Dead of Night (17 page)

“One of the anniversary issues. Had all of the old hippie predications listed. They’ve been making the rounds on the Internet.”

I said, “Uh-huh,” not paying much attention, but then realized he was serious. “Predicted what?”

“It’s like the song ‘Aquarius.’ Remember? Only the prophecy’s a downer, not an upper. The LSD prophets figured it out from the lyrics. When the moon’s in the seventh house—everyone knows how it goes. And Jupiter is aligned with Mars? Well, this is the year. A planetary conjunction on the Winter Solstice, just a week from now. Seven planets in a line. They used star charts to fix the date, and now it’s really happening. Back then, it was a big deal.”

I said, “Oh,” already losing interest. I’d been out with my telescope on and off all month, tracking the rare conjunction of planets. But it was six, not seven—unless Uranus or Neptune could be counted. And it was Venus, not Jupiter, that appeared to be cojoined with Mars.

Even so, I hit the internal mute button. I always do when someone begins talking about astrology or prophetic signs.

“We’re entering a very heavy biblical phase, which I’ve been expecting. Read Revelations. The Seven Seals, man. It’ll begin with a celestial
sign—think
about the number of planets now in a line. The scripture says the sea will become like the blood of a dead man, and a third of the fishes will die. A red tide, Doc. Understand the meaning? An algae bloom that kills fish. I bet we’re in for a bad red tide very soon.”

I was covering the microscope, putting away instruments. “Nope, it’s been months since I’ve gotten any reports about red tide. Which is unusual.”

“But what about the parasite you found? It’s not the only one, you know. It’s been in the newspapers. All across the country, there’ve been demon exotics raining down out of heaven, stirring up all kind of crap.”

Harrington had mentioned small-time biovandalism in other parts of the country. Suddenly, I was interested again. “What exotics? Raining down where?”

“That’s why I read newspapers, man. One morning I’ll wake up, open the
Miami Herald,
and the first sign of the Apocalypse is gonna be grinning at me from between the lines. There’ve been four or five articles this month—a couple paragraphs buried inside—about what they call noxious exotics turning up in different areas. Outside New Orleans, they’re finding giant, poisonous toads, weighing nearly five pounds. Same type that about took over Australia.”

I seldom read papers but was familiar with the amphibian. “The Central American cane toad, if that’s the one you mean. They’re in Delta country? That could be a mess because it’s an ideal habitat. Just a few, or significant numbers?”

“Enough to poison a bunch of Cajuns who tried to fry up the legs; ate them with red beans and gumbo. Kept right on eating until their nervous systems shut down. And they breed like bunnies. Toads, not the Cajuns—though that may be true, too. Significant numbers, and in a bunch of parishes.”

I was thinking I’d ask Harrington to provide more details as Tomlinson said, “Another exotic I read about—this was just last week—they had to close a big lake near Houston ’cause some swimmers got various appendages eaten off—piranhas. Those little South American fish with great big teeth. They got their first taste of gringo.”

Before I could ask, he answered, “There’s a thriving population, according to the story. Like, maybe hundreds of the little darlings, if the first samples are accurate. But mostly immature, so the kimchi hadn’t hit the fan as far as tourist swimmers entering the food chain.”

I said, “That many fish, they had to be introduced intentionally. We find piranha in Florida occasionally, but pet store numbers, fish that get dumped from an aquarium because the kids are tired of them. But hundreds? It takes a special kind of nasty to do something like that.”

Tomlinson shrugged his bony shoulders, then told me he’d also read about exotic snakes—cobras, a couple of other poisonous African species—that had been found loose in Minneapolis, the Mall of the Americas, crawling around clothing stores, Ben & Jerry’s, a CD supermarket.

No one was bitten, but a couple of shoppers were trampled in the panic. And also about a hatch of what are commonly called “seventeen-year locusts” in some rural Southern California county. Cicadas, Tomlinson knew them to be. Their numbers, he said, were so enormous that they clogged village drains, caused cars to overheat.

“This was more than a year ago. They aren’t supposed to be in California, and the hatch timings are off,” he added.
“Rolling Stone
said that the old LSD prophets had predicted it. A very far-out story.”

