feeling like he should kick the floor and say Ah shucks.

"You've got that kind of smile."

"Well, naw, not really." Staring at her, liking the way she was prettier without clothes; a woman who seemed more at ease naked, comfortable with the animal skin.

"I wish I would have met you a week ago."

"That would have been nice. A whole week."

"But we've got all night."

"All night ... all night?" Ford caught his smile before it disappeared, just in time. "But you probably have to be up early—"

"I don't have to be anywhere until noon. " She was sitting up on the bed, reaching for him. . . .

Ten minutes later she was saying "Well, it happens," trying to sound warm, understanding, but sounding clinical nonetheless. "When a man gets into his thirties—"

Ford stifled a groan.

"—a man gets into his thirties, his ability to respond can gradually decline. It's absolutely nothing to worry about. There have been case studies done."

"Not like tonight, there haven't."

"What?"

"I said don't be so anxious to leave."

"I just thought you might want to get some rest." Like he was a doddering old invalid.

"I have some beer around here someplace." Now standing naked in the dull light of his little refrigerator, letting his eyes wander over the contents, really taking his time, looking all around the beer.

"I've read that vitamins can help."

Diet Coke. Mayonnaise. Half a tin of anchovies. Four bottles of lab chemicals that had to be refrigerated. And that mackerel wasn't looking so good anymore. If he ever got a minute to himself, he'd dump it. "Beer has vitamins," he said.

She came up behind him, wrapping her arms around him, as he finally took out a bottle of beer. "It's a food," he said.

"Hmm," she said as she slid her head under his arm.

"Lots of vitamin B. Or A. One of those." He took a drink.

"Hmm," she said again.

"Did you know that Viking sailors signed onto boats almost strictly on the basis of the quality and amount of beer the captain was taking? They didn't ask what countries were going to be plundered, or how long they were going to be gone. Just what kind of beer and how much."

"The Vikings discovered America," she said.

"They also invented the pants fly."

"I see," said Dr. Sheri Braun-Richards.

"But who remembers?"

"That's not what I see, Ford." Snuggling closer to him now. "I was premature in my diagnosis. That food of yours works."

Ford said, "Oh?" Then: "Oh!"

He put down the beer.

SEVEN

Bomb Blast Kills Masaguan President

Masagua City, Masagua (AP)—Don Jorge Balserio, president of Central America's poorest and most embattled country, was killed yesterday evening when a bomb exploded outside the Presidential Palace. Five members of Balserio's notorious Elite Guard were injured in the blast, two critically.

Three Masaguan left-wing revolutionary organizations and one ultra-right-wing guerrilla group have all claimed responsibility for the bombing. Masaguan officials, however, suspect one of only two groups: the Masaguan People's Army or a lesser-known guerrilla organization that calls itself El Dictamen. Neither group has claimed involvement.

The Masaguan People's Army has long been at odds with Balserio's administration. Its leader, Juan Rivera, threatened Balserio's life publicly after the last election. Rivera, who openly models his dress and flamboyant style after Cuba's Fidel Castro, retreated to the mountains with his followers three years ago.

The ultra-leftist group El Dictamen is reportedly an offshoot of Peru's Chinese Maoist terrorist organization, Sendero Luminoso, or Shining Path. It has been linked to numerous acts of terrorism throughout Masagua and the rest of Central America. In English, "El Dictamen" means "The Judgment."

Balserio was elected president of Masagua in a controversial election that, according to some critics of American foreign policy, was orchestrated by the Central Intelligence Agency. Balserio was returned to office for a second term in an equally controversial election. He had seven months remaining in his second term, and was expected to run for reelection . . .

Ford sat on the dock reading the newspaper. He rarely looked at a newspaper. Didn't understand the nation's habit of clubbing itself each morning with a list of tragedy and doom before trying to go cheerfully into the day. Like arsenic, it had to have a cumulative effect. But he had bought this thick Sunday edition to see if there was more to read about Rafe Hollins. Rafe was there, an obituary: two tiny lines of type and information about the memorial service. And—surprise—Balserio was there, too: second page, international section with a file photo. Balserio, with his thin black mustache and black hair protruding from beneath the general's cap, looked like a Miami coke dealer at a costume party. That's just about the way Ford remembered him. An extremely tall, pompous man, shrewd, brutal, and superstitious, who had nothing but contempt for the people he ruled.

Ford hadn't liked Balserio. Pilar despised him. She married him when she was twenty-one, abandoning an already brilliant academic career at the Universidad de Costa Rica to fulfill a marriage contract arranged by her father. The wealthy families of Central America still did things like that. When Balserio ascended to the presidency, Pilar found herself in a role familiar to many women in many cultures: She was smarter than her husband, more sympathetic, better at dealing with people and details, yet was relegated to looking pretty at social functions. Instead of becoming bitter, though, Pilar got involved. She kept up on what each branch of the government was doing and gradually made herself indispensable because she was the only one in the Presidential Palace who did know. By Balserio's third year in office, Pilar had the administration working smoothly and with purpose. The generals loved and admired her, so the military remained loyal to her husband. The people of Masagua were enjoying the improved housing and medical care. For the first time in four hundred years, the country was at peace, and Balserio was quick to take the credit.

But Balserio finally heard the whispers, though long after everyone else in Masagua: He was just a puppet, the rumors said, his wife the puppeteer. He acted at her bidding. There was only one thing the presidente wouldn't and couldn't do for this great lady—which is why she had never conceived, borne a child. Furious, Balserio notified his department heads that they were no longer to discuss matters of state with his wife. She was banished from the government, though she remained in the palace . . . and in Balserio's bedroom, where she still did not conceive. The government began to fall apart; the people began to react to the increasingly brutal treatment they received at the hands of Balserio's men. Balserio answered with more brutality, and the tenuous peace was gone.

Now this.

