Ten thousand isles

Eighteen

Tomlinson was talking. "Know what I think I'll do? I think I'll cut my hair, buy some decent clothes, trim my nails and move to Pittsburgh. I hear it's a lovely city. They have a surprisingly good baseball team and a great manager. Watching the Pirates at Three Rivers. That would become my hobby. I'll send my sweet little daughter postcards and knickknacks."

I said, "Oh?"

It was nearly midnight. The wind had freshened, gusting hot, then cool, followed by long moments of calm. Somewhere in the darkness, far out to sea, hot-air thermals were ricocheting skyward, absorbing tons of water vapor and beginning a slow, counterclockwise momentum.

I was sitting in my skiff, wrapping tape onto a length of electrical conduit I'd found. Tomlinson was standing near me on the seawall. I'd loaned him my stout Loomis bait-casting rod with a fine old ABU reel that is loaded with twenty-pound test. I carry it for stopping big-shouldered fish around docks and mangroves. My fly rods are for sport. This bruiser was for putting food on the table.

Tomlinson had tied on a very large lure called a Bomber. It was studded with gang hooks, all very sharp. When it hit the water, it sounded heavy as a brick. He was casting out onto the black water, then reeling it back slowly, very slowly.

Behind us, there were still a few people on stools inside the tiki bar, but the music had stopped. Beside the bar was a flat-roofed, two-story stucco building rimmed with a balcony. It was an upstairs-and-downstairs rental duplex. In the lemon lights of the marina, the building's green paint had turned gray, and the sliding glass doors of the upstairs apartment were illuminated. Nora was still awake up there, her silhouette moving across the scrim of living room light, maybe talking on the phone.

The woman spent a lot of time on the phone.

"When I get to Pittsburgh, I think I'll buy a two-bedroom house in the suburbs-never know when a babe might want to sleep over. Yes, and get a nice desk job. County government, perhaps, something secure. Good money, good benefits. A meat-and-potatoes kind of job. I'll buy life insurance. I'll file my taxes quarterly. Perhaps marry a God-fearing Christian with multipersonalities. That way I could come home to a different woman every night. Whoops. Holy shit!"

I heard a tremendous thrashing out on the water, then a whistling noise as the Bomber came zooming past my ear and landed in the coral rock by a coconut palm.

I'd thrown my hands up-way too late-and now I sighed and returned to my wrapping. "You get a tarpon on like that, Tomlinson, you've got to bow when it jumps or it'll throw the plug back at warp speed. You're going to get one of us killed. That thing only missed me by a couple of feet."

"Sorry, sorry." He was stripping out the tangle, retrieving the lure. "Big bastards out there in the dark. Absolutely lucking ferocious. If tarpon grew teeth, I wouldn't go anywhere near the water. What I want is a nice snapper. Something tasty for lunch. Perhaps invite Delia. They ought to be hitting on this falling barometer." He began to cast again. "Where was I?"

"Pittsburgh."

"Ah, exactly. I've come to regret this pirate's life of ours, Marion. A life of excess and immorality. A man can only take so much sunshine and water, plus the constant party-party-party that Florida requires. I fear that chemicals are starting to take their toll. Reptiles have been visiting me in my dreams. I need to steel myself or rent a U-Haul."

"Um-huh. Tomlinson? Are you sleeping with Delia?"

He stopped reeling for a moment. "Of course I'm sleeping with Delia. The poor woman needed comforting. I'm just what the doctor ordered."

"Then you know that Ted Bauerstock made her an offer on the totem."

The totem was still in the black bag, beside me on the boat.

"I know, she told me. More money than she makes in two years. I told her to keep the totem for a while. Absorb some of its goodness, some of its power, then sell. But Ted wants it right away. She's thinking it over." He was silent for a moment, then: "You had a long, private talk with the man."

"Yeah."

Tomlinson's laughter was oddly nervous. I'd never heard him make such a sound of discomfort before. "Know what he said to me? He said his father read somewhere, some deep government file someplace, that I was involved with a left-wing terrorist organization that killed nine people. His father warned him about me. This was like twenty years ago. The killings, I mean."