I said softly, “African snakes in Minnesota, African parasites in Florida,” thinking about it.

“You’re wondering if it’s some kind of organized deal?”

“Yeah, I am. But I also know there are a couple hundred exotic plant and animal species introduced into this country annually. Usually accidentally. So it’s more likely coincidence.”

“Not according to
Rolling Stone.”

“Ah. The final word on bio-anomalies and biblical prophecy.”

Tomlinson flipped his hands outward, a gesture that dismissed the sarcasm. “I don’t
believe
in coincidence, man. Related events, phenomenon, everyone involved—
us
—there’s linkage. A purpose.”

I said slowly, “Well ... the timing’s interesting.”

“Are piranha found in Africa?”

“No, only South America. And cicadas? They’re in the northeastern United States, I think. Maybe Africa. I’m not sure. I don’t know much about them.”

Tomlinson said, “Females bite little slits in tree branches, then deposit thousands of eggs. Eggs hatch, the nymphs fall to the ground, and burrow deep. Seventeen years later, they hatch en masse. Clouds of flying grasshopper-looking things, a million to an acre. And you’re right, they don’t belong in Southern California. It’s a mystery how they got there.”

“Where in Southern California?”

“San Bernardino County. A couple little towns, Ludlow and Amboy, got the worst of it. I remember their names because, years back, there was a very cool commune nearAmboy where I crashed for a month or two. Called themselves the Rainbow Amish. A very far-out tribe of herbalists.”

I knew the area, too. Near the Mojave Desert, and home to the massive Marine Air Ground Task Force Training base.

“You don’t think there’s a chance they migrated, got caught in a big wind?”

He said, no, entomologists didn’t think that was likely. They believed the insects had been imported. Intentionally or unintentionally, they didn’t know.

I asked, “Then the LSD prophets are guilty. Maybe your commune friends, too. Maybe
you
—your memory’s so spotty. Make a prediction, then set it up to happen. Truck branches filled with eggs across the country. Political activism in a time capsule.”

“I don’t know, Doc. I think even I would remember smuggling bugs” He mulled it over for a moment. “There could be a connection. Not with me—the toads, the piranha, all the exotics. The Stone runs a story about the LSD prophets, which is read by a bunch of wannabe ecowarriors. It gets them stoked. Mother Earth fighting back. They love the idea, so they start doing the copycat gig. Releasing noxious exotics.”

Tomlinson took a slow breath, sighed, then sighed again. It pained him that his counterculture brethren may have behaved badly.

“How long ago did the story appear?”

“Maybe a year. More—could be. It’s not the sort of magazine where you fixate on dates.”

“Shortly after the locusts start hatching in California?”

“Yep. ‘Is Aquarius Dawning?’ That sort of piece.”

“There’s no room on your boat, so I know you don’t save magazines. If you have time, could you check the Sanibel Library?”

“Sure, dude. Get you acquainted with my fellow Lysergic Rangers. I can see you have a powerful interest.”

Rising out of my chair, I said,
“Dude?”

He was chuckling, mood lightened. “I’ve spent the last four days hanging out with East Coast surfers. So, yeah, dude. You shoulda stuck around. The language, their tribal customs—bonfire beer bashes and sexual debauchery—I’ve been adopted. I’m still shredding on the whole gnarly scene. Which reminds me: You need to come look at your present.”

Following him across the room, I said, “Gnarly?” as he pushed open the screen door and stepped into the breezeway.

With a Barnum & Bailey sweep of his hand, Tomlinson directed my attention to what stood leaning against the railing. “What do you think? You ever seen anything like it?”

I slid past him and gazed at the most beautiful surfboard I’ve ever seen.

It was a custom long board. Had to be over nine feet. No ... closer to ten. It was built with an outside skin that was a mosaic of alternating wooden strips—red, onyx, and white—all sealed beneath a protective coating of acrylic. On the nose of the board was an airbrush painting of one of the mackerel sharks: a great white. On the tail was an impressionistic American flag.

Tomlinson asked, “Is this thing exceedingly bitchin’, or what? At Vero Beach, when you had trouble catching waves, you should have blamed that shitty rental board instead of yourself. Just like you to take the heat.”