Ford folded the paper and stood. MacKinley came by. "You're looking a bit sleepy today, Doc. Didn't get our eight hours last night, did we now, cobber?" Smile, smile. Ford had heard the same thing from Jeth Nicholes and J. Y. Lavender, one of the local sailing instructors. Sheri Braun-Richards had left an hour after first light, walking down his rickety stilt house dock for all the early risers to see.

Sunday or not, he made phone calls. He tried an old associate of his in Washington, D.C., Donald Piao Cheng, but didn't get an answer.

Major Lester Durell of Fort Myers-Sanibel Municipal Police Department was home, though, getting ready to go play golf, he said. Durell had been a senior when Ford was a sophomore, played on the same baseball and football teams. Ford had dropped in at Durell's office once not long after his return to Florida: modern office with blue carpeting, a collection of ceramic pigs in police uniforms on the shelves, framed commendations and a diploma of his bachelor of science degree from Florida State University's School of Criminology on the wall. It wasn't the cop office you see on television. It was the office of an organized executive, competent in his work.

Ford was counting on that.

He asked Durell if he was going to attend the memorial service for Rafe. Durell hesitated, as if he hadn't really planned on it, then said, "Sure, M.D. If you're going. You trying to make this into a sort of reunion thing? Get a lot of the guys together to give Rafe a send-off? If you are, I'll warn you right now that most of them are gone, moved away. Either that, or so rich on real estate they're at their summer homes in North Carolina."

Ford said, "I'm not interested in a reunion, Les. I want a chance to talk to you privately and thought it might be a convenient time."

"Privately?" Said with a falling inflection that communicated suspicion; the cop defense system was suddenly in place. "About what?"

"About Rafe. Not just privately, confidentially, too. I know you can't agree to something like that on the spur of the moment, so I thought I'd give you a day's warning."

"Maybe I can give you an answer right now. I'm an officer of the court in uniform or out of uniform. That's the law. I'm going to have to hear a lot more before I can guarantee confidentiality. By then, Doc, you may have already told me too much. Do you still want to see me tomorrow?"

"I'll risk it . . . maybe for half an hour or so after the service? Oh, Lester—one more thing. If there was one investigative reporter in the area you would genuinely hate to have after your ass, who would it be?"

"I've got nothing to hide. None of them bother me." Getting colder, more remote. He and Ford hadn't been close friends. Ford had the impression it wouldn't matter if they had.

"But if you had done something, and there was one reporter—"

"What's this all about, M.D.? You got yourself in trouble? Or are you trying to play amateur detective? People watch TV, get the impression they can snatch clues out from under the noses of the pros, solve the puzzle, live happily ever after, which is utter, utter bullshit. It doesn't work that way and, from what I remember of you, you're too smart to think it does."

"I didn't mean to make you mad, Les."

"Then don't try to manipulate me."

"I wasn't manipulating. I want the name of a good investigative reporter. I can get it from you or from someone else."

"You're thinking Rafe was murdered. That's what this is all about, isn't it?"

"Yes."

There was a silence followed by a sigh. "There's a guy on the area paper, Henry Melinski. Henry S. Melinski, that's his byline. Weighs about a hundred forty pounds, but he's got these blue eyes like an assassin. He doesn't scare and the bastard hangs on like a pit bull. If I'd done something wrong—which I haven't—I think I'd move to Pago-Pago or someplace if that bad boy got on my trail."

"What about the Miami Herald? You know anyone there?"

Lester Durell said, "Before I do any more volunteering, I think we need to have a talk first, Doc. I'll see you tomorrow." And hung up.

Ford worked around the lab for a while, then tried Donald Piao Cheng in D.C. again. This time Cheng's wife answered, wanted to know when're you coming by to visit, Doc?; said they always had a spare bed; said you won't believe the change that's come over Donald. "He's outside jumping rope, can you imagine?"

Ford tried to imagine. Cheng was maybe five eight, weighed two hundred pounds, smoked cigarettes. He worked for the U.S. Customs Department; a Type-A personality who couldn't slow down. Precise, driving; work, work, worry, worry, worry; everything right by the book. Ford couldn't imagine.

But then Donald got on and said he'd quit smoking, was down to 175 and wasn't going off the diet till he weighed 160. Ford said that was great, and he'd called to ask a favor. Cheng said, "Name it. As I remember, I owe you one very big favor and two or three small ones." With Donald Cheng, it wouldn't have mattered who owed whom because they were friends.

It took Ford a while to describe exactly what he wanted-When he was done, he added, "I don't want to mislead you, Don. I haven't told you everything."

"No kidding?" Cheng said dryly. "I was afraid you were being unintentionally inscrutable."

"It's necessary. I wouldn't do it if it wasn't. "

"But what's so important about a painting you want me to go clear to Manhattan to bid on it? Not that I'm not happy to help."

Ford said, "It was painted by a friend of mine. I like it. I'd like to own it."

"My God, if the artist is a friend of yours, why don't you just tell her; buy it from her?"

"Because that way she'd feel obligated to give it to me. She needs the money."

"Jeez. Mister white knight on a horse. I try to tell Margie what you're really like, and she says, Oh, he's got such a good face, such nice eyes, you're just jealous of the way he looks, Don, and he's so good with the kids. You quit NSA for six months, now you really are a nice guy? And an art lover, no less."

From the phone in the lab, Ford could see two paintings on the walls: a stilt house at low tide by Wellington Ward and palm trees on a beach by Ken Turney. He said, "I know what I like," which would have made Jessica roll her eyes. "And I've been gone a year, not six months. You understand, I'd like you to be there for the whole sale. This paintings might come up early, or maybe real late. I want to make sure you're there for the whole thing."

"In other words, they might try to sell something illegal toward the end of the show, and you don't want me to miss it."

"That's not the sort of thing you should hear from me."

