Deep Blue (13 page)

The dog returned with slobber dripping from the coconut. The woman didn't mind. She knelt and stroked his head, cooing, “Good Pablo, nice Pablo, what a smart dog you are, Pablo.”

“Pablo?”

“Sí.”
She continued to coo while the dog's tongue slapped at her face.

“That can't be. If he was Pablo, he would understand when I tell him to get the hell away and leave me alone. Doc never said anything about him being a Spanish dog.”

Smiling, the woman looked up and translated, “Peter, yes, that's his name in English,” then continued her fawning. “Pablo, so intelligent . . . Pablo such a good, good boy.”

Figuerito stared.
Mother of God,
he thought,
nice
chichis
, but the woman's a babbling idiot
—he'd met his share while incarcerated at Havana's Prison for the Insane, which was next to a baseball field, not far from José Martí International.

But that was okay. In a country where even babbling women were beautiful and rich, anything was possible for a man who was strong and willing to work hard. “That's my motorcycle,” he said and pointed to the parking lot, where a 1957 Harley-Davidson with red fenders and lots of chrome was parked.

“Motorcycle,” the woman repeated in Spanish. “Is very nice.”

With his hands, he pantomimed twisting the throttle and made revving sounds. “Would you like to go for a ride?”

The invitation required more gesturing, and the woman, who was six inches taller, appeared interested until she peered over his head and saw Tomlinson in the distance.

“Maybe later,” she said in English. “Anyone who loves dogs, I already trust.”

•   •   •

Something Mack enjoyed
about these parties was that no one played that god-awful Christmas music that hammered the skull when you were shopping or in a car. He'd paid good money for the outdoor speakers spaced around the docks—although a couple of them were fuzzy with age, and the sound quality generally sucked. Even so, he had a proprietary interest in choosing who was in charge of the song list.

Tonight it was Hannah—
Captain
Hannah—who lived aboard a 30-foot Hinckley-type cruiser, but across the bay at the Fisherman's Co-op, not at the marina. She was a willowy hard case with deep South Florida roots, but, for a change, tonight she had eschewed country twang in favor of Caribbean drums, but also mixed in the occasional opera classic.

“I hope she doesn't play
Madame Butterfly
,” Rhonda said, fanning charcoal smoke from her face. “It always makes me cry. The part where she puts the dagger to her chest, oh my god, I want to grab her and say, ‘Are you nuts?'”

Rhonda had orbited slowly, subtly closer to the grill, until she was at Mack's side. Across the water on A dock, her longtime partner, JoAnn, was holding court aboard
Tiger Lilly
, where lights and plastic mistletoe were strung bow to stern. Rhonda watched her heavyset friend for a while, then asked, “Think she knows?”

Rather than answer that for the thousandth time, Mack stuck to
music. “I saw
Madame Butterfly
in English once. I wanted to cry, too, but for different reasons. The main baritone in the opera, I didn't realize he was an American sailor. He's the one she should've—” Mack realized what he was about to suggest, so made a sudden tack. “Hang on to these.”

He handed her the tongs and got another bag of alligator meat from the cooler. The fillets had been pounded flat until they were fibrous and white and tender.

Rhonda, still watching JoAnn, said, “She's suspicious about you buying the beach cottages, too.”

“Let her think what she wants.” Mack reclaimed the tongs, turned the fillets, which were nearly done, and made room for more. “What we should be grilling is shark—but I admit that having Hello, Dolly! back is good for business.”

“That's a terrible thing to say.” Rhonda's attention returned to the man beside her. “Besides, I heard it was a gag some radio DJ pulled. That's what the Coast Guard thinks. It was on local news about an hour ago. They're still investigating, but that's what one of their spokesmen told a reporter.”

“The reporter didn't hear the guy's voice when he was attacked,” Mack countered. “I did. I had a parley with the fishing guides. We're going to go out there and kill that bloody bastard. But on the q.t. Greenies on this island would get their panties all in a tither if a shark was killed, but don't give a damn if it kills three or four people.”

“You don't really believe that.”

No, he didn't, but it was better than talking about JoAnn, who, after a while, Rhonda got back to anyway, saying, “I keep telling her you're buying the cottages for everyone.”

