Night Moves (31 page)

Diemer was ahead of him, already agreeing, saying, “I know of a similar place—of course! I’ve told no one. I say to you the word
Amazon
, you picture primitive people, jungle, yes? Yet, only a few years ago, I myself found the remains of a city. I was flying over the remote Xingu region. A bright day, the light shining just so, and I noticed the jungle was scarred by what looked like grids. A year later, I returned by canoe and hiked in. Alone. Always, I prefer to travel alone. What I found—
roads
. Evidence of roads built in grids. Remains of central plazas, what might be an aqueduct—and pyramids such as you describe. Made of stone, not shell. Built two thousand, three thousand years ago—the same time period as your Bone Field. I’ve told no one—the research . . . history, it’s my passion.” Diemer and Futch exchanged looks, one pilot asking another
Trust me now?

Dan did, apparently, because he answered a dozen questions about the Bone Field and the plane wreckage, using satellite photos on which the Brazilian made tiny, precise notations.

Three times while they talked I texted Tomlinson, wanting him involved in this unfolding story of Florida and aviators during the 1940s but received only one response, which explained his inattention:
CA out of woods but still riding the snake. Pray for squalls.

CA
was Cress. The squalls were for Kondo the drug dealer, who quite possibly was adrift in moonlight miles from shore.

I gave it some thought while Futch and Diemer veered off into more esoteric talk of aviation. Tomlinson could play catch-up, and it would be fun to throw various theories back and forth on the boat trip to Lostman’s River. So, yeah, it was okay.

I was getting a vacation feel for the project. Deano was in jail, his Bambi-eyed friend had been warned away, and the married mistress, once she recovered, would soon lose her ties to Dinkin’s Bay. The heavy lifting was over. It was time to kick back, relax, and enjoy this new project.

I, too, am a history buff—prefer pre-Columbian to lost bombers, but all history is grafted from the same rootstock. A few days camping at the edge of the Glades would shear the electronic ties, plus the multiple bonuses of Tomlinson finally showing some backbone, finding the dog’s owner,
and
recovering Crunch & Des—all in the same day—were reasons to celebrate. True, the problems with my running partner hadn’t been resolved, but Hannah would come around. Other than that, how much better could it get?

What is often referred to as “life’s flow” can as accurately be described as a stationary awareness of cascading events. Contextual changes that impact our individual reality—a reality that oscillates in operatic patterns, the waves sometimes spaced like teeth on a buzz saw. So we hunker down, weather the troughs, grab a breath through the foam, and hang on, awaiting that next glimpse of sky. This was one of those rare days, though, when the buzz saw had been flattened by a sudden and glassy wave. True, I’d made a bold move. And, yes, Diemer had appeared in my lab at precisely the right moment—but who knows why or what changes the polarity of our own luck, good or bad?

It was happening, that was enough. The wave was starting to curl nicely, so I was going to sit back, pack a book or two, maybe even my Celestron telescope, and enjoy the ride.

“Doc?” Diemer said. “Captain Futch says we’re done. Something on your mind?”

Dan was standing, packing his briefcase, I realized, so I got to my feet, saying, “I was thinking about a waterproof bag for my telescope. I’m looking forward to this.”

At the boarding ramp, though, the Brazilian stopped me again. “Oh! A question about marina policy. Five more minutes, Doc?”

Five minutes took only two, but what Diemer had to say was more than enough to put my vacation mood on hold—until I’d exited A-Dock into a party that was becoming a holiday in itself.

No way to dodge the voices hailing me or the beers thrust into my face.

But I did manage to text Tomlinson:
Call ASAP.

26

IT WAS AFTER TEN, LATE FOR A THURSDAY NIGHT IN
February, when my pocket vibrated an alert. So I rushed to have a look at Tomlinson’s response to my urgent text. It read:

Out of beer. Feed dog?

Which caused the woman at my shoulder to inquire, “I guess I should have asked: Are you
married
?” Then apologize, “Peeking at your texts! My god . . . what’s in this punch?”

I didn’t know. After two beers, I’d switched to iced tea. Giving her shoulder a squeeze, I replied, “The first time you came here, remember the hippie-looking guy I avoided because I figured he was a druggie, nothing but trouble? Well, he was—and he is. Hang on, I need to answer this.”

