Tampa Burn (34 page)

I'd let her find that letter for herself, then act surprised when she told me.

Behaving as if I were surprised—after all the experience I'd gotten in the last few hours, that'd be no problem.

 

 

I'D slept off and on during the day, Ransom keeping me company. She works at Tarpon Bay Marina, managing the little store there, and also at the Sanibel Rum Bar & Grille. She said things had been so slow, taking a day off was no big deal.

That indicated to me the degree of her concern.

It was showing. The turmoil, all the stress, were getting to me, or she wouldn't have taken a day away from work.

I found myself worrying about Dewey—Where was she? Why hadn't I heard from her? And Lake—Would they let him write me? And when?

I thought about Tinman. Who the hell was he?

I knew a man who might be able to tell me. . . .

I have a satellite phone of my own. Seldom need it; keep it packed away because I can use it to contact only one man: a guy named Hal Harrington.

Hal's with the U.S. State Department. He's also a member of a covert operations team that is known, to a very few, as the Negotiating and System Analysis Group—the Negotiators, for short.

Because the success of the team requires that members blend easily into most societies worldwide, each man was provided with a legitimate and mobile profession when he joined. Harrington became a computer software wizard.

Another of the group's members became a marine biologist.

The trouble with becoming a Negotiator was that, once you were in, there was no getting out. You could never be free again.

Whenever I talked with Hal, he reminded me of that.

“Quid pro quo,” he would say, granting most technical favors I asked, but always giving me an assignment in return.

I hadn't talked with him in a while.

I decided not to talk to him now. But I did send him an e-mail, asking for information on Thackery. Did the crazed surfer ever go by the alias “Tinman”?

I knew that, ultimately, it would mean another assignment from Hal.

 

 

AFTER
that, I paced; checked my AOL account over and over for e-mails. I paced; glared at the phone, willing it to ring, hoping that I would hear Dewey's voice on the other end.

I telephoned Janet Mueller twice, pressing her to contact the woman, each time stressing how important it was that I speak with her. When I picked up the phone a third time, I stopped and had to vow to myself I wouldn't pester Janet again.

There was something else I was obsessing about, too: Tomlinson.

Except for his quick trip into the marina, he'd spent the day out there all alone aboard
No Mas.
From the windows of my lab, I could see the vessel's old white hull at anchor, pointing like a slow weather vane against the tide. With all that was going on in my life, I had to ask myself, under normal circumstances, wouldn't I have sought out his opinions and advice? Wouldn't I have hopped in my skiff and gone a-calling? Or invited him in for an early beer?

The answer was an unqualified yes. He would have been the first person I would have turned to for help. Ransom was correct. The man had come to seem like a brother to me.

That had changed, though. For now, anyway. Maybe for all time.

 

 

WHICH is probably why, that afternoon when I nearly collided with Tomlinson as I exited the Red Pelican Gift Shop, I tried way too hard to mask my uneasiness—which, of course, just made my uneasiness more obvious.

The most startling thing, though, was that Tomlinson's manner was just as stilted.

“Whoops, sorry . . .
oh.
Hello, Tomlinson.”

“Doc? Hey, great to see you,
compadre.
Just really . . . great.”

“In for supplies?”

“Oh yeah, man. Beans and beer.”

“Food and beer, well . . . you need those.”

“Absolutely. Food, yeah . . . even for me, eating is, like . . . mandatory.”

“Yeah, sure. Food. Um. Did you . . . did you get the note I left about the medical supplies?”

“Oh yeah. My doctor buddies are already working on the list.”

“Good. Good. Well . . . nice seeing you.”

“Right back at you, amigo!”

Walking away from him, I could feel sweat beading on my back, and I knew that my face had to be flushed. I was already dreading our next meeting, when from behind me I heard him call after me, “Doc. Hey, Doc? Hold it just a sec, would you?”

I turned to look. I was standing in the parking lot. He'd stopped just outside the marina office, next to the doorway that led up the steps to Jeth's upstairs apartment. He was conservatively dressed for him: shirtless, khaki British walking shorts belted with a rope, and a knitted Rastafarian cap, red, black, and green, holding his hair in a bun.

I said, “Something wrong?”

I couldn't remember ever seeing him looking so melancholy. “Yeah, Doc. Your aura, man. It's impossible for me not to notice. You don't even have to tell me, and I already know.”

“Know what?”

“I know something's happened.”

I said, “I don't understand what you're talking about.”

“What I'm talking about is you. That something very heavy has gone down. It's like—
ouch
—iceberg country. A solid cold wall has dropped. That's the vibe I'm getting. Emotional cataclysm; bridges burning.” He seemed to be thinking it through as he spoke, feeling the words. “An event has taken place that has changed the entire social interactive structure. You've . . . discovered
something.
A real mind-bender. Is any of this making sense?”

My tone flat, I said, “No. But that's not unusual when I listen to you.”

“Are you sure? Then why is it I get the feeling you're pissed off at me?”

I said, “I don't know. Is there some reason I
should
be pissed off?”

He still wore that poignant expression, but there was now also a spark of awareness. “O.K. I'm beginning to tune in. Like clouds moving away from the void.”

“I'm glad one of us understands, because I don't.” I turned to leave.

“In that case, I'll walk along with you, if you don't mind. Maybe we can hash it out.”