Mack called hello to Ford and Tomlinson as they cruised past with a nice-looking blonde sandwiched between them. It was an opportunity to change the subject. “She's a veterinarian,” he said. “Remember the woman from yesterday who helped rescue Doc's crazy dog?”

“Why don't you want to talk about this?”

“What am I supposed to say? I'm buying the beach property, sure, so folks will have a place to go if the feds kick us out. But you and I both know it is so we'll have more private time together.”

He felt okay about that until Rhonda melted him with her wistful look and asked, “Is that true, Mack?”

No, that wasn't true either . . . Well, it was sort of true. Hell . . . Mack didn't know what the truth was anymore. He had lied his way across three continents and four decades before settling on this island to start a new life. The success he'd achieved as a businessman was unexpected, but nothing else had changed. He was still a dodgy, sneaking bastard.

“Of course it's true,” Mack replied and squared himself for a lightning bolt or whatever the hell came next.

“Uh-oh . . . she's waving for me to come over,” Rhonda said, then looked him in the eye. “Mack? I don't care about the age difference, and I don't care if it's right or wrong. You are the kindest, most decent man I've ever met.” She traced the small of his back with an unseen finger as she passed behind him.

The gator fillets were burning.
Damn.
Mack scorched a hand when he reached to turn them. “Bloody goddamn bastards!”

His head swiveled to see if anyone had heard. It was unlikely with an operatic banshee wailing from outdoor speakers that had
cost him fifty bucks apiece. He slammed the grill closed and marched past the bait tanks, up a shell path to the office. Captain Hannah was inside, swaying to the music while she sorted through CDs. A pretty, big-boned woman with raven hair.

“Do me a favor and don't play
Madame Butterfly
,” he told her.

“What?”

“You heard me,” Mack said because she had.

The woman didn't like that one bit. “If you're worried I'll blow out those old speakers, don't. The noise they make when there's too much bass puts my teeth on edge.”

“There's nothing wrong with those speakers,” Mack countered, “but that's not the reason. I'm going to do the drawing early. To me, all opera sounds like
Madame Butterfly
.” He offered a weak smile. “That's all I meant.”

Hannah was too smart to believe him, and didn't care for his tone. She played along, but with an edge. “In that case, Mr. Elf, you're going to need a bucket or something for the list of names.” She placed a jar filled with little squares of paper in front of him. “Here're the names, now go find your own bucket. Oh . . . since I did all the work”—under the counter was a pointy green hat—“do
me
a favor and wear this.”

It was the rare person who could back down Mack. Capt. Hannah was one of them.

He took the hat and did as he was told.

•   •   •

Ford and the veterinarian
were discussing the dog and canine genetics when Mack exited the office, wearing an elf hat and
smoking a cigar. Trailing behind was Hannah. Ford's eyes were on her, not Mack, as Mack dumped a jar of names into a bucket, made a few announcements, then said, “Everybody, line up. And remember the rules—no trading names, no gifts over twenty bucks, and if you pick your own damn name, you have to, by god, admit it.”

By then, Ava was thinking Ford wasn't such a bad guy after all. If she had to choose, she might have skipped last night with Tomlinson and gotten to know the biologist better. Her current relationship—a long-term affair with her business partner, a married man—was going nowhere, and sex was the ultimate game changer. It was the way her mind worked now. Survival mode, Ava thought of it, a way of taking stock before moving ahead with purpose. A year on the streets huffing meth as a teen, a broken pelvis, plus six weeks of rehab, had gradually channeled her toward men who were the safe, straight types. With Ford, she felt safer than usual. Strictly instinct, but too late to change what had happened, so she kept it light, saying, “I love the people here. Does everyone always get along so well?”

The man's response was positive, even generous, but also careful in an odd way.

“Maybe I'm naïve,” she said. “I probably am. I haven't lived a very exciting life.” She offered a few details—heavily edited—then said, “Or maybe it's the time of year. I'd like to think there's at least one small place in this world where . . .” She let the sentence trail off. Hovering overhead, beneath the stars, was what looked like a toy flying saucer. It was there, then gone.

