Night Moves (33 page)

The outcome, however, had made a mockery of my Darwinian script. The results defied all odds, all logic, all reason: a reptile perfected over eons, a dog—once a wolf—whose genetics had been artificially selected by hobbyists . . . tinkered with, refined, into a purebred mold that should have banished it from the food chain hierarchy and deposited it
inside
the snake’s belly.

In this dog, though, the wolf had resurfaced. He had attacked his attacker and made a meal of him. Imagining how the encounter had actually gone produced in me the briefest flicker of . . .
something
.
It wasn’t emotion—a sense of clarity, the Brazilian might have described it—and my mood changed.

“Screw reason,” I told the dog. “You’re a survivor.”

Impatient with my gibberish, the animal shifted his attention to the chunk of rope as if comparing its entertainment value to my own.

“Screw logic, too,” I added, and that did it. The chunk of hawser won out. The dog turned his butt to me and carried the rope to the only clean spot on the floor and began shredding it.

Outside, the moon overhead, I looked north toward the mouth of Dinkin’s Bay. Because my cell phone happened to be in my pocket, I called Hannah Smith.

28

AN HOUR BEFORE SUNRISE, I IDLED PAST THE SLEEPING
portholes and listless halyards of A-Dock, where, just beyond solar lights that rimmed
Seduci
, I noticed a gaping hole in the mooring pattern: the Stiletto ocean racer was gone.

How the hell had I missed hearing those big engines fire up?

Well, probably because I’d been on the phone past midnight talking to Hannah, then pulled a pillow over my head to get a few hours’ sleep. Our conversation had begun with a chill, but had ended, an hour later, with admissions that so closely resembled affection I was still rattled. I didn’t want to marry the woman, for christ’s sake, but the fact she was often on my mind was reason enough to pursue the relationship. Get to know her better—
slowly
. When I saw that the Stiletto was gone, though, all thoughts of that vanished and I veered left just enough to confirm it was true.

Yes . . . during the few hours I’d slept, someone had slipped into the marina, started the boat, and left—the owner, presumably, because the marina gates had been locked earlier when I’d taken the dog for a last visit to the mangroves. Of course, the owner—or thieves—could have come by water. The driver could have also maneuvered the racing boat clear of the basin using steering thrusters—water jets normally used to facilitate docking—then started the engines far from the docks.

What to do? It was 5:45 on a February morning. Over the Gulf, at tree level, the moon mimicked sunset, a pale and heatless hole in the darkness. The east was black with stars that appeared to drift behind immobile clouds. Should I call Jeth? Alert Mack?

Mack lives in a piling house beyond the boat ramp, to the right of the mechanic’s shed. No lights on there. Tomlinson’s dinghy was ashore, the cabin of
No Más
dark, so he was staying with Cressa. My attention panned from the apartment above the marina office, to
Tiger Lilly
, to
Playmaker
, then along the row of cruisers and sailboats—everyone still asleep. Aboard the Brazilian’s yacht, though, cabin lights were on but dim. A pale blue flickering suggested a television screen or lighted candles. If Diemer was awake, he would have heard or seen
something
because the Stiletto had been in the neighboring slip.

I pushed the twin throttles forward and idled toward
Seduci
. A boat length away, I shifted to neutral and revved my engines a couple of times. Waited several seconds, then did it again. No sign of movement inside, no telltale swipe of curtains, so Diemer was asleep or . . . or he wasn’t aboard.

The possibility nagged at me for a moment, then I dismissed it. So what? My pal Donald Cheng had checked on the Stiletto. The vessel was owned by a Miami company that sponsored boats in the Offshore Grand Prix and the Key West International race series. No connection—not with the Brazilian anyway. So I turned the Zodiac toward the channel, running lights out because the moon illuminated Dinkin’s Bay with a pumpkin gloss so bright I could see that, aside from
No Más
,
the bay was empty.

No Más . . .
my eyes settled on the sailboat as I approached the
No Wake
buoys. The cabin dark, Tomlinson’s dinghy tied near the boat ramp, as it often was when he was gone for the night—nothing unusual, so why was I still troubled by the missing ocean racer?

Damn it!

I shifted to neutral and called Tomlinson’s cell. No answer, and no need to leave a message—the time stamp would tell him the call was important. It did, because my phone flashed a few seconds later, and Tomlinson, sounding groggy, said, “If you’re calling about your truck, yes, I stole it.”