Cheng said, "Okay, okay, the whole thing. Manhattan. Kids dye their hair purple there. Walk around with great big radios."

"Your hair used to be down to your shoulders. Margie showed me the photos. You went to Woodstock and slept with Ivy League girls who felt guilty because you were a downtrodden minority. You told me that. You wanted to return to China and communicate with the bones of your ancestors. "

"I may; I still may do that!"

"Hey, Don, there's one more thing."

"I was sure there would be at least one more thing."

"I have the chance to invest with this importer who says he's going to buy a lot of Mayan artifacts in Central America, then bring them back and sell them at a huge profit—"

"That's a transparent lie, and I just want you to know that I know it."

"I hoped you would. Anyway, I wanted to know what the laws are against that sort of thing. "

"There are about seventeen years' worth of laws against that sort of thing. Twenty-seven years if we really want to come down hard. There's the National Stolen Properties Law and the National Receiving Stolen Goods Law—U.S. Codes twenty-three fourteen and twenty-three fifteen if you're writing it down. Then there's the smuggling statute, USC five forty-five, Paragraph B—"

"That tells me what I want to know."

"No, you're trying to tell me what I should know. Right? Diplomatic language; putting some very odd stuff between the lines, here, Doc, and I want an explanation when I return with your painting."

"Then you'll do it?"

"I'll miss my run. I usually run in the evening. I'm getting in shape for Boston. But, yeah, I'll go. And I'll dress very nice, just like you said."

"There's one more thing, Don—"

"You've already had your one more thing."

"Is this going to be considered a big favor or a little favor?"

"Why is it I get chills just hearing you ask that?"

"Because you know, even after this, you still owe me a big one."

Ford leafed through the phone book until he found a number for Melinski, Henry S. It didn't say B.J. after his name: bachelor's degree in journalism. In a few years, it probably would. Journalists were taking themselves awfully seriously these days. He dialed the number and let it ring ten times before hanging up. Well, that was okay. It might be better to wait until Sally Field called him with more information.

What he was trying to do was get the right organizations in line; to nudge them in the right direction. It was the one hope he had of securing justice for Rafe Hollins. Lester Durell had said stories of the successful amateur detective were utter bullshit, and Ford knew that he was right. The odds were impossible because, on a formal business basis, people didn't deal with people anymore, they dealt with beings Ford thought of as Bionts. In the literature of natural history, a biont was a discrete unit of living matter that had a specific mode of life. In modern America, to Ford's way of thinking, a Biont was a worker or minor official who, joined with other Bionts, established a separate and dominant entity: the Organization. A Biont was different from an employee. Ford was seeing fewer and fewer employees around. The Biont looked to the Organization as a sort of surrogate family; depended on the Organization to care for him in sickness and in health, to provide for his recreational, spiritual, and social needs. The Organization was an organism, much as a coral reef or a beehive could be considered an organism, made up of individual creatures working for the good of the whole. When the Organization prospered, so did the Biont—a sort of professional symbiosis, with loyalty built in. A Biont might grumble about his host in private, but just let an outsider try to sneak in, ask for information, arouse suspicion, or endanger the Organization, and all the unit members would unite like a shield to rebuff the intruder. Ford thought of the way Aztec ants rushed to attack anything that happened to touch their hosting Cocoloba tree. He thought of killer bees.

There were too many organizations involved: the sheriff's department of Everglades County, the medical examiner's office, Sealife Development Corporation on Sandy Key. An outsider might be able to wrangle a small bit of information from one, but the hope of assembling incriminating data from all three was absurd. What he could do, though, was try to use the organization-organism theory to his advantage. In nature, all organisms filled the dual role of predator and the preyed upon. Big things attacked smaller things. They picked up the scent, stalked, and fed.

Ford was now assembling bigger predators. He was throwing out the scent.

EIGHT

He had work of his own to do.

He still needed more sharks for that order from Minneapolis Public Schools, and he wanted to check the salinity and oxygen content of his fish tank.

Sharks, first.

He put rods and cast net in his skiff, then decided to take his fly rod, too. On the grass flats at the mouth of Dinkin's Bay, just across from Jessica's house, he threw the cast net and put a couple dozen pinfish—small bait fish—into his live wells. While he was catching bait, Jessica came out onto the dock and waved. Ford could see that she wanted him to stop, but he did not. Instead, he ran out onto Pine Island Sound, then cut southward toward the causeway that connected Sanibel to the mainland. When the water shoaled to five feet, he began to drift. Using a light spinning rod, he caught six small blacktip sharks, enjoying the way they jumped: dark projectiles on a pale sea. Then a school of ladyfish moved in, feeding in such a frenzy that he lost several baits without a shark strike.

He put the blacktips on ice, then ran north toward St. James City on Pine Island where, in 1885, W. H. Wood stayed. Wood was the New Yorker who, fishing in Tarpon Bay, caught the first tarpon ever taken on rod and reel. Ford landed three more blacktips and, drifting all alone on a vitreous glaze of sea and sky, sweat dripping down his nose, released several spotted seatrout.

Then he noticed something in the distance—something glittering, energized, rolling across the calm like a boat wake: a school of tarpon coming toward him; a dozen or more fish moving in a tight pod. Their big tails were throwing water; their chromium scales threw sunlight. Ford picked up his fly rod, stripped out line to cast, and stood on the bow of his skiff waiting, his pulse thudding, his mind stilling, concentrating, as he gauged the path of the tarpon and the point where his fly might intersect with them. They were big fish: six feet long, most of them, rolling and diving in a frenzied carousel, gulping surface air before ascending, blowing bubbles, their huge horse-eyes vivid with life but devoid of emotion; primeval fish that were wild with purpose but as mindless as rays of light.

Ford stood watching, loving it.