Ford asked, “Something wrong?”

“I don't know. I think I saw another one of those radio-operated
planes.” She watched the man's expression change and thought,
Yes . . . with him I am safe.

They moved to a more secluded spot with a better view of the sky.

“Flying those things has to be an expensive hobby,” she said, “but I guess people on the island can afford it.” Which the man didn't seem to hear until she added, “Uh-oh . . . where'd the dog go?”

Damn it, that's when Tomlinson appeared, but it was nice the way Ford's hands felt when he turned her toward the guy in the elf hat who was smoking a cigar. “Get in line,” he said. “Don't worry, your name's already in the jar.”

Even when the biologist reappeared much later, his hand on the hip of a striking raven-haired woman, Ava felt okay about it. This was the way things should be. No need to sneak or pretend, or slip away to a hotel. They cared for each other—anyone could see that.

The same was true when Tomlinson introduced her to the ladies aboard
Tiger Lilly
, then a dozen others, including a psychiatrist, a football coach, a delightful Cuban woman and her daughters, and a handsome Brazilian named Vargas Diemer, who invited her aboard his yacht.

That's where she was, sitting next to Vargas but drinking bottled water, when she looked down at the shimmering lights, where people milled, and decided,
They don't need to hide who they are. Here, it's okay.

The Faraday cage the biologist built was not as Tomlinson had envisioned. It was more like a tent made of metal screens, with a floor and roof of tin, hidden in the mangroves not far from the lab.

“In the eighteen hundreds,” Ford explained, “a guy named Faraday proved that electromagnetic waves flow around conductive surfaces, not through them. That's why people inside a car are seldom struck by lightning. Which was no big deal back then, but now, where there's no place on Earth not bombarded by radio waves, shielded rooms are used by just about every high-tech industry there is. I was familiar with the concept but didn't understand the physics—or how easy it is to make something that works.”

Until then, Tomlinson had been disappointed. It was unlike his
pal to build a skid row–looking jumble of junk that formed a little room for the two battered drones. He'd pictured glistening bars of aluminum, with flotation tanks and a window wide enough for a man's shoulders but too small for the snout of a meat-eating monster who had a taste for vegetarians.

The bit about conductive shielding, though, opened a new door in his head. “I want one. Hell, I want one I can
wear
.” It was squishy, here in the mangroves, and so dense only a spattering of blue sky sprinkled through on this balmy sixteenth day of Christmas. He fanned mosquitoes away and inspected the cage walls. “It's mostly plain old window screening.”

Ford replied, “Aluminum; eighth-inch mesh. The screens have to be metal.”

“Hmm. You'd think radio waves would zoom right through the mesh, but, yeah, the concept is starting to gel. Metal, even metal screening, has its own electrical charge. That's a given. An outside charge, static or non-static, would follow the cage's flow instead of piercing the electron field—the path of least resistance.”

Ford said, “Copper's better, from what I've read, but this works okay as long as I get it sealed right. Here . . . let's do a check.”

He'd brought a pair of handheld VHF radios, which boaters often carried. He switched them on, reduced squelch until they roared with static, then handed one over. The other he placed inside the mesh cage. When he sealed the hatch, the radio went silent.

“Try transmitting.”

Tomlinson said, “Check. Check. Check,” and popped the mic key several times, then did a few other tests. “I'll be go to hell. That thing's deader than my first bottle of mescal and I'm only a couple
yards away.” He scanned an opening in the branches. “Any drones since the other night?”

“Jeth said he might have seen one, but not over this area. That was yesterday when I was in Tampa.”

“I wondered where you were. What's in Tampa?”

“Ybor City,” the biologist replied. “We flew up in the seaplane. The Maule. It's an incredible little bush plane.”

What Ford meant was
Don't ask
.

Tomlinson never knew what to believe. His pal often claimed to be someplace within driving distance when, in fact, he might have popped down to Peru or the Land of Fumbuck, Can't Say. Better to deal with the man on a real-time basis. “What about all the high-tech stuff up there in space? Or maybe satellite technology is no better than what Julian's been flying around. Hell, I don't even try and keep track anymore.”