"An obvious attempt to leverage you. A ridiculous charge."

Tomlinson looked at me for a moment, then began to cast again. "That's what I told him. Exacdy my reaction. I like Ted. I like him a lot. I think his father is one evil son-of-a-bitch, but Ted's trying to make up for it. You don't like him, though, do you, Doc?"

"Nope. I'm not sure why. He says all the right things in just the right way. Politically, he's got great radar. This afternoon, he told me exacdy what he knew I wanted to hear. But it's like… he sees everyone else as a stage prop for his own life. Objects to be manipulated. That's the impression I get.

He's too careful; had way too much practice at being smooth. No, I don't like him. I don't like Ted Bauerstock."

He sighed. "You're wrong. Trust me on this one, amigo. Trust my instincts. I think Ted's a good man."

I'd finished taping the length of electrical conduit. Now it was an effective sap, and I smacked it into my hand. It made a satisfying thwap.

I said, "Really? I agree that he's very charming, but when he talks about his father? I think he might be describing himself."

I awoke in a freezing sweat on the couch of the upstairs apartment, dreaming that I'd stepped into some slow-motion booby trap in a faraway jungle, and that a rope was pulling me up into the trees …

I sat upright, groggy at first, then all senses at alert.

Something had yanked at my ankle. Now it yanked again.

It was fishing line.

There were fifteen metal steps leading to our apartment, the only conventional entrance. I'd taken the weak, six-pound test line I'd bought at Kmart and tied it shin-high across the first step and one of the middle steps. From those lines, I ran a single piece up the wall, through a space between the window air conditioner and the window seal, then across the carpet to the couch.

It was a very simple, very effective early-warning system. The line was so sheer that it was easily broken; it wouldn't trip a person traveling the stairs, nor would they notice it. But it was strong enough to wake me.

I popped the line from around my ankle and stood. Glanced at the door to the bedroom where Nora was asleep. It was closed.

I was wearing gray boxer underwear. I slipped my boating loafers on and moved quietly to the sliding glass doors that I'd intentionally left unlocked.

The glass doors looked out over the marina basin and a balcony that circled the second floor. The steps were on the opposite side by the road and parking lot. I went through the doorway onto the balcony and circled to my right. Below, the marina was asleep. I was at eye level with the masts of sailboats. I could see No Mas out there, a ghostly white. Could see the porch light of Delia's trailer.

I stopped at the first corner and peeked around. Nothing. Stopped at the second corner and peeked around, expecting to see someone futzing with the door, trying to break in. Nothing.

Who the hell had hit the trip wire?

I retraced my steps just in case my late-night visitor had gone around the other side of the balcony. No one there; still no one at the door… but there was someone coming up the stairs now: a tall, lean shape moving quietly in the dim light. Maybe he'd forgotten something. Had to go back to his car, and was coming up the steps for a second time. That would explain the lapse in time.

I pressed close to the stucco. As I did, I realized I'd left the sap I'd made on the floor by the couch.

Damn it.

I had no choice, now, but to go after him empty-handed.

I waited… waited until he was at the door and hunched over fiddling with the knob. That's when I swung around the corner, driving hard with my legs, planning to smash him into the wall, then overpower him…

… heard a woman scream "FORD!" and looked up just in time to see Nora's terrified face a microsecond before I crushed her. I twisted hard to my right, hit the railing at full stride, somersaulted over the rail, fell feet-first ten feet or so and landed in a sea grape tree at the edge of the parking lot.

'Jesus Christ, Ford, is that you?"

I didn't want to answer, but I had no choice. "Yes, it's me, Nora. Out for a stroll, were you?"

"Okay, so now that I know about your little alarm system, no more going outside at night to sneak a cigarette from my car."

"You said you don't smoke."

"On Swamp Angel? Not having a lighter, I said that's what I get for not smoking. And I don't. I don't smoke normally. I smoke occasionally. But I got out there and thought, nope, this time I've quit for good. So I didn't have one."

I was still in my underwear, lying on her bed while she used a washcloth and pan of soapy water to clean out a scatter-gun variety of puncture wounds and abrasions. She'd insisted; had led me by the hand into her bedroom-but not before I'd tied new fishing line and snaked it past the air conditioner, resetting the trip line. When I was back on the couch, I'd attach it to my ankle once again.

