The Heat Islands: A Doc Ford Novel (24 page)

Between 8 and 11 a.m., on Friday, June 24. four telephone calls came into the county police switchboard that were inexorably linked but would be shunted to different offices.

Police departments are often criticized for exactly this lack of coordination, but, in reality, law-enforcement people are usually more competent than their critics—and more efficient than most on the public payroll.

By five that afternoon, three of the calls would be associated, and the fourth would be acknowledged as being peripherally influenced.

The first call that came in was a missing-person report from a woman who identified herself as Suzie Hemphill. According to Ms. Hemphill, her best friend, Greta Gideon, had confided in her that she was going to elope with a guy she'd been dating. Greta had supposedly left with the guy two days before. Now the guy was back on Sanibel Island, but nobody's seen or heard from Greta since—Ms. Hemphill had even gone in and searched her friend's apartment.

As Ms. Hemphill told the officer who took the report, "I know the guy's back, 'cause I just stopped at his marina and they said he was out on an all-day charter. But I had to leave for work, so I taped a note to his dock asking just what the hell's going on—then I thought, hell, he's such a weirdo, I ought to let you guys know, too."

The second call was anonymous and, because it was far more sinister, given priority attention. Within minutes after it was received, a tape of the call had been copied from the main recording bank and was being played back to several of the men and women who worked in homicide—one of whom was Roy Fuller. The recording was of an obviously distraught male. Certain passages were so graphic that Fuller, for one, didn't doubt that the man was sincere:

I wasn't
gonna call, but I couldn't
sleep all night think in' about it, so I got to call, only I'm not gonna give my name. Just believe me.
I
didn't
have nothing to do with it, that's all. See. this girl and me
—I
wasn't supposed to be with her, which is why I can't
tell my name—this girl and me went out parking, and got out and spread a blanket down on the ground where It seemed kinda sandy. We was busy—you know—but I kept smelling this bad smell, and she finally said something 'cause she smelled It. too. So I get up and get a flashlight, and
I
shine it around, and
I
can see animals been digging right where we was laying. Maybe hogs rooting. That's why it was so soft. I shine the light down one of the little holes, and. shit. I see a hand Buried down there—a hand. Hell.
I
could see fingernail polish! So we got the hell out and wasn't
going to tell nobody, but I got to. A couple days before. I saw a car out there, a white Lincoln. And
I
think somebody ought to know.
...

And the caller gave directions to the place: a construction road just over the Mayakkatee County line—which meant that the police department of that county had to be notified.

Roy Fuller volunteered to drive up and offer assistance.

The third call was from an officer at the computer center for Federal Crime Information saying they had matched the fingerprints submitted two days ago with a man named Colin Kane, alias Keith Raybourne. Kane was wanted for questioning by federal authorities in a series of rape/murders in the Denver. L.A., and Seattle areas. Kane was to be considered extremely dangerous, and federal agents would arrive that afternoon to help apprehend.

The fourth call that came in was from the secretary at Glades Detention, requesting transportation for a prisoner who was being released.

The ex-prisoner, whose name was Jeth Nicholes, was to be taken to his home on Sanibel Island.

The officer assigned to drive Jeth home was an enthusiastic snook fisherman by the name of Terry. When the ex-prisoner was led through the gate. Terry—who despised this kind of taxicab call—put down his clipboard and began to smile. As the ex-prisoner slid into the front seat. Terry said. "I recognize you! Jesus Christ, you're Jeth Nicholes, the fishing guide!"

By the time Terry and Jeth got across the causeway to Sanibel Island, they had stopped at Fisherman's World for bronze hooks and at a 7-Eleven for diet Coke. At Dinkin's Bay, Jeth gave Terry a tour of the marina, a tour of his boat, and two packs of Kelley Wiggler fishing lures.

Before the police officer drove away, he clapped Jeth on the back and said. "I'm sorry as hell they screwed up and arrested you. That hardly ever happens."

Jeth just laughed it off, not wanting Terry to feel bad. "If I was in charge of police business. I'd get things so screwed up you boys would be wearing moons instead of stars. Everybody makes mistakes."

