Shark River (27 page)

I turned and walked down the boardwalk to my stilthouse... then I began to run, too, when I heard the phone ringing.

I answered just before the recorder took over, and heard Lindsey Harrington’s voice say, “Doc! I was about to give up on you, big boy. Man, do I miss that bod of yours!”

 

 

 

L
indsey said it’d been a crazy couple of days. She’d never been through anything like it in her life. That now she knew what it must be like to be President. Or a big-time rock star, the way they’d choppered her off the island, everything done in secret, to some airport she’d never seen before.

Hal Harrington had been there waiting, and flew her in a Learjet north, but her dad wouldn’t even tell her where. Then it was into another helicopter, and finally a waiting limo which drove them for more than an hour or so, and by that time it was dark, so she really couldn’t say for certain where she was even now. Didn’t even know for sure what state she was in.

“Woke up yesterday morning,” she said, laughing, “and I’m like, where the hell am I? Looked out the window and there were mountains all yellow and silver with aspens, and fresh snow on the ground like you see on calendars or Christmas cards. I mean, it’s a totally awesome place. Like my own ski lodge with a rock fireplace that covers one whole wall, and I’ve got a bird feeder outside, which I’m keeping full so I can watch the cardinals. Because what else do I have to do except read or watch TV?”

The worst thing, though, she said, was that I wasn’t there to share the place with her—she said it wistfully, in a way I found touching, a girl with a crush—and it’d be especially great having me around because she’d been alone since this morning when her father had to fly back to Colombia on business. Except for the two bodyguards her father had hired, of course. They were always around but kept their distance. “Dad thought Gale was a little too chummy, and that’s not gonna happen again.”

I was standing at the window, watching the band set up on the docks. I was using my home phone, not the new cell phone. I stood there watching the sky turn tropical fruit colors, from pale mango to orange to citreous yellow, then purple . . . the anvil shape of a spent thunderhead smoky gray in the distance. I could see Ransom tapping a steel drum experimentally, four men around her now, plus Mark Bryant’s ancient golden retriever, Shadow, his tongue hanging out. There were probably fifty people out there, socializing on the docks, and Ransom was the only one who’d drawn a crowd. I turned my attention from the window for a moment and noticed a white envelope on the Franklin stove, with a note attached to it.

As I listened to Lindsey telling me about how weird it was, wearing a thong bikini one day, earmuffs the next, I saw that the envelope was the letter sent to me by my late uncle. A letter I’d seen but had yet to open and read. I saw that the note was from Ransom to me, the handwriting on both envelope and note very similar. I read the first sentence of the note, “My brother, It’s hurting my heart that you still haven’t read Daddy Gatrell’s letter to you. . . .”

I folded the note for later, as Lindsey told me, “The first thing my dad did, when he met Gale and me at the first place we landed—this was right after we left the island—he about squeezed the wind out of me, he was so relieved to see I wasn’t hurt, then he took Gale aside and fired her ass. I don’t know what he said to her, but you know how there’s a type of person you can’t picture crying?”

An image of Jeth popped into my mind. I checked the docks again—he and Janet weren’t out there. Hopefully, they’d gone off on their own to talk. I said, “Yeah, I know exactly what you mean.”

“Gale was such a macho jock, Mr. Tough Girl, that I wouldn’t’a believed she’d ever cried in my life. Wrong. I don’t know what my dad said to her, but she was bawling her eyes out when she came out of that room with him. She’ll never work for him again. Maybe never work in the security business again, he was so pissed off.”

I said, “Your father would really do that to her? Ruin her career?”

“He said she wasn’t very good at it.”

“I agree. She was terrible. Still—”

“You don’t know my dad, Doc. Nicest guy in the world—if he decides to make time for you. But don’t cross him.
Ever.
And he’s always been so protective of me, it’s practically like being smothered. Want to make him mad? Do something to hurt his little girl. Me, I mean. That’s the way he still thinks of me. The weird thing about Dad is, the madder he gets, the quieter he gets. That’s how I knew he was furious at Gale. He smiled at her—but a different kind of smile—and kept his voice real soft and low, which told me, uh-oh, Gale’s about to have her head handed to her on a platter. Which is what happened. She’d almost gotten me killed, that’s the way he saw it, and she had to go. He’s got this favorite saying. How’s it go? Oh yeah: In diplomacy, getting even is the best revenge.”

