Night Moves (14 page)

The pilot was excited for good reason. So was I. Tomlinson galvanized his own interest by matching tail numbers with the names of pilots and crew. What he discovered was a surprise to all but him: the telegram sent three weeks after Flight 19 had vanished still meshed with the wild story he’d told at Punta Rassa. “Georgie” had been the radioman aboard FT-36.

Now, flying toward Sanibel at two thousand feet, Futch was trying to rein in his partners, and also come up with a plan. “Here’s what we need to keep in mind, okay? I mentioned the Avenger found in the Glades a few years back. From the moment word got out, the place was a circus. Everyone from UFO nuts to local historians wanted to be the first to prove it was one of the famous missing planes.”

Through my headphones came Tomlinson’s voice. “The wrong types would flood the place. Yeah.”

“We’ve got to protect the place,” Dan agreed. “Believe me, I flew over the Glades the day after it hit the papers. Must have been thirty cars, plus TV crews, parked along the Tamiami Trail. None of them knew the exact location, of course. Even with the sawgrass burned away, the wreckage wasn’t easy to find—you know, parts scattered everywhere. But souvenir hunters hauled off a bunch before the experts got a chance. Not the data plate, though. The data plate proved it wasn’t a Flight 19 Avenger. But you see my point.”

Tomlinson said, “We need a beard. The right beard, no one will ask questions.”

I understood, but Futch was confused again. “Try English, Quirko. Except for Miami, they speak it almost everywhere.”

I said, “He means invent a reason why we’re interested in the Lostman’s River area. He’s right, people will want to know. When that plane flew over awhile ago? Someone’s probably already curious. So we need a story. Something believable, but also so damn boring no one will bother asking. Or
follow
us. Flying around in a seaplane isn’t cheap—we owe you money, by the way. It’s best if people at the marina see us writing out checks.” I looked over my shoulder at Tomlinson.

“Doc’s a beard expert,” he said. A private joke, which he covered by asking, “How often do we come back? That’s important. I’d be fine with a few times a week—you know, as long as we show proper respect—but people would get suspicious.”

The pilot was mulling it over. “A story that’s believable but boring . . .” Then said, “I’m booked through Thursday. So Friday morning? Maybe camp, which would give us more time. I can’t go anywhere once tarpon season starts . . .”

As they talked, I was thinking about the guy from Adventure World Productions, Luke Smith. I hadn’t mentioned him and wouldn’t until I found out if he was legitimate or not. Either way, Smith would have to be dealt with. Throw him off the trail with a convincing story . . . or invite him along?

Some enemies require more attention than others. So it depended on what my friends Bernie and Donald Cheng had to say.

11

MACK, WHO OWNS THE MARINA, INTERCEPTED ME
near the gate, warning, “You’ve got to do something about your dog! Anybody else, I would have called Animal Control. Or the Marine Patrol. Where’ve you been?”

I was shouldering my backpack, a quart of cold beer still unopened in my free hand. “Marine cops?” I joked. “What’d he do, Mack, steal a boat?”

My smile vanished when the man replied, “No—three of them! Two kayaks and Stu Johnson’s Whaler. He was chewing the lines on a Donzi when we caught the bugger or it would’ve been four.”

I was confused. “From the water? The boats drifted off—”

“No! He chewed through the lines and swam them back to your lab! We can’t have it, Doc. My clients pay good money for slippage. Just because he’s your dog doesn’t mean he can nick any boat he fancies. Mooring line’s expensive.”

I was surprised. The behavior didn’t mesh with the well-trained retriever I’d left on the porch. I placed my bag on the ground and held up the quart of beer, asking, “Want a glass? Come inside and calm down while you tell me about it.”

Mack shook his head, and said, “Jesus, what a day!”

Mack is Graeme MacKinley, a New Zealander who sailed to the States years ago, and took the big step. He bought controlling interest in a marina. Like many immigrants who’ve prospered, he’s wildly patriotic but also a raging libertarian who despises government interference. But he’s not the type to rage at me, or any other local, unless there is good reason.

“He’s not my dog,” I heard myself say, trying to picture what had happened. “You say he swam the boats back to my place? With his
teeth
?”