“Tomlinson?”
she asked. How many times had I winced at that rock star inflection? But it was a first for this woman.

“In fact,” I said, “I should probably go. I need to leave before sunrise and I still have to go over my checklist on the boat.”

Her hand slipped comfortably to my wrist, fingers light at first, but then they explored and tightened by rote—checking my pulse. “Not yet, Doc.
Please—
did I offend you?”

A hint of affection, which was nice but unnecessary. “Just the opposite,” I told her. “You made my night.”

Well, she had made it more fun, at least. But I still had to add, “Sher, I really do have to go.”

It had been ten years since I’d seen Dr. Sheri Braun-Richards, but I’d recognized her immediately as I exited A-Dock, a woman who had been ripened, not diminished, by the years. Fuller-bodied, but still willowy in the way she moved, elfin hair, now auburn, to her shoulders, wearing a business skirt and jacket instead of hip-hugger jeans. Not tall, but the way her eyes panned, searching the marina, had isolated her even in a crowd, and I’d locked onto her face at the same instant she spotted me.

“Marion Ford . . . ? My god! You really do remember . . . ?”

Yes, I remembered.

“The first vacation after my internship—I’m
still
embarrassed about how I behaved!”

I remembered that, too.

So the doctor and I had spent an hour catching up. Nice. A decade is a solid chunk of time, so there was no posturing, no need for the plastic smiles or uneasiness typical of former lovers who meet unexpectedly. And because our relationship had been brief as the lady’s vacation, there were no old wounds to deal with. On the other hand, I didn’t feel an instant abdominal lusting or the drive to hustle the lady home to restage past bedroom scenes. But talking with Sheri was fun, produced a pleasant patina of nostalgia that was . . . well,
nice
.

The attractive gynecologist with the probing smile and sharp blue eyes had moved her practice from Davenport to Atlanta and then shortened her name to Sheri Braun after the divorce. Now she was head of her department, no children, just a cat, living fifty miles up the beach in Venice. She hadn’t returned to Sanibel until agreeing to speak this weekend at a conference at “Port Sanibel”—the newest marketing perversion of “Punta Rassa,” where the old telegraph office had somehow managed to survive.

“Venice is so pretty, and it isn’t far,” Sheri reminded me. “Maybe we could have lunch sometime.”

Lunch dates are time wasters to be avoided like the plague but I heard myself reply, “I’d like that a lot,” then glanced at the time before explaining, “Look, Tomlinson’s dealing with a sick friend—that’s why I have to run. It’s not just the boat trip.”

When Sheri replied, “I
am
a doctor and I
am
licensed in Florida,” it also meant
I’ll leave my friends and come along
. A good idea, it seemed, but then pictured Cressa Arturo waiting in my lab, drug-addled but still assertive in a space that she behaved as if she owned. So I dodged the offer by tapping my head and saying, “The friend’s problems are up here, but maybe this won’t take long. You plan on staying awhile?”

When the lady nodded, her hair bounced, framing the good smile that had not changed in a decade and, hopefully, would not be changed by the marauding decades to come.

Our farewell hug was longer, tighter, included a quick brush of the lips, then I was off.

—

“S
HE’S
WAITING
IN
THE
M
ERCEDES,
”
Tomlinson told me when I came into the lab. Cressa, he added, was suffering what he called a delayed lysergic reaction, which I realized, after a moment, referred to LSD in the pot they’d smoked. He was sitting at my desk, watching the wall of lighted aquariums, ribbon streaks of fish within, as if it were a theater screen—
Fantasia
, perhaps. The dog, lying near the desk, used one droopy eye to convey boredom. He had been chewing at a hunk of hawser line, pieces everywhere.

“How are you feeling?” I asked my pal.

“Came down slow, but I’m back on the planet,” he said. “Not Cressa. It hits her in waves, the panic, then paranoia. She seemed okay last night, but it came back. That’s unusual—flashbacks were invented by screwheads and
Reader’s Digest
. Makes me wonder how the Voodoo Prince poisoned our shit. Christ, belladonna, plant alkaloids, who knows? Cells from a pituitary gland ripped from a human throat, I wouldn’t put it past him.”

