Tampa Burn (25 page)

“You staged the whole dang business, Ford. You fired them rounds. That spooky old Sig Sauer with no serial numbers we found in the Chevy was planted by you. For some reason, you want them boys jailed real bad.”

I was thinking to myself,
Tucker Gatrell outsmarted this guy?
as he continued, “I told Miz Tamara all that before we got you in the car. But something clicked between you two. Man and woman stuff. I seen it happen to some of the best. They get a gut feelin' about who they can trust, and their brain stops. I knowed it when she started askin' questions in a way so you knew how to answer. Poor girl didn't even know she was doin' it. So I'm gonna give you one last chance to do the honorable thing. The right thing.”

I shook my head slowly again—
No
—saying, “I'm not involved in anything that's going to hurt her or her career, I promise you.”

He snorted, spit as he banged his stick on the ground hard, like a gavel. “That ain't gonna cut it. So here's the deal: If she takes any grief because of your lies, I'm gonna come down on you like a marble ceiling. I still never got my revenge on your uncle. Not
yet,
anyway. Maybe I'll get 'er through you.”

I looked at my watch—8:57 P.M.—then looked at the black cypress canopy above, a pearling sky beyond, thinking,
All I want to do is get home. Back to my fish and boats and books—and find my boy.

Even so, I still had to ask the question. Had to ask because I needed to know how much hatred I was dealing with. How far was this old man willing to take it? In getting him to talk, I also hoped maybe he'd soften a little and give me a few hints about who was responsible for the boat fire.

Even though I was exhausted, I tried my best to sound empathetic when I asked Merlin T. Starkey about Tucker Gatrell, and how, exactly, that old con man had managed to ruin his career.

And he told me.

AS
I pulled onto the Tamiami Trail, headed west toward Sanibel, I got the number from information and had the girl at the Miami Radisson's front desk ring Tomlinson's room.

No answer.

The first time, I left a message for him saying, “I've got a classic Tucker Gatrell story that you're not going to believe. Actually, you will believe it. It's so typical. Plus there's interesting news about the black car.”

I think I sounded upbeat. Not a hint of suspicion in my voice.

How Tucker had ruined the career of Merlin T. Starkey—I told myself that was the reason I tried Tomlinson's room again ten minutes later, then redialed a third time a few minutes after that. Told myself I was eager to share the wild tale, and also confirm that Pilar and Tomlinson were safe. That seemed reasonable. Hadn't I told them not to leave the room?

True, Balserio, Hugo, and Elmase had probably already been booked into Collier County jail. But my friend and my former lover weren't aware of that. They should have been inside the Radisson with the bolts latched.

I checked my watch: 9:30 P.M.

So where were they?

Or . . . maybe they
were
in the room, but ignoring the phone. Inside all alone, but having too much fun to answer.

Yeah, that was certainly possible . . .

I plucked up the cell phone, hit redial again, and told the irritable desk clerk, “This is kind of important. Would you mind trying that room one more time?”

Nothing.

My primary concern was that they were in some kind of trouble. Someone had gotten to them. But I was also aware of an undercurrent of adolescent-grade suspicion.

My behavior, I lied to myself, had nothing to do with Tomlinson and how he behaved with women. I also told myself it wasn't because of the secret, sexual Pilar that tumbled out under a lot of stress, and after a couple of glasses of wine.

I simply wanted to let them know that it was safe for them to unlock the door and leave Miami. That maybe they should get on the phone and grab the first fast cab back to Sanibel.

I'm not the suspicious type. Too mature, too rational to be jealous, so that's not why I kept calling.

That's what I told myself.

I also wasn't already regretting exchanging my Sig Sauer for Balserio's freedom, nor did some secret part of me consider that gun a mighty good-luck talisman.

In the next few minutes, I received two calls. But it wasn't the missing couple. First time, it was one of Tomlinson's Zen students, who told me in a rush that she felt the mantra he'd assigned her just wasn't working because, she now realized, it was similar to the name of an old boyfriend.

“Please tell the respected Daishi it's becoming a real downer, picturing that asshole's face every time I work on my
sutra.
”

I said I'd pass the information along if and when I ever spoke to the great Daishi again.

The second caller didn't pause even when I tried to interrupt.

“Hey, man, how're you doin'? Nothing urgent but my outboard's about bone dry. Hear what I'm tellin' ya? We need it at the Marco Island store. I hear a buck fifty a gallon sounds right. So I'll take two bags.
Gallons,
I mean. Only if it's high test, though; got a big race tonight. Catch you at the shack. Same place—and tell your delivery boy not to be late this time.”

As I said “Huh?” he hung up.

 

 

AT ten till ten, I slowed for the orange blinker and gas station fluorescence that is the turnoff to Everglades City at the intersection of Route 29. Down that rural two-lane was the Rod & Gun Club, the classic old fishing lodge where I'd waved a last goodbye to my parents.

Suddenly, I wasn't thinking about Tomlinson and Pilar anymore.

To the southwest, beyond mangroves, the lights of the village reflected off clouds. Once again, the image of the departing boat, my father, my mother, her eyes and smiling face, appeared. My father's secret hand signal. Once again, the freshness of detail startled me.

Had that scene ever come into my mind before?

I was certain it hadn't. Not as an adult, anyway. Yet, how could I have forgotten a moment like that?

It seemed impossible, but I had. Until today.

It was a psychological anomaly that I'd never experienced.

I have little patience for nostalgia; seldom linger in the past. I've lived an independent, self-reliant life in which family hasn't played a role. After so many years on my own, my recall of those long-dead people had faded more completely than the photo I'd found of Ervin Rouse.

Yet on this day, they'd reappeared, alive in memory.

