Dead of Night (29 page)

I didn’t bother telling him that, in a long-term study, sample sites are standardized for consistency. With both Jobe and Frieda dead, the job would fall to the agencies that had commissioned the tests. I would’ve been more surprised if this vehicle wasn’t from Tropicane.

Instead, I said, “You’re in charge of providence and God. But leave everything else to me, okay? Oh ... and Tomlinson? If we meet the people who belong to that truck, please don’t go into one of your anti-big business, antisugar rants. We’re here to collect information, not dish it out.”

He said primly, “Okay, okay, for you I’ll go easy. But they’ve been bleeding the Everglades to death for decades, and we all know it. I’m surprised a certain biologist pal of mine doesn’t consider it his duty to inform the dupes on their payroll.”

I replied, “According to the latest literature, the industry’s exceeding federal environmental mandates. Their own decision. So cut them some slack. Plus, with your new understanding of profit sharing, I’d expect you to be more tolerant. You’re both money machines in your way.”

He made a puffing noise. “That hurts. Money, sure, I’ve been corrupted. Yes, the almighty dollar and I have been making the creature with two backs. But destroying the environment for profit—that I would not do.”

As I parked beside the Tropicane truck, I touched my finger to my lips—Enough—and got out.

 

 

The accepted method of alerting unseen strangers is to slam car doors.

We did.

A minute later, a skinny college-aged guy with John Lennon glasses and a ponytail came walking over the canal bank wearing hip boots, and an inquisitive expression, and carrying a rack of test tubes.

His expression softened when he saw us—men accompanied by an adolescent boy are an unlikely threat. He waved, calling, “If you’re here to fish, don’t worry about me. I was just leaving.”

I said, “There’s no rush. We’re not fishing. In fact, maybe you can help us.”

“Me? Sure, if I can—” He created a partition, the way he said it. Wary of strangers asking favors. But then he suddenly grinned—he’d noticed the Volkswagen van. “Ohhh ... man. You guys came in that? Is it for real?”

“Too real,” I said. “Most people can’t look at it without sunglasses.”

“Not me, man. I love it. How wild. That is the coolest camper I’ve ever seen. It’s like ... it’s like the perfect little Magic Bus.” He stared for a couple more seconds before repeating himself: “Just too cool. The paint job is living history. Is it yours, sir? No ... it can’t be.”

His gaze swiveled from me, to Lake, then settled on Tomlinson. “It’s yours, man.
Gotta
be. Classic VW love wagon ... but it’s
new.
I didn’t know they made them anymore. So you had it done custom, huh?”

Tomlinson said, “Magic Bus?” stuck on the name, considering it, tasting the words.

“As in the song. You know, by The Who? Man, I am so jealous.” He indicated the white truck. “I’m driving a company cookie cutter.”

“You ... that’s your
company
truck? This’s gotta be one of those evil flashbacks they promised us.”

The kid’s grin broadened. “You’re too much, man. You’re the real deal, aren’t you? I love the whole look. Your hair—are those Samurai shocks?—the peace sign, the flowers. Who are you guys?”

He came off as unpretentious as a child. Tomlinson, however, was flummoxed. He’d anticipated meeting some Big Sugar corporate drone, but was now struggling to reevaluate a guy who could have been a shorter, younger version of himself.

He said, “
You
work for Big Sugar? How can someone who works for a giant like Tropicane get off on the Chimpmobile—the Magic Bus, I mean?”

The kid—he looked like a kid with his peach-fuzz goatee and sideburns—said, “Yeah man, I work for Tropicane. I’m a biologist, the environmental department. Two years, and they’re already moving me up the corporate ladder. I like it okay. It’s
ajob,
know what I mean? But it’s not who I am. Your generation—the whole hipster scene—that’s what I was born for. It’s my generation, too. Only I got transferred to planet Earth just a little late.”

Tomlinson remained baffled. “You believe that? You’re one of the brethren?” He was studying the man’s gaunt face, the Jesus hair, the wire glasses. The tie-dyed T-shirt he wore wasn’t clearly visible because of the chest-high waders, but there it was.

The kid said, “Man, I’ve read tons of books on the subject. It started out like a hobby, when I was little. But then it became my life. San Francisco; the Haight; Jimi Hendrix ; the
White Album.
The whole philosophy. Immersion, man. Do you know how something just feels right? That feeling of coming home to a place you’ve never been?”

