Ten Thousand Islands (25 page)

I lost my train of thought. Realized I was gazing at the shell mobile hanging from a locker. It really was rather
pretty. Nice earth colors on scallop shells that were wonderfully formed with precise ridges. Reminded me of Arizona where I’d seen petroglyphs on red stone high above Tempe …

My wandering inattention startled me. I straightened myself and said, “Help me out of this damn boat. I need to get up. I’m going topside and try to make myself puke. Is there an antidote?”

“An
antidote?
” Tomlinson was shaking his head, slinging colors against the bulkhead. “Doc, you know how to take the fun out of everything.”

“I want this to be over. I
hate
it. Isn’t there something I can take to make it go away?”

“You’re speaking, like, heresy, man. Good shrooms are hard enough to find as it is. Why would anybody want an antidote?”

Five minutes later, Tomlinson pressed the phone to my ear, saying, “Put a smile on that mug of yours. Guess who just answered her cell phone? I explained things to her. She understands.”

I heard Nora’s voice say, “Doc? Are you okay?”

My heart was still pounding in my ears and I was hyperventilating. “Are you at the ranch? Are you with Ted? I want you to get out of there right away. I mean it. Get Della and run.”

She was laughing. “Oh sweetie, I wish I was there to see you. Marion Ford on psychedelics! I don’t think the world’s ready.”

“Please, listen to me. I’m probably wrong, but if I’m right—”

“You’re not right. Believe me. The shrooms are getting to you, babe. I’ve been through it. Just hang on, stay calm, you’ll be fine and so will I. Ted’s one of the nicest
men I’ve ever met. I’m going to work in his
campaign
. Don’t worry, though. He doesn’t have your magnetism. But he’s genuine. He’s making cocktails for Della and me right now.”

“Don’t drink it. Don’t eat or drink anything he gives you.”

“
Marion
. Calm down. Depending on how the hurricane goes, we’ll be home tomorrow. I want you to take some long slow breaths. I’m not going to hang up until you feel better.”

“Are you there with him alone?”

“No. His father’s here, too. What could be safer?”

Did that make any difference? I couldn’t analyze it; couldn’t make my brain function properly. “You have your cell phone? You have the number here?”

“Of course.”

I was shaking my head; couldn’t seem to clear it. “Okay, here’s what I’d like you to do. Indulge me, okay?” I had my billfold out. Found Gary Parrish’s card with his home number scribbled on the back. “The moment we hang up here, I want you to call Detective Parrish. Do it in front of Ted and Ivan, make sure they know what you’re doing. Talk to Parrish or leave a message. Tell him where you are, who you’re with and when you plan to leave.”

“Marion, there’s no need!”

“I’m asking you to do it as a personal favor, Nora. Please.”

“It would be so rude.”

“Blame it all on me. Tell them I’m crazy, obsessive, whatever you want. Neither of them will have any trouble believing that.”

Her tone softened slightly. “It would make you feel better?”

“Yes, absolutely. Promise me you’ll call Parrish immediately and I’ll feel a hundred-percent better. It’ll let me concentrate on dealing with this damn drug that’s in me.”

“If that’s what it takes to give you some peace of mind, I’ll do it. But, believe me, I’m not in any danger. With the security system they’ve got at this ranch, I’m probably the safest I’ve ever been.”

“I’m going to wait right here by the phone. I expect to hear from you in no less than ten minutes.”

A few minutes later, the phone rang and I heard Nora’s voice say, “Okay, Jimi Hendrix, I got Parrish’s recorder. I left a detailed message. That ought to put a smile on your face.”

“Did both Bauerstocks hear you?”

“I made the call from the great man’s own desk. I don’t think Ted approves of you. He said he thought you were a bit obsessive.”

“Uh-huh. I don’t like you being there. I don’t trust either one of those guys.”

Nora’s voice was intimate and patient. “I know what you’re going through. Relax. Enjoy it. The first time I did shrooms, I was panicky and goofy as hell. So hang on, I’m here for you. I won’t be happy unless I see you tomorrow. There! That ought to take the panic away.”

The last thing she said to me was, “Oh, Marion. You are such a big lug!”