I found that puzzling and remarkable. It also seemed somehow important.

I couldn't fathom. What I'd learned about Tucker Gatrell wasn't a factor. No, it was more personal than that.

I considered making the turn to Everglades City, traveling the four or five miles to the Barron River to stand beneath the old moon-globe streetlights. To stand on the dock once again, where I'd said goodbye a final time. That reconnection might suggest an answer.

I decided against it. It was a little too touchy-feely for comfort. To me, self-exploration has always seemed an excuse for self-absorption. I'm too interested in the world outside to waste time on dramatic introspection.

I kept driving.

Still, the question lingered: Why had I experienced such a vivid recollection—especially after what I'd been through earlier? The leering face of a crazy man, threatening castration with a knife, is not easily displaced.

But it
had
been displaced. It had been replaced by the forgotten memory of my final few moments with my parents.

I thought about it as I drove.

I was in a wild section of Everglades called the Fakahatchee Strand. Traffic was sparse. I had windows down, peepers and bullfrogs rioting as I burrowed through their darkness at speed. The moon, nearly full, had been up long enough to saturate the flora with incandescent current. The sawgrass was luminous, a plateau of blue. Isolated tree canopies glowed cellularly—a kind of lunar synthesis.

I continued to wrestle with the question:
Why?
What had caused that buried moment to reveal itself?

I tried to cut through all the emotional, sentimental BS, seeking a rational explanation. I've read that internal, emotional anomalies are often catalyzed by external change. My life had changed dramatically in the last few days.

Key elements came to mind, then key words: son . . . parents . . . heredity . . . genetics . . .
blood.

Yes, that seemed a sensible linkage.

It had only been in the last year or so that Lake had accepted me as his father, and I'd come to accept and value him as my son. The man and pretty woman who'd returned in memory with such startling clarity were my son's
grandparents.

I'd never thought of my parents in that context before. In fact, I no longer even thought of myself as having parents, nor of being someone's son.

Family? I think of the cheerful live-aboards and fishing guides of Dinkin's Bay Marina as my extended family. But to be a member of an actual family, a blood kinship? With the exception of my cousin and friend, Ransom Gatrell—Tucker's daughter—having relatives, being part of a family, was something I'd never coveted.

Maybe shock caused by Lake's dilemma had sparked the forgotten memory. If so, it had also sparked the realization that I
was
the member of a family.

What was left of one, anyway.

I'd lost my parents years ago. Now I was confronting the possibility of losing their only grandson. As a biologist, the enormity of such a loss hit me for the first time. Two generations, two bridges in a family hereditary chain, wiped out.

As a father, the possibility of losing yet another generational member hit me much harder. Lake was my son. He was a great kid who loved science and baseball, and he was a hell of a lot more than just some genetic bridge.

I don't use a lot of profanity, but I used a couple of rough words now, banged my hand on the steering wheel, and yelled into the night, “Where are you?
Where are you?
”

I've never thought of myself as an orphan. Nor will I—too much self-pity in that word. But after a lifetime spent living alone, I had the frailest suspicion of an understanding that it meant something very different to
exist alone
in the world.

I now faced that possibility.

I had to stay smart and hope for the right breaks. We had to make contact with the kidnappers at the first opportunity.

I had to find my son.

 

 

THE satellite phone was beside me on the seat. With Balserio and his men put away, I felt there was a window of time in which it would be safe to carry the thing. In a couple of days, maybe three, I'd destroy it. Hadn't the lady detective told me I'd be notified before they were released from jail?

Yeah.

So the phone remained a tenuous link.

I glanced at the thing now, willing it to ring.

It didn't, of course.

Why hadn't they called? Maybe they'd given Pilar the phone only so they could use it to track her. It seemed plausible, but I was desperate enough to hang on to it anyway. They
might
call.

Tomlinson and Pilar came to mind. I checked the dashboard clock—10:04—as I picked up the cell phone. Maybe they'd returned to the hotel room. Or . . . maybe something really had happened to them.

I squinted to touch Redial, then stopped myself as my mind transferred data. There'd been another recent, surprising change in my life. There was yet another person who might become a part of that linkage that joined Lake and me.

Those key words again: heredity . . . genetics . . .
blood.

This much I knew: The well-being of the woman who'd slipped into my mind was a hell of a lot more important than an ex-lover.

Quickly, I dialed Dewey Nye's home number. She's the early-to-bed type during the week, so I expected to catch her reading before turning off the light.

I didn't. She not only didn't answer, her message machine didn't intercept. Odd.

So I tried her cell phone. I decided I must have dialed wrong, because a recorded message told me,
“The number you have reached is no longer in service.”

I felt a little chill when, after dialing carefully, I got the same message.

Dewey had kept the same cell phone number for years. A dummy number she called it. The last four digits were all sevens. Lucky sevens, she called it that, too. She wouldn't have canceled her service.

I dialed once again just to be sure, and got the recording.

She
had
canceled it.

Or did wireless phones, when broken, respond in that way?

I didn't know.

I'd been driving the speed limit. I'd been considering turning back to Miami. Instead, I pushed the car up to eighty.

Now I had to find Dewey, too.

 

 

I reached the four-way stop at Tarpon Bay Road, Sanibel Island, at eleven-thirty. But instead of turning right onto the narrow road that leads to Dinkin's Bay Marina, I continued on toward Captiva.

I crossed Blind Pass Bridge, noticing that the bar at 'Tween Waters was still open, and the Green Flash, too. At Twin Palms Marina, it looked like the Jensen brothers were having a midweek cookout and party. There were colored lights and a bonfire that glazed boats, docks, people, coconut palms with oscillating gold.

I knew that if I stopped at any one of those places, I'd find friends and a drink, and sympathy, too.