Tomlinson replied, “Well ... of course. In astral projection, any kind of soul travel, that’s our only anchor. It’s the feeling that keeps us from spinning off. A kind of knowing.”

“Knowing. Exactly. I share an old chicken farm; rent with a dozen other people—like a commune? In the family, we’ve got Ravers, Wiccans, Punks, a Pagan, and a Christian. But professionals. Work for Daddy Tropicane.”

Tomlinson managed to follow that. “You’re a Raver. Definitely not a Punk. And the whole Wiccan deal is just too witchy-woman.”

The kid was nodding; the two of them connected. “Very intuitive, brother. Yes, I’d be considered a Raver, but I’m not into the whole today scene. A generation ago, that was my time. You ought to come see the classic posters I’ve got on the wall. Our whole family’s into it. Across the country, all over the world, the movement’s growing. ‘EX-sters’—that’s what we call ourselves. As in Hipsters? We still play vinyl, man. Not that CD crap.
Revolver
—that’s my all-time favorite Beatles album.”

“Okay, okay. I’m starting to get a fix on where you’re coming from. You and your friends are on your own personal vision quest. A little old, a little new. But, man! How can you work for the big-money screwheads?”

The kid, who turned out to be Jason Reynolds, Ph.D., was walking toward the paisley-painted Volkswagen in a sort of trance. “It’s biologists like yours truly who keep the old corporate leeches on the straight and narrow. But the younger suits, dude, the guys with the ties and stock options, they’re starting to get it. Mother Earth matters.

“I talk to them,” he said. “I get into their heads by preaching to their wallets. These days, they want to save the environment plus make a profit. Which is very cool. Money’s cool, man. Those’re two things I’ve learned: You’ve gotta join a tribe before you can change a tribe. And making money is very cool.”

Suddenly sounding more like a student than a teacher, Tomlinson asked,
“Really?
How do you figure?”

“Because it’s the only ticket to the party, man. The power structure is where it’s happening. If you want to change things, you’ve got to be part of it. My motto? Money doesn’t count—it
rules.
Hey, mind if I open the door and have a look?”

Tomlinson was following along behind him. “Ticket into the tribe, huh? Interesting that we should meet. I’ve been experimenting with that whole mind-set. Money. Materialism. Greed as a form of spirituality. You seem to have a handle on the big picture. I’d love to get together sometime, see how deep the roots go. Knock back a few, or burn something interesting—your call.”

Reynolds was inside the van, exploring, opening compartments, touching this and that. “Sure. In return, you could maybe tell us some stories from the old days. I’m a historian. I’ve got photo albums; a whole archive of taped interviews with people who lived it. This one dude I talked to, he’s met Timothy Leary, Janis Joplin, Edward Abbey, Hunter S. Thompson, a bunch of the icons.”

“Tim and Dr. Gonzo,” Tomlinson said fondly. “The Monkey Wrench Gang and poor Janis. Such beautiful spirits.”

“You knew them?”

His reaction—a slight dip of the head—said friendship is a personal matter made vulnerable by public declaration. “During those sweet years, if you hung out at the Hotel Jerome in Aspen, or rode a Harley in San Francisco, you met all forms of enlightened souls.”

“Edward Abbey. The
man.”

“Ed did have a thorny side.”

“Oh, dude, we have got to sit down and talk. But to change the subject, this thing?”—Reynolds was in the van, preoccupied with what he was seeing, squinting through his glasses—“is this a refrigerator?”

“Uh-huh. Holds a couple cases of beer. Food, if you need it. I’ve got the deluxe Swiss Alps touring package. Special telescopic shocks, electric-start generator, and an automatic pop-top. Check it out: a ten-speaker Levenson sound system that’ll pulverize kidney stones if you crank it. All the options. Hey”—Tomlinson was chuckling, showing he understood the wealth angle—“it’s only money, right?”

Maybe he saw Lake and me exchange looks, because he dropped the facade seconds later, his expression sobering. “Which, to tell the truth, is something I just can’t make myself give a damn about. Money, I mean.”

“That’s too bad, man. If you want to change the system, you gotta have it. Remember: If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.”