“The kayaks, he pulled them up next to your gate. But the Whaler was too heavy, I guess. God knows where he’d’ve ended up with a thirty-foot Donzi. The bugger did it all from under the docks. That’s why we didn’t see him.”

Mack isn’t one to exaggerate, so it must have been true. “We’ll find the dog’s owner,” I told him. “My guess is, there’s a reward. A big one possibly. The money’s yours, would that make you feel better? Until then, I’ll pay for the damage.”

The man sighed and patted his pockets, looking for a fresh cigar. He’s a wide-bodied, bighearted man, but he loves money and is not ashamed to admit it. My offer softened him. “The kayaks, no worries about those. They’re rentals. But the Whaler and the Donzi, I should replace all the lines so they match. Doesn’t hurt to be classy. You know, have the moorings in Bristol shape before I have to explain to the owners.”

I said, “Tell me how much, I’ll write a check.” Then, because I know Mack well, suggested, “Or would cash be better?”

That softened the man even more. “Oh hell, Doc, it’s not that big a deal. I shouldn’t dump on you, but the crazies were out today. A woman bought a pound of squid for the pelicans—never mind the damn
Don’t Feed the Birds
signs—then went screaming off the dock, about thirty pelicans chasing her. Probably end up with a lawsuit because of all the barnacle cuts on her legs. And I had to send Jeth to pull another rental boat off the beach—it was swamped, of course—then . . . then the lady I’ve been seeing calls and cancels dinner. Which I’d been looking forward to all bloody day.” Mack sighed and lit his cigar, suddenly uncomfortable.

Sunday is always the busiest day of the week at the marina, a crush of vacationers in a rush to have fun. That wasn’t the real problem, though. So I took a guess about one of the ladies aboard
Tiger Lilly
and asked, “How
is
Rhonda doing?”

Mack’s no actor, but he did a decent job of appearing confused. Midway through an intricate lie, though, he paused, disgusted with himself, and said, “Awww, hell with it. Are you the only one who knows?”

I shrugged, “Probably. JoAnn doesn’t, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“She suspect?”

“No. She would have told me.”

“I’m a fool,” Mack said, “a bloody fool. But I’ve always had a soft spot for Rhonda. And she’s been having a tough go of it lately. Hormone issues—happens to a lot of them, she says.”

I offered the unopened beer again, saying, “Why not come inside and talk.”

The man thought about it a moment, pushed the straw hat back on his head, then redacted his confession and our exchange. “When we finally got your dog out of the water, a woman offered to help, so I let her take him. A Mrs. Arturo—lives on the beach, third house down from the Island Inn? That’s what I really came to tell you.”

I looked at Mack and nodded, “If that’s the way you want it,” meaning his relationship with Rhonda was not to be discussed.

“She said she’s a friend of yours. Damn striking woman, you ask me.” Then Mack sealed our bargain, and turned the tables. “You know, local gossip has it that someone’s trying to kill you or Tomlinson, or both. Maybe a jealous husband. I know it’s not true, of course, or cops would be all over the place asking questions. Boat people love to talk.”

“Yes, they do,” I replied.

“But a rumor like that makes the locals nervous. No one wants to get caught in the crosshairs of another man’s trouble. Not that we wouldn’t stand up for you if it’s true.”

I said, “Tomlinson gets in these moods and he thinks everyone’s out to get him. He’s probably the one started it.”

The man nodded and pretended to be convinced. “That’s what I figured. Plus, you would have gone straight to the police.” After a beat he added, “Right?”

“Someone’s trying to kill you, it would be stupid not to,” I replied.

No . . . he wasn’t buying it. I’ve lived next to the marina too long, and this wasn’t the first unsettling rumor that had made the rounds about me. Even so, he said, “Good. I was almost convinced that’s why you asked Jeth about that Stiletto. You know—worried about some jealous husband spying.”

“Just curious,” I said. “JoAnn said she’s never seen the owner.”

“Nothing mysterious about that. A hired captain brought her in one night, and the owner made all the arrangements online. Some corporate secretary, anyway. Paid by wire transfer. That’s not the only boat new to A-Dock. That big Lamberti? Probably a million-dollar yacht, but no one’s said a word about it. The owner’s Brazilian and he paid the first week cash. In euros. The guy’s a jogger, you haven’t seen him? Runs every morning.”