“I'm not sure about that either.” Ford retrieved the radio and sealed the cage. “I've stopped assuming it's Julian. It probably is, but turns out there are some other possibilities.”

Tomlinson thought,
Maybe he did go to Tampa.
There was a military base there, U.S. Special Operations; spooks up the yin-yang, from Busch Gardens to Clearwater Beach. He let that go, too. “
Someone's
watching us—and when I say ‘us,' I mean the whole damn marina. This morning, I mentioned that to Ava—sort of slipped it into the conversation between coffee and my Wheaties—and the poor girl got foggy-eyed, thinking I was talking about the Big Guy. You know, God. A personal faith-based moment, just the two of us. Like all wounded women, she's attracted to spiritual men.”

Ford's attention was on the drones. “We've got to decide whether to dive the Blue Hole this afternoon or in the morning. If it's this afternoon, we might as well carry these back to the lab and load them in the boat.” After a moment, he turned. “What do you mean
wounded
?”

“Ava. You didn't pick up on that?”

“Just the opposite. She strikes me as competent and smart; seems to know where she's headed. I'm supposed to call her about the dog.”

“I'm crazy about the girl, don't get me wrong, but there're things in her head she keeps covered with a tarp.”

“Crazy in love, huh?” Ford's expression read
Bullshit
.

“In a brotherly way. She's a tad naïve, too. I had to rescue her from that snake Vargas the other night. Poor girl's in recovery from something—pills, my guess—and he was trying to feed her a martini.”

“When was this?”

“Monday, Secret Santa night. The same day you spent about an hour on Vargas's boat—I saw you two talking on the flybridge. Ava went aboard not long after you left. That surprised me, man. Not just her; you, too, even talking to that guy. Unless you were telling him to keep his paws off Hannah—you know he's got the hots for her.”

“That's when she told you she's a recovering addict?”

“No need.” Tomlinson tapped his temple. “It's right here under the tarp where she hides things. I knew right off. The other night on my boat, she got high smoking dried basil and mint, then got very, very shaky when I told her it wasn't the real thing. Scared, you know, but also relieved. Addiction's a short trip down, but a long, long way up if you have to make that climb twice.”

Ford thought,
You would know,
but chose to study a patch of blue sky and a slow-moving cloud. “The wind will lay down by tonight, so I say we dive tomorrow.”

“That's something we need to talk about. When you said ‘cage,' I figured you meant
shark cage
. Personally, I think Hello, Dolly! is long gone.”

“I'd bet on it,” Ford said, “but people prefer drama to facts. The shark was a hoax. You know that.”

“I'm talking about something else. If it's not a great white out there, then it's something bigger. That's my theory anyway.” His eyes came to a rest on the skid row contraption of wire and tin. “Conductive shield,” he murmured. “Don't you wish we could round up all the wounded ladies and keep them in a safe place?”

Ford, walking away, said, “I wouldn't trust either one of us with the key.”

•   •   •

His computer didn't work
when he connected all the cords, but fifteen minutes later the thing kicked on by itself as if powered by a generator. Not just the computer—the entire system, including an old HP printer that clanked and clattered even though there was nothing in the queue.

Ford sat and watched the screen come alive; light reflected from his glasses. From somewhere, somehow, the system was commandeered with robotic precision. Passwords flashed at lightning speed. Folders opened in a volcanic spew, soon a thousand deep and growing, all this while the old printer tattered like a toy machine gun.

Before he could react—yanking the power cord was his only
option—the chaos ceased, replaced by violet beads on the darkening screen.

Julian did it again,
he thought, then reasoned, “Why the hell would he bother? They took everything three days ago.” Said this out loud.

Exactly.
But better to leave the plug in and recover what he could.

“Even if it's compromised,” he added.

He rode the chair's casters to the lab station, where there was a yellow legal pad. He had started a list of folders he'd lost; just the important stuff, but there were already nine pages filled with his neat geometrical block print. “This will take days—and no way I can remember everything. So better to wait. Maybe the boy genius overlooked something.”

A voice startled him. “Talking to yourself. I do that a lot.”

It was a male voice, not fully mature. It seemed to come from the ceiling, but Ford looked first to the door.