Then they were close enough. On the surface, the tarpon were silver with dark backs that paled in gradations of blue. As they dove, their bodies became golden beneath the tannin-stained water. Ford released the hook he was holding, catapulting the blue-and-white streamer fly forward. He hauled with his left hand and shot out thirty feet of line on the back cast. Then he released the line on the fore cast, and the streamer fly seemed to carom off the sky. Then it slapped into the side of the boat . . . because he was standing on the line coiled upon the deck.

Boy, oh hoy . . . Calling himself names as he tried to untangle himself. So much for grace under pressure.

He straightened the line with a roll cast, then went through the ceremonies of false casting, trying to pick out another fish. This time he casted cleanly, but the adrenaline was in him and he casted way too far: eighty feet, and the plastic line smacked the belly of the rod as if it could have gone another fifty. Ford began to strip in quickly so that the streamer might still intersect with his chosen tarpon. But then an unseen fish materialized through the murk: a flash of gold like refracted light; a momentary vision of a gigantic scimitar turning by his lure. His line jolted, then tightened. Ford lifted the rod, feeling a great weight like a snag, his eyes focused on the triangulation point of rod and line and bay. There was a microsecond of calm; an oleaginous swirl. Then the water erupted into an incandescent whirlpool as the tarpon broke through the film of water, its mouth wide, eyes wild, shaking its head: a huge, animated form that froze for a moment in midair, silver on blue, then tumbled into the water with the percussion of a refrigerator falling from the sky.

Ford was soaked . . . the fish was running, taking line . . . his reel strained with the whine of precision machinery that was being pushed beyond the limits of lubrication, as if the damn thing might overheat and disintegrate in his face.

The fish jumped a second time, way, way in the distance, the siiction-clatter of impact reaching Ford's ears a moment after it had already reentered the water. Then the tarpon was running again, but not as fast. Ford touched the reel's spool, applying pressure, and the bow of the skiff swung slowly around, as if drawn to the tarpon: the inanimate in pursuit of the inexorable.

Now it was fun. The strike of the fish and the first jump were always the most fun, but, in the moment of their occurring, the shock was too close to terror. He would enjoy that moment later, when his legs stopped shaking, when his motor reflexes returned, when he didn't have to remind himself to breathe. Now, though, he could relax a little and take inventory. The line was his conduit to the fish; a sort of sensory filament that joined him, for a very short time, with that which he admired but could never truly be a part of nor fully understand. That's what he liked best about it. By putting his fingertips on the line, he could feel the fish, almost as if he were touching it. The tarpon was shaking its head now. Now the great tail was surging, banging the line as torque increased . . . now it was ascending, stretching the line so that it whined in the summer calm, and Ford could feel it all, one creature connected to another.

He played the fish for about ten minutes, though it didn't seem that long. It would take another, say, half hour to actually land the fish, but Ford didn't want to land it. He was too familiar with the end-game: the way the tarpon would veer toward the boat listing to one side, come up and make a deep belching sound like a blown horse, its gill rakes grayish from exhaustion and its muscles saturated with lactic acid from the long struggle. Even though he could have revived the fish, that final scene would have ruined it for him, so he pointed the rod tip at the tarpon, cupped the reel with his palm, and let the leader break at the tippet. Popular literature said the hook would corrode away within forty-eight hours—a ridiculous figure that he didn't believe. Ultimately, though, the hook would rust out and, in the meantime, the fish would have no trouble feeding.

The tarpon jumped once more, a strong jump, and was gone.

Tomlinson said sure, he understood what Ford was doing; dormitory chemistry had been his strong suit, and the only difference here was you just measured the precipitate, didn't swallow it or smoke it.

Ford said, "Ah," feeling that the Winkler Titration Method of determining oxygen content in water had somehow just been slandered. "You've got it figured out already, huh?"

Tomlinson was combing his fingers through his long blond hair, peering at the 300-milliliter flask Ford held in his hand. "What's to figure out? You fill the flask with water from the fish tank. You add the manganese solution, then treat it with an iodine base. Why else would you do that but so the manganese can combine with the oh-two to form a stable oxygen-manganese complex? Hell, Doc, a guy would have to be dumb not to see that."

Ford had been doing the test for years, and it still wasn't clear to him why the manganese required iodine. He said, "And that cloudy stuff in the flask, the precipitate, how would you measure that to determine how much oxygen is in the water?"

"That's supposed to give the oxygen content?" Tomlinson looked puzzled. "How the hell can that be? It's not proportional, man. Situation like this, you got to deal in proportions. Need something else; a little kicker in there to free the iodine. What, you going to titrate a disproportional precipitate? Like barking up the wrong fucking tree, you ask me."

"Well, you have to treat it with sulfuric acid first—" "Right! Now how damn obvious, and I didn't even think of it. Got the ol' thinking cap on backward today, man—"

"And that dissolves the oxygen-manganese complex—" "For sure, you don't have to say another word. Gives you free iodine in an amount proportional to the original amount of dissolved oh-two. Then you titrate it; probably use some kind of starch to make it easy to measure."

"Well, starch, yeah, you can use starch—" "Converts the whole business to iodine; probably a real pretty color, too, like violets or roses; you know, flowers. Goddamn, Doc, you know your business. I'll give you that."

Feeling dumb, Ford said, "Experience. I've been doing it for a long time." Feeling mild shock, too. This was Tomlinson the drug casualty talking?

Normally, about this stage of the Winkler Titration Method, Ford referred to his notes so that he got all the steps straight. Now he forged on from memory so as not to disillusion Tomlinson . . . and maybe to save face, too. When he was finished, he looked up from his calculations and said, "There's plenty of oxygen. Seven parts per million, which is high, but not too high. I've been testing the pH right along, and it's fine. So that leaves salinity, the amount of salt in the water. Cephalopods are very sensitive to changes in salinity."

"I bet you got some kind of meter to test that. " "There's a thing called a refractometer, but mine's still on back-order. There's another way to determine salinity, though—"

"Hey! Couldn't you just figure out the density of the water? That ought to give you the salt content."