I told her, “I can hear him say it.” I could, too. After talking with Harrington on the phone, I didn’t doubt it for a second.

“But know what the great thing is, Doc? He actually likes you. First time maybe ever that he approves of a man I’m seeing. From just that talk you guys had. That, plus after checking you out through probably every file the government computers can access. He didn’t tell you
that,
though, did he?”

“A computer check,” I said. “No kidding? He’d have gone to all the trouble of running my name through a computer? It’s surprising what some fathers will do.” Through the window, I could see Tomlinson now. He had the Verner twins following along behind him, Bobbi and Barbie, the two of them with big smiles, drawing lots of attention themselves, looking buxom and identical in navy blue warm-up pants and white T-shirts. They looked like they were dressed to run a couple of miles. Or to go for a sail with Tomlinson.

Through the phone, I could hear Lindsey ask, Was I kidding? Her dad had done background checks on everyone she’d ever dated. Then she said, “Why would that surprise you?
Hello-o-o.
He had us
taped,
for Christ’s sake. When we were making love. Remember? Of course he’d do a background check. But it musta come out complimentary, ’cause know what he told me?” She changed her voice, made it deeper, imitating her father. “ ‘That Doctor Ford, he seems like a good man. Lot of integrity. If you’re smart, you’ll stay in touch with him. He’s not like the kind of losers you usually run with.’ ” She laughed at her own theatrics. “He even told me, after things die down, when he feels I’m out of danger, you and I ought to head off on some kind of trip. Can you believe it? Have a little fun. Jesus, he even referred to you as the astronaut, joking about it, which embarrassed the crap out of me. But Dad was like, ‘Hey, no big deal.’ ”

Mindful of one of the promises I’d made to Harrington, I said, “I’ll make a deal with you, Lindsey. You keep working out, stay healthy, I’ll fly you to Florida and we’ll spend three or four days cruising around, camping. Whatever you want.”

“By ‘staying healthy’ you mean staying clean. Just come out and say it. No drugs, no cocaine.”

“Okay, no drugs, especially cocaine. I like the woman I met on Guava Key very much. Don’t go screwing up a winning combination. Plus, I meant the part about working out. Even without Gale there to push you. Keep the momentum, then we can start working out together when you get to Sanibel. I need a running partner.”

“Sanibel,” she said dreamily. “I’ve been there. What’s the name of that big bird sanctuary? And I love the beaches. I can just picture us, waking up early and going for long walks. But Doc? Something that’ll help motivate me is you calling. Every day if you can. Twice a day would be better. I don’t want to be pushy, but it’s already boring as hell here. The bodyguards are supposed to take me cross-country skiing tomorrow. But I’ll have my cell phone. Hearing from you gives me something to look forward to.”

Staying in touch with Lindsey was also part of my promise to Harrington. “A couple times a day,” I said. “You got it.”

 

 

I worked in the lab until about ten. I had a stack of bills to pay, and a smaller stack of invoices to send out. Do business with any state or federally funded organization—which is about all I do—and you soon learn that the bureaucrats make even getting paid a complicated series of often meaningless, unnecessary, busywork hoops. Small people exercise their power in small ways.

I also had a little stack of personal mail to answer. The inexorable use of the Internet and e-mail has conferred a new and surprising power to handwritten letters, and I take care to answer the few I now receive. I had a long letter from Dewey Nye. She started out by apologizing again for her last-minute cancellation of Guava Key, which caused me to reflect on how certain small decisions may have a gigantic impact on our lives. I played the private little mental game of what-would’ve-happened-if. What would have happened if Dewey had ignored her lover and stayed with me on the island? What would’ve happened if she’d been running along beside me the afternoon I confronted the kidnappers? She might have been shot, not me. Might be badly wounded, might be dead. Or, instead of grazing my arm, the slug might have drifted a few inches to the left. Human existence seems a dichotomy of random intersections acted out on a precise biological framework . . . which may explain my passion for biology.