I asked, “You’re with Cressa at her beach house?”

“At the Holiday Inn, unless someone levitated my ass to a different place. Middle Gulf Drive. But don’t tell anybody—especially that vicious little voodoo monster, Kondo. Geezus, what time is it?”

“The Haitian came to the marina?”

Whispering now, Tomlinson said, “Could be. I’m in hiding. Geezus, not even six yet, man! Is the dog sick?”

“How do you know Kondo’s after you? Someone must have towed him in.”

“Hang on, I don’t want to wake her up.” I heard the click of a door latch before Tomlinson resumed, “Two-bedroom suite, you believe it? Because she wanted me to, I rubbed her neck until she went to sleep, then snuck off to my own room. That was around one, and my willpower is running dead on empty. I thought you’d be on your way to the Bone Field by now.”

“Tell me about Kondo!”

“Christ, you don’t have to bite my head off. I’m the one he threatened to kill.”

“You
did
talk with him.”

“No. And I deleted his messages after listening to the first one. But his texts, man, the way they flow—he writes in dialect—they’re, like, hypnotic. Can’t help myself. It’s like reading Matthiessen—
Far Tortuga—
only not as authentic, which is weird if you really think about it.”

I said,
“Tomlinson . . .”

“Okay! A guy out mackerel fishing towed him and his buddies to Punta Rassa. Little bastard had his feet on the ground just about the time the party was ending for Crunch & Des. That was the first message I got. The guy, this mackerel fisherman, turns out he’s also a mechanic and he squealed to Kondo that I’d loosened all the spark plugs.”

“The mechanic blamed
you
?”

“That
someone
did it, and was lucky the engine didn’t blow up. Kondo, he’s vicious, but he’s not dumb. Plus, he had to pay the mechanic like five hundred bucks, but he’s probably lying about that. You know, like I’m supposed to reimburse him before he cuts my nuts off—that was how the first message started. Next one was that he would feed me Epsom salts until I turned into a zombie and parade me around Port-a’-Prince on a leash. You know, let the kiddies have fun with his pet white demon.”

“Did anyone follow you to the hotel?”

“Wait, this is how I know he’s serious. Next ten texts, he’s apologizing, telling me, ‘Hey, mon, you doan know a joke when you hear your good frien’ Kondo tell a joke?’ Wants me to meet him for a drink at the Rum Bar. Then some bar on Fort Myers Beach. See? Guy’s
smart
.
I call the cops, the only thing I got in writing is apologies and invitations to have fun.”

“Did you tell Cressa?”

“Upset her? You kidding?”

“But she knows who he is.”

“Turns out, yeah. You were right. Deano bought pharmaceuticals from the guy. She’d lied to me all along, but tonight finally told the truth. Bad as the acid was, it might have opened her up as a person.”

“Always a silver lining,” I said. “
Cressa
was buying drugs from the Haitian?”

“That part she was vague about. Me giving her a nickel baggie, I think it’s what put Kondo on my ass in the first place—that’s the way I met her, the two of us shooting the shit on the beach. Nice pretty married lady who wanted to have some fun for a change.”

“Cut your nuts off,” I muttered.

“Wear them around his neck, yeah, or make a bolo out of them.” Tomlinson’s voice softened, his way of becoming serious. “Kondo’s reputation on the party circuit, he’s a sweetheart. A fun little actor, but I knew he was bad. I just didn’t know how bad. Cressa’s gonna be okay, so what I think I’ll do is turn her over to her hubby, hop on
No Más
, and see a new part of the Old World. I haven’t transited the Canal in a while, and Panama’s got some of the best surfing in the world.”

I didn’t ask,
What about the Avenger wreckage?
It would only embarrass the man by forcing him to admit he was scared shitless. So I asked him again, “Are you sure no one followed you?”

“How would I know? On Middle Gulf this time of year, everyone drives fifteen goddamn miles an hour. A funeral could have passed us, traffic was so backed up.” Then he said, “I’ve got to piss, so don’t worry. It’s not your phone.”

Engines in neutral, the Zodiac’s hull vibrated beneath me and had drifted so I could see the marina a hundred yards away: streamers of silver water linked to security lights that showed A-Dock and the Stiletto’s empty slip. I waited until Tomlinson said, “
That’s
better,” before asking him, “Does Kondo own a boat? Not the rental boat, his own boat.”