Ford smiled patiently. "That's a common mistake. Don't forget that water temperature has an effect—"

"Cross-graph it, man. Figure it all out on intersecting

curves. Of course water temperature has an effect on density, that goes without saying."

Ford said, "Right. I'm sorry I said it."

They were sitting on the upper deck of the stilt house, Tomlinson talking away while Ford watched the moon drift out of the mangroves. He liked Tomlinson and he liked to hear him talk, but now he was mostly thinking about his fish tank, why he couldn't keep squid alive. Salinity had checked out at twenty-four parts per thousand, which was exactly the same as the salinity of the bay in which he had netted the squid. What could be wrong?

Tomlinson was saying "Look at those big boomers down there, swimming round and round," staring into the shark pen at the three cruising shapes. "They got my mind in gear again, man. You and those sharks got my brain working for the first time since I left school. " He lifted the bottle of beer to his lips. "I don't know whether to thank you or file charges."

"Huh?"

"Check it out: Yesterday I spent the whole day doing research. The whole day. Really humping it, too. Taking notes, cross-referencing, listening to Iron Butterfly." He took another drink. "Didn't take a whiz for about three hours straight."

Ford heard enough of that to ask "You find out why sharks in Africa swim counterclockwise when they're in captivity?"

"What? Naw, I should have checked on that; I coulda. This woman I know lives up on Captiva Island, she's got a computer. One of those laptops with a ten-meg hard drive and a telephone modem, so you can dial into these massive data banks, find out everything on just about any subject. But it wasn't sharks I was researching, it was the religious history of the Maya. The story you told about the freshwater sharks got me interested. Pagan deities, man. Ancient ceremonies. The influence of ancient religion on a specific modern culture. It's all part of philosophy and world history, my two chosen fields. Decided it was time for me to get back to work."

Ford was listening now. "You find much material?"

"A shitpot full, that's all. Coulda filled books, only this chick has a modem that receives at twelve hundred bauds and a crummy little printer that will only print at six hundred bauds. Don't you hate to borrow junk like that? Result: I couldn't print at all. Had to take notes like a crazy man. The old memory isn't what it used to be. Age does that, you know."

"Age," said Ford. Tomlinson was late thirties, tops. "Right."

"You said you worked in Masagua, but you ever hear much about the history: the Maya and the Spaniards and all that? It's crazy, bizarre; a fucking philosophical gold mine."

Ford knew some of the history, but he said, "No. Tell me."

"Religious and racial genocide, that's what the Spaniards were into, man. This conquistador, Pedro de Alvarado, marches into the area now called Masagua with just over four hundred men. He's met by one of the two main tribes there, the Kache. The Kache were mostly farmers, hunters; working class, blue-collar types today. The Kache had about fifty thousand warriors, but they took one look at Alvarado with his long blond hair and decided he's the white god of Mayan mythology, Quetzalcoatl. Weird, huh?—the prophecy of a white god before they'd ever seen the Spaniards. Makes you wonder how much those Vikings got around. So the Kache surrender to Alvarado without a drop of blood being spilled. " Tomlinson looked at Ford and held up two fingers. "Important points for later reference: The blond god Quetzalcoatl, and the Kaches were too scared to fight."

"Got it," said Ford.

"The next tribe Alvarado decides to conquer is the Tlaxclen, way up in the mountains. The Tlaxclen have their workers, but they're mostly priests and architects, the keepers of the calendar. They're the descendants of the Maya who built the pyramids; the ones who invented the calendar. Remember—the classic period of the Maya was over by the time the Spaniards got there. Nearly all knowledge of glyph writing and pyramid building had been lost, but the Tlaxclen still knew the ceremonies; still knew the calendar."

"I've heard about that calendar," Ford said. "Pretty complicated. It started fresh every fifty-two years."

"Uh-huh, right. The Tlaxclen called that final year the Year of Seven Moons. Poetic damn people, weren't they? The Kache and the Tlaxclen traded, intermarried, got along just fine. Every year, on the summer solstice, both nations met in a really big ritual called the Ceremony of Seven Moons. It was what my old philosophy profs would have called a classic artifact of union. See, the Tlaxclen used this ceremony to hold the people together. Like what the Holy Grail might be to Christians, or like the sacred pipal tree where Sakyamuni got enlightenment and became Buddha. Something that kept things tight.

"Every year, a hundred thousand Maya or more participated. Very mystical; very complex. The Tlaxclen priests were the keepers of the faith because only they knew the incantations and how to read the signs." Tomlinson looked at Ford. "But maybe you know this stuff already, having lived there. "

Ford said, "Keep going. It's getting good."

"Oh, man, it gets better and better. See, the Maya fascination with time, numbers, astronomy was all related to their dependency on agriculture. It was their religion, trying to predict the weather, trying to control the growing seasons. Appease the gods; stuff like that. Scratch any religion, and you come up with the day-to-day fears of its followers. The Maya were nature worshippers, worshippers of the seasons. Hell, supposedly the only time they copulated was in the spring. The Aztecs sacrificed as many as twenty thousand people in a single day, but the Maya didn't go in for that. Even before killing an animal, they had to whisper the prayer 'I have need' to explain themselves to the gods. Piss off the gods, and they'd send bad weather, destroy the crops."

Ford said, "So Alvarado attacked the peaceful Tlaxclen priests."

"Right. But here's the clincher: He forced about ten thousand Kache warriors to go with him and help fight. Maybe the Kache still thought he was Quetzalcoatl. No one knows, but they followed him. It was a long march into the mountains; took them several days to get there, and Alvarado only carried enough food for his own men. The Kache warriors were starving, and Alvarado told them they had to eat the bodies of their enemies. Can you picture it? The Maya weren't pacifists, but they weren't murderers either. Now they were being forced into cannibalism. It was bloodbath time. Human butchery. A monk traveling with the army described in writing how children were killed and roasted in Alvarado's presence; how men were murdered just so their hands and feet—the tenderest parts—could be eaten. When Alvarado confronted the Tlaxclen priests at this mountain lake—"

"Ojo de Dios," Ford put in. "That's the name of the lake: God's Eye."