I said, “I’m driving you both to the ER. Don’t argue.” The swelling had gone down in my left hand, I could use it, no problem, but it crossed my mind to maybe get the damn thing X-rayed while we were there.

Tomlinson turned away from the fish tanks, startled. “I’m fine, man, really. And she’s getting better. The shit was more like a Nitrox dive. It takes you deeper and longer, but you still have to put in the decompression time. Mostly, she’s paranoid about her father-in-law. That’s why she locked herself in the car and won’t come inside. Nothing to do with you.”

I moved toward the door, but he stopped me. “I just checked on her. She’s in a calm cycle now, but still scared. Doesn’t want to be around people.”

“Can’t hurt for me to say hello,” I replied, then went out the door after signaling the dog not to follow.

The Mercedes SUV was parked inside the gate, engine running, a strand of white LEDs showing beneath each dark headlamp. I let Cressa get a long look at me before I approached yet she lowered the window only a few inches.

“I’m staying here, so don’t bother!” Her voice was shaky, but had an aggressive edge that warned me not to push.

“Need some water, a blanket maybe?” I asked. “It’s cooling off tonight.” To put her at ease, I’d stopped two paces from the door.

“The police arrested Deano today! He told me you watched the whole sick business . . . that
you
set him up! Tomlinson says no, but I think you lied to him, too.”

The windows were tinted, but moonlight showed a band of blond hair and two haunted silver eyes that, at once, accused me and feared me. Music played inside, classical and soothing—therapy of Tomlinson’s selection, I assumed. Calm, serene, violins playing now.

My voice softened in an attempt to blend. “You’re right, you can trust Tomlinson.
I
told police where to find your brother-in-law, you’re exactly right. He’s dangerous, Cressa. Maybe he’ll be okay one day, but he needs downtime. Give him some space. Same with his friend, Luke—”

“Stay away from him, too! You attacked Luke, tried to kill him—that’s what he told me, and Lucas wouldn’t lie to me! I know the
real
you. I warned Luke that you were dangerous.”

I took a step back. No surprise that she’d spoken to her brother-in-law, and now was not the time to ask about Luke.
Enough,
I decided, so told her, “The important thing, Crescent, is for
you
to be safe. Lock your doors, listen to the music. I’ll send Tomlinson out now. Okay?”

The woman sniffled at this unexpected kindness from a “dangerous” man, and I got a glimpse of the familiar handkerchief. “No. Tell him . . . tell him I want a few minutes to ride this out. When I saw you, it came back. Go away. Ten minutes alone . . . I’ll be fine.”

“Anything else I . . . that
Tomlinson
can do for you?”

Sounding more like Cressa the married mistress, she explained, “I’ve never experienced anything so awful, Doc. The drugs we smoked, it’s like I’m trapped inside my own skull. There’s a . . .
burning
sensation, it comes out of nowhere. Then the panic and the crazy colors come next. I just want it to stop. Dear god, how I want it to stop! Ten minutes, tell him . . . I can’t talk now.”

The window closed.

When I turned toward the lab, Cressa Arturo, in silhouette, had buried her face in cupped hands.

—

“I
NSTEAD
OF
PLAYING
GAMES
with the Haitian’s engine,” I told Tomlinson, “you should go to the state’s attorney and help put him in prison. The son of a bitch is worse than a killer. Who knows how many people he’s screwed up, scarred for life? If you don’t, I will. And damn it, take Cressa to a doctor now!”

“Kondo definitely plays by his own rules,” Tomlinson agreed but sounded evasive. Then chose to educate me, the unhip biologist, about druggie protocol instead of explaining why he couldn’t narc-out a fellow dealer.

“The whole hospital scene—white coats, the stink of alcohol, and elevators—it would only add to her paranoia, Doc. I’ve been through this too many times. Physical symptoms, sure, you call for help. Twelve hours from now, she’s still bad off, you bet. But the acid in her brain is tapering off, man, I can tell—sort of like a clothes dryer at the end of its cycle. Plus, it would be a big mistake to get Crescent’s in-laws involved, understand what I’m saying? And that’s what the hospital drones would have to do.”

“Not even her husband knows?”