“I used to see this shrink—talk about an asshole—and he said talking to yourself is typical of OCD types who live and work alone. Know what I told him? I told him, ‘Who else is smart enough to keep up?' This was before the bastard had me sent to a counseling retreat that was actually an asylum for losers.”

A mild Aussie accent was punctuated by laughter. Ford's eyes sought a speaker hidden in the room, then glided toward the computer screen.

“In his notes, the shrink called me a silly, destructive narcissist with malignant yadda yadda yadda. Whatever. Maybe you've heard their standard drivel. The man was nothing but a lying puppeteer,
which I'd already figured out, and not very bright. He had no idea I'd been harvesting his computer notes since our first session. A month later, police found videos of naked boys on his hard drive and arrested the idiot—about the worst thing that can happen to a man in West Australia. Guess who felt silly then?”

More laughter, and there, staring out from the screen, was Julian Solo, who clapped his hands when Ford made eye contact. “I know, I know, your system doesn't have a built-in camera. Well, Mr. Biologist, it does now.”

Julian, with blond, curly locks, wore a black turtleneck in a room with a black backdrop. His face and hair glowed like porcelain.

“I don't call Ph.D.s doctor for the same reason I don't call tin soldiers by their rank. You can be Marion or Ford—or Clarence, for all I care. I doubt if we'll ever speak again.”

He squinted at something in the lab. “I used to have an aquarium, even did the scuba thing and caught my own tropicals. What kind of fish are those?”

Ford had seen photos of the man, but to catalog Julian's mannerisms he had to reach back in memory. Years ago, he'd met a truly poisonous fourteen-year-old who'd driven a sister to suicide and was methodically dismantling the mother. Double the kid's age, change the hair color, add sixty points to the little freak's IQ, and it was Julian.

A malignant narcissist. The diagnosis fit.

“Which tank do you mean?” Ford asked. “I have a dozen aquaria in this room.”

“
Aquaria
, huh? Nice, the proper plural—as if I give a bugger all. I grew out of hobbies. Most children do. Now the world's my
hobby.” He pointed a clicker. Ford's computer screen split to show an aquarium on the far wall. It held immature snook and redfish, along with a requisite permit from the state, posted outside the glass. “That's the one. I can zoom in—or just clean those Coke bottles of yours.”

Hyperactive; alert to weaknesses, plus a relentless shepherding of his victims. Julian and the adolescent freak had a lot in common.

“Why are we doing this?” Ford asked. “You're a computer whiz. I get it.”

“Do you have a hearing problem, too? What kind of fish? A simple question. Never mind—what's that sticker on the glass?”

The camera zoomed in to read the state permit, while Ford said, “I'm going to pull the plug and get back to work.”

Julian's eager face filled the screen. “Do! See what happens.”

What a strange threat. Did the kid—that's the way Ford thought of Julian now—did the kid mean the computer would work without power? Or was it a dare to end the conversation?

“Let's stop the sparring,” Ford said. “The guy you sent, a guy in a suit, he said you're looking for a missing drone. I don't know anything about it.”

“
Two
drones,” Julian corrected.

“He told me one, but okay. He—Watts, that was his name—he also gave me a memory stick with a message. Stupidly, I opened it.”

“Oh, don't feel too badly, Mr. Biologist. I knew you would. How? Because I've graphed all the characteristics of your type.”

KAT had said something similar with the same contempt.

Ignore it.
That's what he should have done. Instead, he began a
careful retaliation. “You're an intimidating guy, Julian. Can I call you that?”

“Flattery,” the kid said.

“I'm trying to be open here.”

“Cards-on-the-table stuff—a real Yank attitude. I won't say I haven't been called intimidating before, but what does—”

Ford interrupted, “The story about taking down your psychiatrist, that's spooky. The way you set him up. Christ, but also pretty funny.”

Laughter.
“Exactly.”

“Was that in Perth?”

“Fremantle, but let's get back to—”

“Your father was a math professor in Perth; brilliant, from what I've read.”

Julian's face began to color. “I don't claim him as a father. If you hadn't bungled the job, he wouldn't be alive.”

“Winslow Shepherd. Then I'm right.”