"The Eye of God, yeah—jeez, I love the names people give stuff down there. Anyway, when Alvarado got to the lake, the Tlaxclen sent out six thousand warriors. They wore cotton shirts and feathers and blew conch-shell trumpets to make sure they didn't take this Spanish geek by surprise. Honorable to the end, man. Six thousand spears against armored soldiers on horseback and ten thousand Kache warriors. Bummer odds, but the Tlaxclen still fought. When the priests saw the slaughter, they began to throw their religious artifacts into the lake. Stone calendars and tablets. Legend says there was a big stone star chart with emeralds marking constellations. They didn't want Alvarado to have them; that would have been sacrilege, man.

"Apparently this lake is real deep, and the stuff was never found. Alvarado looked, too. He'd heard about those emeralds. People have searched ever since, but no luck—probably because there were a bunch of earthquakes in the years following the conquest.

"Anyway, the Tlaxclen were enslaved. So were the Kache, for that matter. But because the Kache had helped the conquistadors, they were of a slightly higher rank than the Tlaxclen. The Kache were given better food, better jobs; they were given the bulk of the land when the Spaniards pulled out. Hell, the Spaniards didn't want it. No gold in Masagua, right? So the Kache became the ruling, upper class. Now, you'd think the Kache would've treated the Tlaxclen pretty good. Like out of remorse. But they didn't. It's one of those perverse quirks of human nature that we end up hating people who have seen us humiliated. Plus, the Tlaxclen had added to the humiliation by fighting the Spaniards, and the Kache despised them for it. They became even crueler than Alvarado."

Tomlinson was combing his fingers through his hair, excited. "Do you see the significance of all this, Doc? Goddamn, it's as amazing as it is tragic. Within the space of a couple of weeks, the two-thousand-year-old social and religious foundations of an entire people were destroyed. The Kache had been defeated by a handful of men, surrendered without a fight. They had not only murdered their brothers, but they had eaten the corpses. Humiliation like that doesn't just last for a few years, it lasts for generations; hundreds of years.

"The Tlaxclen went from high priests to slaves, and at the hands of their own people. The Ceremony of Seven Moons—the thing that had always united them—was lost, then Catholicism was forced on them. But here's the thing that interests me—" He slid forward in his chair. "One of the Tlaxclen priests decided the religion and the ceremonies of his people should be recorded. This priest was a smart dude, man. He saw what was going on around him, and he knew this wasn't just some minor defeat his people had suffered. It was for all time. So he confided in one of the Spanish monks. Musta been a couple years after the conquest; one of them, you know, had to learn the other's language. And this monk wrote it all down. Of course, even the Tlaxclen had probably lost the secrets of Mayan glyph writing by this time—this was way after the Mayan Classic Period, like I said. But, from what I read, the monk may have gotten the whole story, step by step, on the ceremonies, religion, philosophy.

Everything. He compiled it into a book, ink on parchment, called the Kin Qux Cho. I translate that as Rituals of the Lake.

Ford looked at him. "You can read Mayan?"

Tomlinson seemed slightly offended. "Goddamn, I spent the whole day poring over that stuff. Who wouldn't pick up a little? Besides the written Mayan was translated into phonetic archaic Spanish; it's maybe two hundred words, and those are mostly nouns. What's to learn?"

"Oh," said Ford. "That's all it is." He knew only a handful of people familiar with written Mayan, and only one who could read archaic Spanish—Pilar. He said, "And I thought it was hard."

"You want something hard, try reading those Mayan glyphs. It's gonna take me at least a week just to figure out their damn calendar. They had three different systems: the Calendar Round—that's the fifty-two-year cycle—the Sacred Round, and the Vague Year, all computed on a vigesimal count, which is a snap, but everything over the number ten is in glyphs, which is a bummer, man. "

"Now you want to learn how to read Mayan glyphs? I don't get it, Tomlinson. What's the point?"

"The Kin Qux Cho, man. The book, that's the point. It was written four hundred and fifty years ago, but no one even knew what it was until about eight years ago. Some graduate student discovered it while going through the archives there in the museum, but the damn Masaguan government immediately took control of it. No one's had a look at it since. No one knows for sure what's in it; it's all speculation. See, the way I see it, the descendants of the Kache probably still run the country, the upper class—"

"They don't think of themselves as Kache or Tlaxclen anymore, Tomlinson—except for maybe some of the mountain people."

"It doesn't matter what they call themselves. They're still Kache, and they still must have one hell of a sense of shame about what happened to them. Why else would they put that book under wraps? Why else would they be so afraid of their past? Do you see the damn irony, Doc? It hit me yesterday when I was out on my boat meditating. Sitting there drifting, watching the sunset, and all of a sudden, bam, there it was. These people are acting out the whole conquest scene over and over again. Like punishing themselves in utter damn humiliation. The fighting, the revolutions, killing their own kind—just like when Alvarado came. And they're still following the white god, Quetzalcoatl, only now Quetzalcoatl goes under a couple of names, like the Soviet Union and the good old U.S. of A." Tomlinson was nodding, feet moving, pleased with himself. "What a study, man. Parallel the religion and philosophy of pre-Alvarado Maya with the Maya of today. Take pure data four hundred and fifty years old, juxtapose it with current data. See what little quirks survived. Genetic memory, man, don't sell it short. That stuff runs deep in an isolated race. Find out if they haven't incorporated some of the old religion in with their Catholicism—"

"Oh, they have, they have," said Ford. "I've seen it. They burn candles before old Mayan carvings. They hold crucifixes but chant in Tlaxclen."