I answered Dewey’s letter and a couple more. Kim and Mike from Cabbage Key had gotten married and the happy couple had sent me a card postmarked Fiji. There was also a note from Captain Peter Hull of Mote Marine reminding me to contact him about the five-year research master plan they were contemplating for Charlotte Harbor.

I sat there writing in the perfect little circle of light provided by a gooseneck lamp. Then, because I hadn’t eaten, and because Mack and the others tend to get miffed if I don’t make at least a token appearance at their Friday parties, I showered, changed, locked the lab behind me, and headed off for the marina.

I carried the mail with me outside. Stopped, listened, then slowed my pace where the path opened out onto the shell road.

Was there a car waiting, engine off, at the gate?

Yep. Lights off, too. I could see one . . . no, two dark figures sitting in the front seat.

I felt my heart start to pound harder as I stood there trying to decide whether to keep going or trot back to safety and call the police. I was still standing there when the car started unexpectedly, the passenger window rolled down and I heard a snatch of laughter, a teenage hoot, then peeling tires on loose shell.

Kids parking.

I berated myself for being unduly paranoid... then forgave myself immediately, remembering the way Clare’s big arm had crushed the air out of me.

I had become a target, and I knew it. Which is why I had to be very, very careful. You’re not paranoid if the bad guys really are after you.

And they were.

I readjusted the mail in my good arm, and walked it to the marina’s drop box before joining the party.

The band was still playing: three men with guitars, another on congas, Tomlinson on harmonica, and Ransom on steel drums. They were doing a Buffett song—
One Particular Harbor
—all six really into it, banging it loud, the crowd singing along, some of them dancing, too, maybe prompted by Ransom, who danced with Bahamian rhythm as she played.

I watched Tomlinson for a few moments. He was shirt-less, his abs and veins demarcated by dock lights, his face invisible behind a screen of hair as he leaned his mouth into cupped hands, playing. He was barefooted, too, his knobby legs protruding from purple and yellow paisley surfer shorts that hung below his knees.

I stood there listening, enjoying it, looking out past the docks to the dark water and stars beyond. JoAnn brought me a beer, then Rhonda joined us, too, linking her arm into mine and leaning her weight against me, the three of us standing close as if slow dancing, me sandwiched between. Old friends.

“Shadow loves it!” Rhonda yelled. Mark’s old retriever sat at Tomlinson’s side, panting, eyes focused upward, as if expecting a treat.

Nearby were the Verner twins. Both had similar expressions on their faces. Same thing—expecting a treat.

I’d finished that beer and another by the time the band took a break. I had joined the guides at the picnic tables under the tin roof near the bait tank. That’s where the food had been moved just in case of rain. I dropped a ten-dollar bill into the jar and filled my plate with shrimp, cracked conch, and a slab of baked redfish.

I’m not a fussy eater; certainly no gourmet snob, but I rarely order seafood at a restaurant. The Timbers on Sanibel and the Prawnbroker on the mainland are exceptions. The restaurants on Cabbage Key and Useppa are a couple of others. I rarely order it for a very simple reason: The marina’s seafood and the seafood I make at home are both always so far superior; why risk it?

Shrimp are a good example. Buy shrimp from any American market or restaurant and they can’t compare, because commercial shrimpers give their catch a chemical soaking so the shrimp will smell milder, fresher, and be a viable, salable product longer.

Not so at the marina. We buy the shrimp right off the boat from the bay shrimpers. Shrimp that haven’t been soaked in chemical brine, so none of the delicate iodine flavor has been leached away.

Combined with that is the fact that Joyce, who cooks in the seafood market, uses a very simple recipe I brought back from Panama, compliments of some of my Zonie friends. Fill an empty wine bottle with virgin olive oil and a dozen or more chili peppers. Cork and allow it to age for at least a few weeks. In a large bowl, pour the chili oil over fresh shrimp, squeeze in the juice of two fresh limes. Not lemons,
limes.
Salt heavily. Add garlic, black pepper, and, if you can find it, some Everglades Seasoning from La-Belle for a nice Cuban touch. Allow the shrimp to marinate for a day. Cook them on a very hot grill. The oil creates a lot of flame and sears them nicely black. It only takes a minute or two on each side. Overcook the shrimp and they’re ruined—dry and tough to peel. Get them off just as they turn pink and you’ve got one of the world’s great culinary experiences.