I made a mental note to have a look at the Lamberti but stuck with the subject of the Stiletto. “It’s probably all that carbon fiber that makes people suspicious. Tinted windows, a black hull. What’s the name of the corporation?”

Mack blew a cloud of smoke toward the sunset sky, pleased he had finally confirmed the rumor was true. “I’ll find out what I can and let you know. Can’t have the marina’s most respected citizens bullied by some jealous tycoon, now can we?” He turned to go but then stopped. “By the way, where
did
you and Tomlinson disappear to today?”

Less than a minute into my cover explanation, the marina owner checked his watch to keep from yawning. “Doing a fish count in Lostman’s River,” he said. “Love to hear about it—but later, Doc. Okay?”

—

I
WAS
IN
THE
WATER,
opening the gate of the stingray pen, when my cell phone beeped. When I looked I saw that I’d missed two calls, not one. Mrs. Crescent Arturo and my new workout partner, Hannah Smith, had dialed simultaneously—a coincidence I wouldn’t risk sharing with Tomlinson.

Hannah, I wanted to speak with. No doubt she had stopped to tend to the dog, as I’d requested, but had found the dog missing. This after driving her fast little flats boat from across the bay to help, so I owed the woman an explanation.

It wasn’t just about courtesy, though. Hannah is one of the rare independent ones, tall and confident in the way she moves, but also guarded at times—a private woman who protects personal boundaries or, less likely, who is aware of some inner frailty that she keeps hidden from outsiders. She is complex, like all interesting people, and I was just getting to know her. For now, we interacted on the most basic of levels. Hannah was a superb fly fisherman with a good laugh and among the few willing to swim a quarter mile along the beach after a three-mile run with me.

Cressa Arturo, I
had
to speak with. I’d enjoyed parts of our evening together, but now I was obligated. She’d rescued the dog from Mack’s wrath, and my mental image of her elegant beach house didn’t include paw prints and room for a rangy, sodden, oily-coated retriever.

Even so, both would have to wait. After opening one side of the pen, I sloshed my way to the back of the netting, then stomped around until the female stingray spooked in a jet stream of silt. Her wake left the five immature rays rocking like drunken birds, so I stepped into the pen and shooed them carefully, very carefully, toward the opening. My lone stingray wound had come from a ray no bigger than a plate. If body size was in any way proportionate to the amount of poison and pain inflicted, god help the poor bastard who stepped on a big one. The pain is so intense that the Maya used fresh stingray barbs to induce trances and also to prolong the agony of human sacrifices. It’s because the barb is a saw-blade of spines composed of vasodentin, a substance harder than bone, and each spine is grooved to transport venom-secreting cells when the barb is plunged into a victim. As long as the spine remains in the flesh, the venom continues to flow. Among Mayan ruins in Guatemala, I’d seen stone carvings of stingray barbs protruding from the hearts and necks of tormented priests and contorting victims. Damn right, I was being careful!

Sissified—if someone was watching, that’s how they might have described my careful use of feet and hands. I didn’t care. Soon the family of six had disbanded, each stingray flying its separate way, all singular links in an ancient chain, indifferent to everything but survival.

Then I headed upstairs to clean up before returning calls and tending to lab specimens. Later, I would decide on dinner.

—

M
Y
HOUSE
IS
ACTUALLY
two small houses on a platform, both perched above the water on stilts. It’s an old place built to store ice and fish in the days before refrigeration, so it has an outdoor shower fed by a cistern that collects rain from the roof. I was just finishing beneath the shower, the bottle of cold beer finally open, when my phone beeped again.

Hannah Smith.

So I wrapped a towel around my waist and answered, “I owe you dinner. Name the place, and I’ll explain why the dog wasn’t here.”

Southern women who are natural contraltos have an edge when their tone turns icy. “Why, bless your little heart,” I heard in reply. “Aren’t you the sweetest man ever? No wonder you’re so popular with the ladies.”

I cleared my throat and said, “Uhhh . . . did I do something wrong?”

“Not the first little thing. I’m just calling to make sure that bad memory of yours didn’t put you on a plane to Alaska. Or wandered off in some supermarket and locked yourself in a freezer. A man gets a certain age and—well, I don’t much care for the term
feebleminded
. And
senile
is such an ugly word—”