Tomlinson said, “Know what we could do? Hop in the truck, drive up the island to Card Sound. Stop at Alabama Jack’s, have a couple beers. Sit outside and maybe a saltwater
croc will come along. I haven’t seen a croc in a couple years. That’d be a nice break. Not many tourists go through Card Sound. Or maybe Ocean Reef. Have a cocktail at the pool bar and meet some rich girls.”

It was just before dusk. I was jogging, stopping to do push-ups, deep knee bends, trying to increase my heart beat and hurry the chemical through my system. We’d run along Marina Road among mangroves and gumbo limbos past Poisonwood to A1A, then south, facing traffic on the divided highway. Jogged past the Koni Kai and a Tom Thumb convenience store; running on the road’s shoulder, white coral rock crunching beneath my feet like bone.

I said, “Last thing I need is alcohol in my system. Are you
nuts?
”

It seemed as if Tomlinson didn’t hear. “Or we could drive down to Summerlin, hang out with Bob and JoAnne Boast at Sherman’s Marina. I haven’t been there in a while. Or hell, shoot the wad, go clear to Key West, man. Sit under the ficus and play checkers with my old buddy Shine Forbes. Then stop by Blue Heaven, or the Green Parrot.”

Tomlinson was struggling to keep up, running in sandals, still wearing his black Hawaiian shirt with the hula dancer on the back. I couldn’t bear to look at her. The pinks and greens of her skirt were so penetrating they hurt my eyes. Also, if I looked at her for more than a second, she became a live person, attached to Tomlinson’s back but openly lascivious.

“How long did you say this crap lasted?”

“If you’re lucky, seven, maybe eight, hours man.”

“And if I’m not lucky?”

“Four hours tops. Your journey will be over.”

“I can’t believe you actually
enjoy
this feeling.”

“Man, it’s like watching Disney films, but on the inside. I can’t believe you
don’t
.”

We’d left the marina when I realized that I was becoming introspective to the point of catatonia. Running seemed to be the thing to do. I was carrying the black briefcase, my left hand pocketed inside, holding the wooden totem. I hadn’t mentioned it to Tomlinson, but touching the totem, feeling the hard curvature of wood beneath my hand, gave me an irrational sense of peace that I attributed to the very powerful hallucinogen circulating through my brain. It reminded me of Dorothy. But … why would that matter?

“Or we could stop at the Paradise Pub. They got pretty good food.”

I interrupted him. “Are there really pineapple streaks in the sky, or is that just more bad data?”

“No, man. Those streaks are real. The sunsets here, that’s one of the good things about the Keys. With all the colors, it’s like being on shrooms half the time anyway. Even when you’re straight.”

“Good, good, okay. What about the rainbow stripes down the middle of the road?”

“I’m afraid that’s the toadstool God pulling one of her little tricks.”

I said, “Uh-huh, that’s what I thought. I’m starting to understand. It’s like code. I have to unscramble everything. At least my stomach’s feeling better. So maybe that’s not a bad idea, go somewhere and get something to eat.”

“The munchies, I hear you. See? Now you’re getting
into
it….”

•    •    •

That night, dizzy, exhausted, passed out on the couch in the Mandalay’s apartment, I was awakened once again by an abrupt tug on my ankle. The fishing line outside, broken by a late-night visitor, popped once, then twice.

I’d been immersed in a dream so real in terms of awareness and visual details, and so emotionally powerful, that it seemed I had the very real choice of staying in that dreamy world, or of returning to reality.

Had it not been for the fishing line pulling at my ankle, and what it meant, I would have chosen to remain as long as possible in that place of imagination—for it
had
to be imaginary, fabricated, no doubt, by the lingering effects of the psilocybin mushrooms circulating in my brain and my heightened susceptibility to Tomlinson’s suggestions.

In the dream, I was wearing clothing not of these times. It was rough-woven, hand-loomed. There was some kind of weapon strapped to my hip, something heavy. I could feel it thump my left leg as I walked.

It seemed a comfortable, familiar feeling; a weapon so customary that it did not require inspection or definition.

I was walking through a stone chamber with a vaulted rock ceiling framed by rough-cut beams. There were windows in the walls without glass. Through the windows were muddy streets where oxen pulled wagons. Beyond were gray moors. There was an oak forest so green it appeared to be black.

I could smell the mud. Could smell lichen on bare rock.