“Hang on,” he replied, and I heard a door click shut. Then, sounding more like himself, “I don’t know. Probably. He’s got a condo on Naples Beach—Coquina Sands. There’s a steel drum ditty for you: Kondo’s Coquina Condo . . . no, Kondo’s Cosmic Condo . . .”

“Anybody you could check with?” I interrupted, then told him, “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Did Cressa know you planned to go to Lostman’s River this morning?”

“The Bone Field, yeah. But I just told you, I’m not—”

“Does she know you’ve changed your mind?”

“Well, I’m right here with her, aren’t I? At the damn Holiday Inn, with my laundry bag and a shoeshine cloth.”

“Stay there,” I told him. “Order room service, don’t go anywhere—especially not her beach house.”

“What about the dog!”

“Between Janet and Hannah, that’s all taken care of.”

“
Hannah?
It’s about time you smartened up!”

“Pay
attention
,” I said. “Don’t go anywhere until you hear from me. Understand?”

I put the phone in my pocket and throttled toward the mouth of Dinkin’s Bay.

29

THREE MONTHS I’D OWNED THE ZODIAC AND HAD
come to the conclusion it wasn’t the boat for me, but perfect for what I was doing now: running forty-plus in darkness through light chop, lights of the Sanibel Causeway ahead, a few cars already tunneling their way toward the island where windows sparked behind coconut palms.

I’d bought the twenty-six-foot rigid hull inflatable because it was unexpectedly available, it was equipped like nothing on the civilian market, and it would allow me to run offshore in weather that my previous boat, a Maverick flats skiff—as solid as it was—couldn’t handle. So I’d made a snap decision, which is the worst possible thing a boat buyer can do, but the result was only mildly disappointing, not disastrous as it is for most.

The Zodiac had all the high-tech touches: a bolstered T-top, radar tower aft, a cavernous console, an electronics suite shielded by Plexiglas, Ullman shock-mitigating seats mounted on a forgiving deck, and a full-length Kevlar shoe beneath a collar of rigid black tubes that looked bulletproof—and maybe were, considering the agency that had ordered the boat as a prototype. For power: twin Mercury 200s, top speed over sixty, a range of three hundred miles with extra gas bladders—to Cuba and back or more than halfway to the Yucatán. Great if you’ve got to bull through a hurricane and drop SEAL operatives on a beach but too much draft and too much boat for Dinkin’s Bay.

A very comfortable choice, though, for a fifty-mile trip to Lostman’s River and the Bone Field, so I should have been having fun with my new toy.

I wasn’t. The black-hulled Stiletto was on my mind. And a Haitian drug dealer who had an appetite for revenge when he wasn’t partying with wealthy clientele. My cousin Ransom’s voice reminding me,
The rich ones, they think it very cool to have their own Haitian voodoo man they invite for drinks when they in Jamaica, Saint Martin.
Ransom’s voice stressing,
That boy get around!

Jet-set partiers . . . a Caribbean supplier . . . a jet-set assassin—but there was no tenable connection! One of the country’s top intel gatherers, Donald Cheng, had told me himself—the Stiletto was owned by some faceless company involved with offshore racing.

Stop obsessing, Ford. If you cross the line, vigilance becomes pathology. Shallow up! Float on—enjoy the ride.

The Zodiac’s storage console was chest high. Big enough for a chemical toilet, a handheld shower, and an electrically cooled Igloo. I told myself to be decadent, break a long-standing rule and have a breakfast beer. Instead, I fished out a Snapple, Diet Peach, the bottle cool in my left hand. Took another look inside the locker and considered my khaki gun bag—an old 9mm Sig Sauer pistol therein, a smaller, lighter 9mm Kahr, too, plus a box of Hornaday Critical Defense ammo and fifty rounds of Remington for plinking if I got the chance.

Put the Sig on the console just in case?

I asked myself the question, then mocked myself by answering,
In case of what? Steer the damn boat and look at the stars!

After idling beneath the causeway, I muscled the boat back onto plane, bow pointed at the robotic eye of the Sanibel Lighthouse, and left the channel behind, both Merc outboards synced at 4000 rpm. Off the lighthouse, eons of tidal flow have piled sandbars. Cut in close to the point, though, water is deep enough, so that’s what I did, aware that the Holiday Inn was only a few miles up the beach. Then steered west toward a blazing moon that was melting into blackness that was the Gulf of Mexico.