Tomlinson rallied. “When you put it that way, yeah, I totally dig where you’re coming from.” Lake and I exchanged looks again, as he added, “The fridge is loaded with beverages. Coldies. Take it from an experienced member of the family: Here in the tropics, it’s very important to rehydrate.”

The biologist, who was squatting next to the refrigerator, opened the door, and looked at rows of bottles for a moment.
“Sweet.”

 

 

When Tomlinson took me aside and asked if it was okay if he told Reynolds why we were here and what we were looking for, I told him, sure, tell the man everything. I wanted Tropicane headquarters to know that I had copies of Applebee’s files. I was in the area because I suspected foul play. Retracing Frieda’s footsteps.

I wanted everyone to know.

Same with the Environmental Protection and Oversight Conservancy. I’d already spoken to a secretary by phone, told her I was on the job, and asked for an appointment with one of the head people.

Her reply had been frosty, noncommittal.

I’d spelled my name for her, to make sure she had it.

“F-O-R-D. Like the car.”

There were at least two predators out there: the Russian couple. There also had to be some directing force. I wanted fresh scent in the water. I hoped to lure them near.

“There’s something I’d like you to ask your new best friend, too. Did you catch his reaction to Edward Abbey? Ask him if he read the
Rolling Stone
article. He could be one of the copycat weirdos. Maybe even a murderer.”

Tomlinson’s reply was frosty. “Give my instincts some credit. This dude’s no murderer. I like him better
because
he’s a fan of the Monkey Wrench Gang. Got a very decent spirit. I bet he offers to help us search for the phone.”

“At least ask, okay?”

“Okay!”

I didn’t accept Tomlinson’s quick endorsement. I’m dubious of people who choose to evade the realities of their own era. Reynolds seemed as misplaced as his fantasy about the idyllic days of hippiedom. Plus, anyone who’d worked with Jobe Applebee was a subject of suspicion. The two had worked together. Reynolds had already told us. It was only for an afternoon, he said, and months ago.

He also told me that he’d read my paper on nutrient pollution in Florida Bay. “Interesting,” he said. “Liked it.”

He left it at that, a small mark in his favor.

 

 

Tomlinson was right. The biologist offered his help.

“For one thing, it’s Saturday; just getting in some extra work. I was officially off duty the moment I opened this beer. Besides, I’ve already got my waders on.

“I didn’t know Dr. Applebee’s sister, and I can’t say I knew Dr. Applebee—he was on a whole different trip. Quiet, you know.
Intense.
But if finding that phone gets you closer to the truth, I’ll go in and hunt around with my feet.”

We’d already talked about the possibility that guinea worm larvae were here, so that’s how we’d have to do it: wade around and search with our feet. He had a box of disposable surgical masks, he said. No sense risking the ingestion of contaminated water.

He knew about the parasites. On Tuesday, he’d been contacted by an epidemiologist from the Florida Department of Health. A woman physician, not Dr. Clark.

“She was notifying all the environmental agencies, anyone who works with water,” Reynolds said. “Christ, I read about those worms when I was in school. Disgusting.”

On Thursday, the woman called again to tell him that water samples from lakes near Disney World had tested positive for
Dracunculiasis.
She asked his department to test water in the Tropicane system, and e-mailed lab photos to help in identification.

“I wouldn’t know what to look for if she hadn’t done that,” Reynolds told us. “It’s not the sort of thing I’m expected to do.”

“Have you tested here?”

“Yesterday. All tests negative. I took samples from a bunch of areas. Lots of copepods, but no guinea larvae. So it’s probably safe. I came back today just to be certain.”

A thorough guy. Another mark in his favor.

As he worked his way down the canal bank toward the water, Reynolds listed the standard evaluations that Applebee had been doing for Tropicane: gas chromatograph test, for volatile organic analysis; and pesticide analysis. Spectrophotometer scans for inorganic analysis and organic compound identification—phosphorus flowing into the Everglades was still the big concern, he said.

“We do miscellaneous membrane filtration. What we’re looking for is fertilizer overload, or coliform bacteria—pathogenic stuff that indicates degraded water quality. Not water fleas with parasitic larvae inside them.” He swung his head toward the truck where he’d left the rack of water samples. “I have some disposable 115-milliliter filter flasks in my kit. But no microscope, or we could take a look now.”