"See! It's all falling into place, Doc. Meeting you, hearing about those sharks, my brain coming back to life. It's like preordained, man. Don't doubt for a second that everything in this world happens at exactly the right time. It all falls into place, just waiting on us to come along. I know. " Tomlinson looked at the horizon and sniffed. "Karma's my business. Now I just need to get my hands on a copy of that damn book."

"You make it sound like it won't be easy." Speaking as if uninformed, but Ford knew that it wouldn't be easy. Now, in fact, it might be impossible.

"Maybe not. But academicians stick together, man. Flash the right credentials, see the right people. The Masaguan government will have to release that book someday."

"If the government has it."

"What? I had all the latest data on the screen yesterday, man. Supposedly they keep it in the Presidential Palace, locked up. Like a national treasure, proud enough to show it off, but too ashamed to let anyone translate it. You know something you're not telling me?"

Ford had hardly touched his evening quart of beer, but now he took a long drink. He knew something, but he wasn't going to risk telling Tomlinson. Not yet. He knew the Kin Qux Cho was no longer in the Presidential Palace. He knew that Pilar Santana Fuentes Balserio had been the graduate student who, eight years before, had discovered the significance of the book. And he knew that it was Pilar, working with an accomplice, who had stolen it.

It happened the night before he left Masagua. He had been the accomplice.

NINE

Harry Bernstein didn't call Monday morning from Masagua, but Ford got a nice surprise from Sally Field: a package, Federal Express, with computer cross-checks on every name he'd given her. She must have gone into the office immediately after he called and worked on her own time. A nice gesture, worth a lot more than just a dinner. Ford took the package inside and sat down with iced tea to read.

Almost everyone in America over the age of twenty-one is listed in some computer bank somewhere. Check those data centers one by one and they might produce a line or a paragraph. Access the facilities Sally had at her disposal, though, and even an innocuous law-abiding wallpaper salesman would produce half a page. Her sources were the best in the world, the sum of intelligence resources and data centers from around the globe.

Mario DeArmand was no wallpaper salesman. There were two pages of him, staccato nonsentences and figures. Before he became sheriff of Everglades County, DeArmand had been involved in pyramid schemes. Herbal Foods; Rags-to-Real Estate—two scam corporations disguised as multilevel marketing companies. They bought late-night television time to drum Herbal Food distributorships and their get-rich-quick real estate courses to poor schmucks who never stopped to think: If these people are making so much money selling health food and real estate, why do they want competition from me?

DeArmand had been investigated for tax fraud, mail fraud, and conspiracy to defraud the public, but had always found a way to buy his way out. When the quack food business got too hot, DeArmand and his partners pooled the rich profits and bought an island in Florida: Sandy Key.

That brought Ford to a sheaf of papers with information about Sealife Development Corporation. Sally's computer sources had provided a list of stockholders, lien holders, board members, and the board members of Sealife s parent company, Seaboard Marketing Unlimited. Most of the data was useless— but not all of it. It provided him with the link he was looking for, the connection through the maze work.

The most reassuring information was on Tomlinson. Tomlinson did, indeed, have a doctorate from Harvard—this after graduating summa cum laude, a year at the Sorbonne, and spending two days in the Suffolk County jail for refusing to pay more than a thousand dollars in parking tickets. His family had also had him committed to Cook County Sanitarium for six months—why, it didn't say. More important to Ford, Sally had noted at the bottom of Tomlinson's dossier: Never worked for us or anyone else here.

If Sally was right it meant Tomlinson had not been sent to Florida to keep an eye on him.

Ford needed someone smart and clean. But was Sally right?

When he could wait no longer for Bernstein to call, he got in his pickup truck and headed for Sandy Key and Rafe Hollins's funeral. He drove across the causeway, then turned south onto U.S. 41, a six-lane Cuisinart where bad drivers from all over the nation gathered to tailgate and rush only to wait impatiently at the next light; unhappy travelers as driven as their automobiles. Here was the asphalt essence of everything bad Florida had to offer: a fast highway of Big Macs, furniture warehouses, trailer parks, disco drunk factories, and used car lots with pennants sagging; an unbroken strip of tacky, plasticized commerce stretching two hundred miles from Tampa to Naples, jammed with traffic that slowed only when sirens screamed and ambulances came to strap the broken and bleeding onto stretchers and cart them away.

Ford hated it.

He endured the rush for about six miles, then turned east onto a back road. Then for thirty miles it was pastureland, phosphate heaps, and cypress heads rising cool in the distance. Crossbred Brahman cattle stood swatting themselves in the heat while vultures hunched on wires above, awaiting road kill. This was backcountry Florida: sun-bleached sawgrass and sulfur swamps, citrus groves and oak hammocks; land of stars and bars, country music and four-wheel-drive cowboys. Ford drove along at a pleasant 55, arm out the window, waving at anyone who seemed friendly, drawing his arm in when dumpsters screamed past leaving their haze of phosphate dust. Then he turned west again, crossed Highway 41 with its smell of hot asphalt and hamburgers, and for twenty miles it was trailer parks or stucco apartments and fields of smoldering slash pine where the bulldozers had come in and scraped the land bare, making room for more apartments, more development.