I cupped my hands around the rails, taking pleasure in the board’s convex lines and its symmetry. It had a ceramic gloss, like sculptured porcelain, and a biconical shape that would not have been out of place if spiked into a bluff on Easter Island. The shape was totemic. It was suggestive of ancient stone idols, blood sacrifices.

I lifted the board—amazingly light.

“Your surfing chariot. Like it?”

I said, “It’s gorgeous. Really ...
beautiful.
What I like most is that it’s not new, right? It’s been refinished. Completely redone.”

“My friend, you have a superb eye for artistry. This is one of the classic old Vector boards, shaped by fellow hipster Dave Hamilton on Melbourne Beach. The inlaid woods are from South America and Africa—caoba, rose, and mahogany. Otherwise, it’s nearly ten feet of full balsa, but chambered for buoyancy. Dave told me he’d built this one with an extra tail rocker, three stringers, and a long panel vee to facilitate rail-to-rail turns—plus, the thinner rails will make it easier for you to keep an edge in the face of a wave. Perfect for a guy your size.”

I said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. It is pretty, though. For someone to put so much time into it, I don’t doubt it rides fine.”

I was noting the
O
near the nose, just beneath the shark. There was the brand name,
Vector,
imposed upon a line drawing of a globe. The globe was crosshatched with lines of latitude and longitude. Still admiring the surfboard, I added, “But I can’t accept something like this. It’s so nice, I’d be afraid to take it near the water.”

“Dude, it’s a present. You’ve gotta accept it. And she’s built to ride, not hang on the wall.”

“Why a present? This thing had to cost a mint. What’s the occasion?”

Tomlinson gave a regal wave of dismissal: Don’t be crass by mentioning the cost. “You have a birthday coming up, young man.”

“No ... Actually, it’s way past.”

“So I forgot.”

“No, you didn’t forget. You don’t recall the party? The night the fishing guides went skinny-dipping and scared off that group of nice tourist ladies? You gave me a little bag of marijuana. What you
did
forget is that I don’t smoke, ever.”

Tomlinson had an index finger pressed to his lips, thinking about it. Then he began to nod. “Ahhh, yes. It’s all coming back. A lid of Maui Wowie, the world’s sweetest, mellowest headbanger kef from Hawaii. I presented you with the classic self-serving birthday surprise. Something that the recipient can’t use but the giver loves. I was trying to spare a potential host—you—from disappointing me, the potential visitor. Just in case I happened to stop by and was in the mood for a little pick-me-up.

“Say”—Tomlinson was looking over my shoulder, through the doorway—“I don’t suppose you have a little bit of that herbal Kahuna goody left? Your birthday treat? It’s going on noon, and I wouldn’t mind a couple of medicinal hits. Just a little something to get me through a meeting I have coming up. It’s with your sister, The Iron Butterfly. That woman has really been busting my Tater Tots lately.”

He meant my cousin, Ransom Gatrell. She’d been raised in the Bahamas, but was now living in a little Cracker house just across the bay on Woodring Point. She’s a sharp, tenacious woman who’d been staying very busy these days running the burgeoning enterprises of Tomlinson, the reluctant business tycoon.

He’d become an unwilling capitalist. Thanks to her.

I told him, “Nope. I dumped the marijuana. Threw it out, minus the plastic bag. Sea turtles eat the things.”

Groaning, Tomlinson’s body spasmed as if he’d been stabbed in the belly. “You threw out an entire lid of Maui Wowie?
Maui Wowie?
Oh dear, dear heaven ... the waste ... the
inhumanity.
And I came
this
close to splitting half a key with you! There really ought to be a law.”

“There is a law. Has to do with drug trafficking. Which is why I dumped the stuff.” I touched my finger to the board’s surface again. “There’s no occasion, no birthday. So what’s the real reason you bought this?”

He shrugged and sniffed as if he had no idea what I was talking about.

“You had your crazy dream again, didn’t you? The nightmare. The last few months, if you do something unusually thoughtful, it’s because you’ve had the dream. I keep telling you, it’s not necessary.”

“It’s my money, Marion. I can do what I want with my money. Just my way of thanking you.”

I said, “It was the dream.”

“How can you be so sure? You won’t let me tell you details.”

“Because I don’t want to hear the details.”