I didn't want him to walk with me, but couldn't think of a quick excuse that made sense. I looked from one to another of the marina's main roofed structures. There are four: the combination office and take-out restaurant, the Red Pelican Gift Shop, Mack's house, which is beyond the docks at the edge of the mangroves, and the storage barn and repair shop behind it.

I was on my way to the storage barn because Mack, for mysterious reasons, had invited me and some of the guides to a private meeting there. So I used that. I said, “I'm in kind of a rush. Mack wants to see me about something—it's important; I'm not sure what. And I'm late.”

I've known Tomlinson so long that I can read his mannerisms nearly as well as he can read mine. The gentle smile on his face told me,
I know you're lying, but it's O.K.,
even as he spoke, saying, “It won't take long, and I'll walk fast. Promise.”

I began to walk again and he joined in step. “I heard about Dewey splitting. Man, I am so sorry. As you know, good women can't dump me fast enough once they catch on to how truly weird my act is. So that kind of emotional pain is something I've got a handle on. Like, if you need an ear to listen?”

I said, “What I need is to find out where she went. She's so damn stubborn. I need to discuss something with her. There's a very important
reason
that we need to talk. But she won't. So, if you know where she is, I'd appreciate your telling me.”

He was shaking his head. “I told everybody I don't want to know. That's 'cause if you asked, I knew I'd tell you, man. It's the lady's gig; Dewey's secret. Not mine to share. But Doc—” He seemed to put additional meaning in his emphasis. “There's nothing in the world you couldn't ask me. Not if I knew the answer. Or do for you. The same deal, man.
Anything.
”

I stopped walking. Stood there looking into his blue and ancient mariner's eyes. “It makes me nervous when friends put little messages between the lines. It's like they're trying to make me guess. Or find out what I know. If you want to tell me something, just come right out and tell me.”

He thought about that for a moment, considering, before he said, “You're in a hurry. You've got that meeting with Mack. So maybe tonight, we can have a few beers, sit out and feed the mosquitoes. Yeah, Doc”—this was added reflectively—“I think we've got a few things we need to discuss. Maybe clear the air a little, huh?”

Not wanting to sound too unsociable—he was already guarded—I told him, that reminded me: I had a Tucker Gatrell story for him that he was going to love.

THE junk and marine litter that has accumulated around the storage barn and repair shop is screened from the parking lot by a wooden fence that runs back and along the mangrove swamp that encircles the marina and Dinkin's Bay.

The marina's fishing guides—Jeth, Felix, Neville, Alex Payne, Dave—were already there when I arrived, sitting on packing crates or leaning against savaged outboards, all looking at Mack, who'd been speaking. Mack was wearing green Bermuda shorts, a yellow tank top, and a massive straw hat, and was smoking a cigar that was just long enough to extend beyond the brim.

When I appeared, Mack paused long enough to relight the cigar and say, “See? I invited Doc. That proves I'm not crazy.”

I wondered what that meant.

Mack is Graeme MacKinley, a New Zealander who sailed to the States years ago and took a flier on a marina. He is stocky, plainspoken, and a superlative businessman who's tight with a dime but big-hearted when it comes to philanthropy, and with the quirky cast of characters who live and work at his marina. Like many foreign nationals who've done well in the States, he's both ardently patriotic and also a raging libertarian who despises government regulations and interference. When it comes to marina business, he rarely asks opinions or takes polls.

Unaware of the meeting's purpose or what he meant, I replied, “Sorry to disagree, Mack, but I've come to the conclusion that almost everyone at this marina is a tad crazy—including me,” which got a small laugh and, to my own surprise, seemed to lighten my mood a little.

Mack said, “Oh, you got a point there, mate!” and then added to no one in particular, “Fill 'im in, gents. Tell the doctor what we're doing here.”

Big Felix Blane took charge. “You wanna talk crazy, well, Mack's come up with one of the craziest ideas of all time. You know the Sanibel police boat? That shitty little tri-hull they keep moored next to the
Island Belle
? They almost never use the thing, and the engine's about shot.”

I said, “Sure, I know the boat,” picturing a stained hull with an older Evinrude outboard. I'd heard the department had gotten it in some kind of sting a few years back.

Captain Felix said, “The boat just sits there, they don't keep the bottom clean, but it could be an O.K. little skiff if they cared a little more about it. Which they don't seem to. So maybe that's why the police department hasn't paid their wet-slippage rent in a couple months.”

“Seven months,” Mack corrected sharply. “For seven months, their bean-counters have been stringing me along. They don't return my calls, they ignore my letters. I'm sick of being treated like a fool.”

“That's what this is about,” Captain Dave said. “The Sanibel Police Department hasn't paid their rent, and Mack's on the warpath. Now he wants us to do something that's just plain nuts.”

“Seeking justice isn't nuts,” Mack said priggishly. “Do you remember what country you're in? Or a thing called the Constitution? I've called them, I've sent notices. I've gone down to City Hall in person; wasted hours trying to collect that goddamn debt. They made
me
fill out forms because
they
haven't paid their bills.

“How long would I be walking around free on the streets if the tables were turned? If I owed the city money? If I told them to go piss up a rope when they came to collect?” Mack had been gesturing with his cigar, but now jammed it back in the corner of his mouth. “It's the principle of the thing, damn it! When the government starts ignoring the basic rules of commerce, we're all taking it up the bum. The department owes me money. They refuse to pay, so I've had it. I've given them every chance.”

I could see that Mack had been worked up about it for a while.