And I would get back to the couch, even though she was being attentive beyond expectations. I have no interest in casual encounters.

"My God, that bruise on your side looks awful." She touched her fingers to my rib cage, tenderly, then got up, went out the door and came back with a plastic sack full of ice. She was wearing a gray T-shirt that read Eldridge Softball. Pearl-white panties, too, which turned her long legs nearly black. Now she combed fingers through her rice-bowl hair and used the pillow to brace the ice against my side.

Ted Bauerstock was right. Through those wire-rimmed glasses, she had extraordinary eyes. As she leaned over me, I could look through the clear corneas into the optic disks. Her irises were a mahogany shade of amber. The amber was three-dimensional with wine traces, flecked with gold. Her pupils were big as a cat's in the soft light, black and flawless.

By moving my head slighdy, I could also take churlish advantage and see down her T-shirt-the flat muscularity of stomach, flat breasts with dark aureole rings around elongated nipples, a hint of tan line. Not much. She apparently liked to spend time outside.

"Know what you reminded me of? You know that old Cary Grant movie, the one he goes running around looking for this jaguar that's escaped? Bringing Up Baby, that's it."

She had the washcloth again, warm water-sopped, and she was moving her fingers through my chest hair, cleaning the scrapes. To get a better angle, she scooched farther onto the bed; had one foot on the mattress, leg bent, so I could see her pearl panties; the swell of pudenda and oudined curl of hair.

"The reason Cary Grant is chasing the jaguar is, a dog stole this very important dinosaur bone and-how'd it go? — I think they were worried the jaguar ate the dog and, heck, I can't remember, but it was hilarious." She stopped rubbing my chest with the cloth for a moment, as if she'd noticed something. Her eyes slowly widened, then she stood up fast. "Marion! You've got the wrong idea about this!"

Hastily, I pulled the blanket over my hips; felt like an idiot. "Nora, I'm very sorry. I had no idea… I mean, I didn't realize what was happening… don't think for a moment… I didn't even touch you."

Now she was laughing. "Don't worry about it. I'm flattered, but no more sponge baths for you, mister." Her laughter faded; she stood there staring at me in her T-shirt. "Know something, Ford. I thought you were one of the biggest jerks I'd ever met. And a bookworm. I don't think I've ever misread someone so badly in my life. Now it turns out I like you. Something else?" She waited for a few beats, looking at me before she added, "You are a very attractive guy. I didn't even realize it at first, now I do. But I'm real slow about this sort of thing. Physical contact, I mean. So it's probably good I'm leaving in the morning."

That was the first I'd heard it. "Oh?"

"Yeah. I'm driving up to Ted's ranch tomorrow, but I'm not supposed to say anything because he's had a lot of bad press lately about him and women he's dated, so he's trying to play it cool. Keep it private. Not that it's a date," she added quickly, "because it isn't. He wants to talk about the museum, how he can help and the scholarship fund they're going to set up in Dorothy's name."

"A business trip," I said.

"Exacdy. To surprise him? I think I'll take Delia along. That way I can interview her on the drive up. No interruptions. But later this week, or maybe next week, give me a call, we'll get together and do something. Fish, hang out, explore some islands. Whatever you want."

I leaned and gave her a kiss on the forehead before walking to the living room. "I'd like that."

Early in the morning, with the first gray dust contrails of light filtering through curtains, I awoke to find Nora kneeling beside me. I felt her kiss my cheek, then touch her lips to mine. Heard her say, "Move over, big guy."

I looked and saw that she was naked. Felt her bony rib cage as she slid in close; felt the heat of her nipples through my chest hair as I cupped her in my arm; felt her fingers trace my stomach and spread the elastic band of my shorts, searching. She kissed me hard when her fingers found me, and she whispered, "It's officially later this week."

I said, "I told myself I wouldn't let this happen."

She said, "Was that earlier this week or later?"

"I can't remember. It's hard to think because of what you're doing."

"Really? Then break off that damn fishing line."