Years ago, he had traveled this road many times, but now he recognized nothing. He was not surprised. Florida wasn't just growing, it was exploding. People were moving into the state at a rate of about a thousand a day, seven thousand new residents a week, packing their lives into U-Hauls, turning their backs on the dying industries of the Midwest and heading sunward. The gush of transplants was making a few developers happy, making a bunch of investors and lawyers wealthy, but making fools out of just about everyone else. The love of money kept people in the development trade yammering for more zoning changes, and the fear of money inspired local commissioners to grant the changes. Never mind that the demand on Florida's already waning water supply was increasing by about a half-million gallons a week. Never mind the number of cars on the already jammed highways was increasing by about twenty thousand a month. And never mind how out-of-control growth was affecting schools or impacting on the environment because, hell, all growth was good; growth meant money—just ask the elected officials struggling to make their towns into carbon copies of Miami. Too few public servants had the foresight, or the courage, to say what was really true: that allowing growth to be self-limiting was the very worst form of carrion-feeder economics. It was a get-it-quick-before-it-rots philosophy that promised long-term disaster even more surely than short-term profits. Only three things limited growth naturally: crime, decay, and overpopulation. Most politicians didn't have the courage to say it, and too many voters didn't give a damn because Florida wasn't their state anyway, not really. Wasn't anything their grandkids were going to be stuck with. They were really New Yorkers or Hoosiers or Buckeyes; just happened to be living here for a while, that's all. Besides, Florida was just an old whore who was going to be picked clean no matter what, so why not get in line, make some quick money?

Above the distant palms, Ford saw the horizon change. Noticed the swollen, tumid blue of the sky, and he knew the sea was there; would have known even if he had not traveled this road before. Then he came to the bridge . . . not the old swing bridge he remembered, but a new, arching concrete monster that carried traffic high over the bay and down onto Sandy Key. From the top of the bridge, Ford could see the whole island: a long cusp of beach with casuarina midlands that had been chopped into a gridwork of canals and then smothered with a stalagmite jumble of condominiums and the bleak geometries of planned housing. A sign at the base of the bridge told him this was the handiwork of Sealife Development Corporation.

Ford wasn't impressed. He remembered Sandy Key from high school—a few fish shacks and a lot of empty beach—but that's not why he didn't like what he now saw. It had nothing to do with nostalgia. Ford seldom thought of high school or the years he had lived on Sanibel; never longed for what too many people remembered as those carefree teenage days. He much preferred adulthood, living in the present, and had little patience with the nostalgia freaks, people who escaped the obligations of Now by living in the rosy Then of their imaginations. The only reason he had returned to Florida was because of the bull sharks and the chance to open Sanibel Biological Supply. He had expected change. The west coast of Florida was attractive and people naturally gravitated to attractive areas. But Sandy Key hadn't just changed, it had been chopped up, reconstituted, and stamped from a mold. This wasn't change, it was greed; unimaginative greed, at that.

Ford drove through the sterile downtown area, immune to the tacky Polynesian fa9ades and cutesy boutiques. He took the address from his sports coat pocket and found Sandy Key Funeral Home: a beige stucco box on a sodded lot with palm trees.

There were a few cars in the parking lot, and Ford stepped out into the heat.

Some place for Rafe Hollins to end up.

Nine people showed up for the memorial service, all men. Knowing Rafe, Ford would have been less surprised by a room full of women. He had hoped for a chance to see Rafe's ex-wife, not that he thought she could or would tell him anything. Just wanted to see her; see the woman Rafe had chosen only to end up hating. He recognized most of the men. Former high school teammates, counter-culture Sixties' expatriates who had weathered the Age of Aquarius, the Drug Culture, and Beatlemania without noticeable scars, probably because they hadn't paid any of it much attention. They looked like businessmen or commercial fishermen, but their faces still had the weird beach boys light: good-timers who had joined the establishment without being ingested by it. They didn't look too happy now, though. Just uncomfortable.

Major Lester Durell of Fort Myers-Sanibel Municipal Police Department was there. Ford nodded and got a curt nod in return; the defenses still up. Someone touched him on the back, and Ford turned to see Harvey Hollins. Harvey was five years older than Rafe, just as tall and much wider, but without Rafe's grace and good looks. Harvey had always been the plodder. Bright, but slow in speech and deed. He had a thick pug nose, the Hollins cleft chin, and dark, dark eyes set beneath a heavy brow, and Ford could see that his eyes were red. He was taking Rafe's death hard, looking like a big, sad child in the black suit a size too small for him.

Harvey said, "He woulda sure wanted you here, Doc," taking Ford's hand in his, shaking it warmly. "Boy, you two were a pair. Never saw one without the other, and those jokes you used to play made me so damn mad. Like when you melted down that Ex-Lax and slipped it into my candy bar. Man, I coulda killed you two—" And caught himself, realizing what he was saying.

Ford said, "It's okay, Harv; I know. I'm sorry we had to meet like this. You need any help? I'll take over if you want."

"You already helped, Doc. That bitch of a funeral director cornered me when I first came in. Wanted to know where my friends got off questioning her ethics. I didn't even have to ask what friend; knew it was you right away. You and your double measure of gall. Too much, I used to think. But I figure your questioning her ethics cut four maybe five hundred off the bill, which will go to little Jake when we find him.

Ford said nothing, just stood there looking into the big man's red eyes.

"Rafe didn't kill himself, Doc."

"I know, Harv."

"There's only one reason my brother woulda killed himself. That's if he'd let something happen to Jake."

"I'm sure Jake's fine. Like you said, Rafe wouldn't let anything happen to his own son. He'll show up."

"He loved that boy more than anything. We didn't talk that much after I moved. People move, grow apart . . . even brothers. I've been asking myself why in the hell I didn't call him more. When we did talk, it was young Jake this, young Jake that. I have two daughters, so I know how a man feels about his children. Rafe wouldn't have killed himself. I'd bet my last dollar on it.

"I think you're right, Harvey."

"Do you, Doc? Do you really?" His expression was so filled with gratitude that Ford had to glance away. Harvey said, "I told all the other guys that, and they just sort of stared at me, feeling bad but not believing it. I told Les Durell and he acted like he didn't even care. And we played ball together."

Ford said, "Durell has to act like that. He's a professional with a conflict of interest: You guys are friends. He can't show favoritism, even if he's interested. He's got to be tough on himself and doubly sure of his facts. He heard what you said, though, you can be sure of it."