It was cool, nearly cold. Half of one wall was a fireplace. Stones dissipated the heat. There was a bough of evergreen, like a good luck charm, tacked above the hearth. I crossed a hallway, then another. I knew the
building well. At a set of double oak doors, I stopped and tapped. Heard a woman’s voice say, “My love … ?”

It was a voice that I had never heard. It was a voice that I’ve known forever.

Then she was there, dressed in white crinoline that touched the floor, long blond hair hanging to her waist, material clinging to her body, her arms held out to me. Her face was luminous in golden light, a woman so beautiful that seeing her caused me to linger upon detail: lighted portions of chin and cheek, strong nose creating shadow, perceptive eyes unaware and uncaring of her own beauty. Her voice was a kindred chord as she said, “I’ve waited so long for you, my dear. So many, many years. Now, finally, you’ve come back to me….”

Then we were lying together on a feather bed beneath a canopy of royal blue. Being able to hold her, to touch her, to turn and touch my lips to her pale cheek, seemed to neutralize all that was hurtful in me. Negated a universe of uncertainty, a lifetime of confusion and solitude. I could feel her warm breath; hear the fragile beating of her chest against mine. She was real. My skin was against hers. I was no longer alone.

Into my ear, she whispered, “I have tracked you through the ages, just as you’ve searched for me. In small ways, through other good people, we’ve touched briefly, briefly. But I know that it’s never been enough, my dear, because it’s never been enough for me. It is why people like us are alone even in a crowded room, even in an intimate bedding place. We are waiting. Forever waiting.

“But take comfort in this, dearest: I will find you. We are always of one heart, one mind, and I will find you. Love is religion, not emotion. It requires a leap of faith.
Remember that. Have faith in me. There are so many destinations, so many way points, but we
will
arrive on the same small island once more. On that island, we will make ourselves free. Never lose hope.”

Feeling a delicious sense of well-being and contentment, I turned to her, braced on one elbow, looked into her dazzling blue eyes; eyes that would be forever familiar on the distant rim of memory, and I leaned to kiss her….

Which is when I felt a violent tug on my ankle. Then a second tug on my ankle, monofilament fishing line cutting skin.

As sometimes happens in dreams, that strong, physical sensation imposed itself and became part of the dream—a rope being roughly constricted—but now the rope was around my girl’s neck, hurting her, pulling her upward and away from me, as my big hand reached to stop her …

It was Dorothy’s face, though older. Looking at me were Dorothy’s water-clear eyes.

I sat up so violently that I rolled off the couch.

Waited there, crouched on my knees, listening.

Had the fishing line really been broken? I found my ankle and gave it an experimental pull.

Yes, a person was out there.

Then I heard a metallic sound at the door. A key? No. Some kind of lever, a crowbar perhaps. Someone was trying to break in.

I studied myself for a moment. Confirmed that I was still dressed. Apparently, I’d passed out in my clothes. I reached and found the sap I’d made, right where I’d left it the night before. Then I stood, my head pounding. I felt
like vomiting. I spit onto the carpet, then went out the open glass doors, moving very fast and quiet.

This time, it couldn’t be Nora. It was someone coming for me, coming for the totem.

I peeked around one corner, then the next: I saw a big man standing there, something in his hands. Very wide shoulders, a belly. No facial features at all. I realized he was wearing a ski mask.

No doubting his intent.

I watched him lever the bar into the doorjamb and lunge. The door popped open. He went in quickly.

I swung around the corner and stepped in behind him, close enough to smell his sweat and the metallic tobacco stink of him. He must have heard me or sensed my presence because he started to turn. As he did, I sapped him once low on the head, just behind the ear.

I didn’t hit him hard. It’s not like the movies. Hit a man behind the ear with much force and you will kill him. Or he will spend the rest of his life in a hospital attached to complicated machines.

The intruder went down hard enough to make the walls shake. He started to roll toward me, and I sapped him again on the left shoulder, this time much harder. He gave a whistle of pain, then lay still at my feet in darkness.

He almost certainly wasn’t unconscious. It is a predictable reaction: twice clubbed, a man feigns unconsciousness so that he won’t be clubbed a third time.

I closed the door, hit the light switch and picked up the crowbar he’d used to jimmy the door. A big man with dark, hairy hands, wearing tan coveralls and a green ski mask.

I nudged him with my foot. He didn’t move. I stepped
on his fingers, increasing the pressure until he finally yanked his hand away.