Shark River (39 page)

For Izzy and Clare, making peace meant returning the golden lion’s head ring, along with ten thousand dollars cash. Izzy wasn’t wholly satisfied. He kept hinting around that Ransom might have stolen more cash than that; maybe he hadn’t counted the money right. But he was a victim of his own greed, and that was the final settlement.

Clare was particularly pleased by the ring. His broken nose still bandaged, he squeezed it onto his black pinkie finger, beaming, and said, “My brotheren, my brotheren, you make the Lion of Judah very happy this day, you give praise to the Holy Piby with what you just do. By your holy actions, I’m sayin’.” He then whacked me on the shoulder fondly. “We be friends for all the time now, glory to God, ’cause this here the royal ring of Haile Selassie, the one belonged to King Solomon, who then give it to the Queen of Sheba, who give it to her son, Prince Menelik of Ethiopia. And that the way the ring be passed along for three thousand years ’til our Saint, Bob Marley, leave to be with Black Jesus.”

He didn’t seem upset at all when Ransom added with false innocence, “Yeah, an’ it come all the way from New York, too.”

Something I could not convince her to do, however, was to come with us to the lake that had taken her son. It was near Arthur’s Town, forty acres or so of dark water, ringed with dwarf mangroves. The lake did, indeed, have a sinister appearance. In the low trees, wings spread like gargoyles, were dozens, maybe hundreds, of anhingas, or snake birds.

No other sign of life in a water space so black and luminous that it might have been the gigantic eye of something alive.

 

 

Tomlinson and I had to use machetes to hack a trail wide enough for the little inflatable we’d rented, plus SCUBA gear. Then we began the laborious, boring chore of using our anchor to sound the bottom. Tuck’s note said the lake was really a limestone crater connected to the sea, the entire bottom no more than seven or eight feet deep until you found the crater, and then it plummeted to sixty feet.

That’s where he said he’d dropped the box.

Even with the range marker Tuck had used and described—a large dead buttonwood on the western shore—it took us nearly an hour to find the hole. Then I rolled over the side, breathing easily through the borrowed regulator, and drifted down through the murk, not expecting the poor visibility to change, but it did. It changed abruptly at about forty feet. In one instant I was in water too black and dense to see my own hands. In the next instant, I pierced a chilling thermoclime and my head and face poked through a lens of crystal saltwater. Beneath me was an aquarium world of flaming coral colors—a demarcation so abrupt that I felt as if I was falling into a new and secret world from above.

There, by the mouth of a tiny cave, we found a sizable brass box, locked with a padlock, that was so heavy I had to rig it to an air bag to lift it.

Something else we found on the bottom near a second, larger cave was a child-sized human skull—almost certainly Ransom’s son, the boy who’d refused to believe in superstition, and whose body was never recovered.

Drifting there, looking into the vacuous eye sockets, I had the startling realization that this boy had not only been a kindred thinker, he had also been my own flesh and blood.

I looked at Tomlinson. . . . He looked at me before holding an index finger to his regulator—
Sshhhh.
Let the child rest.

We did. We left him and never told Ransom. But first, I touched fingers to my lips, then touched his forehead. A private farewell to the nephew I never knew.

 

 

Then the four of us sat alone in one of our two cabanas at Fernandez Bay, drinking champagne, whispering and giggling like conspiratorial children as we counted out 276 coins: sixty-one of them Spanish, gold and silver, the rest old British and French coins.

Ransom had looked at me teary-eyed and said, “We rich, my brother, we rich! Man, I’m gonna buy me a boat and live on Sanibel. Or maybe a house. Get me a TV and that red car, too!”

Now, though, as I applied suntan oil to the lady’s long and lovely legs, old coins and considerations of wealth seemed not very interesting, nor even important. I found that—surprise, surprise—my hands seemed to have a mind of their own. They decided I couldn’t just slather on the oil, it was only reasonable that I give her a body massage while I was at it.

Judging by the soft moaning sounds she made, the lady seemed to approve.

Once, she got up on her elbows, turned enough so I could see the milky, blue veins beneath the white skin of her breasts. I looked into her brilliant blue eyes as she asked, “You still sorry that your girlfriend couldn’t make it?”

Meaning Lindsey Harrington who, over the phone, had stammered and stuttered at my invitation to Cat Island before she finally said, “Like, the thing is, Doc, I think the world of you. And you’ve, like, helped me a ton, you really have, and my dad approves, which is surprising as hell, but . . . but . . . well . . . remember me mentioning Big Ben, my bodyguard? Now that Dad’s let me out of prison, Big Ben and I’ve decided to go hang out in San Francisco for a while. He knows an artist out there who does these, like, unbelievable tattoos.”

As my hands worked their way up the lady’s back to her strong shoulders, I said, “She’s not my girlfriend. Girlfriends, I’ve decided, are a pain in the ass.”

Which is when my friend, Dewey Nye, the former tennis great, got up on her elbows once more, laughing. She seemed to find that hilarious. She was laughing, then she was roaring. “Tell me about it, pal,” she said. “Tell me about it!”