Jeth stood and waved until the squad car was around the curve of the shell road, then he crossed the parking lot toward the marina building and the door to his apartment. Through the window. Jeth got a quick glimpse of MacKinley behind the cash register in the office. But he didn't feel like seeing MacKinley right now. He felt like being alone.

Jeth stopped by his Bronco and opened the door. Inside, it was like an oven and smelled of bait gone bad. Battery was probably dead, too—and sure enough, the solenoid didn't even click when he turned the key.

Jeth pulled the hood latch and jumped out to have a look.

Hell, the damn battery was gone, no wonder!

But then Jeth realized that someone from the marina had removed it because they didn't have keys but wanted to keep the battery charged. Probably Mack or Doc.

Jeth felt a little catch in his throat. Being at Dinkin's Bay was like being part of a family, the way people took care of each other.

He went to the front door of his apartment, unlocked it, and went up the stairs quietly, so Mack wouldn't hear him below.

The apartment smelled stale, too. He opened windows, turned on the air conditioner, then checked the first two or three minutes of phone messages on his private number. Nearly all women; all expecting calls; all expecting an explanation of where he'd been and why. Thinking of that was like a weight on his shoulders. Made him tired. Made him want to get on a plane and go someplace.

Over the sink by a stack of dishes someone had washed, there was a note:
I've been taking care of Crunch & Des and getting your mail. Stop by, Doc.

Jeth Nicholes got a beer out of the refrigerator, then went down the stairs into the heat toward the mangroves at the eastern edge of the parking lot where the path led to Doc's stilt house.

Jeth heard Doc call through the window, "I've got a buddy of yours in here," and followed the voice around the porch to the part of the house called the lab. And there was Doc, with his wire glasses pushed up on his forehead, sitting at a table with his microscope. Behind him, on the steel table, was curled Crunch & Des, the big, sleepy black cat, blinking. Doc said. "He must be happy to see you. He doesn't crack an eye for anyone else."

Jeth shook Doc's hand, patting his shoulder, happier to see him than he had imagined he would be, then swept up his cat before he found a chair in the corner of the small room.

"Sure appreciate you watching out for my stuff. Doc. Hell. I coulda been gone months. No one knew." Crunch & Des was vibrating beneath his fingers, like a motor running.

It felt good, being here. Jeth liked being in the lab. It smelled good, too, but not like flowers or perfume or food. Not that kind of good. It smelled like old books and wood alcohol and saltwater and something else Doc used in his work. Jeth didn't know what. Plus, there were things to look at: jars of stuff on the shelves, sea horses and starfish, and a lot of other creatures, all labeled if you wanted to know what they were.

Doc said, "You've watched my place for me before. Couple of times. Just returning the favor."

"Even so, I appreciate it."

"They treat you okay in jail?" Doc was looking through the microscope, like it was no big deal for Jeth to have just gotten out of jail, and that was nice.

"Treated me real fine. Lot of the cops want me to take them fishing. They're good guys."

"You talked to MacKinley yet?"

"Nope. Just pulled in and saw your note."

"He's been postponing your charters as best he could, but some he had to farm out to Captain Nels and Felix."

"That's fine with me. In fact. I'm thinking about making it permanent." Jeth, petting the cat with one hand, finished his beer with the other, and decided to toss out the information, just to see how it felt saying it aloud. "I'm thinking about quitting guiding for a while," he said. "Maybe travel around some. You know, I never been out of Florida, unless you count Miami or the Bahamas."

"Many people would count that," Ford said wryly. "Miami, at least."

"Maybe buy myself a airplane ticket and fly clear to New York. Or maybe California. Which one you think?"

"It's a little easier to picture you in California. Women wear bathing suits there."

"Then California it is. You know a good town?"

"Plenty of good towns out there. Depends what you want. Coronado. Monterey, Palo Alto. Maybe visit more than one."

"I'll start with Palo Alto. I like the sound of that."

Doc said, "Good choice. By the way, your mail's on the desk. Beside the dictionary."

Jeth placed Crunch & Des on his chair, then held the stack of mail beneath the desk lamp, shuffling through it.

Ford said, "You got a couple of things there from the University Medical Center in Gainesville."

Jeth stiffened but said nothing.

Ford said, "Is that why you decided to quit guiding? Because you're sick?"

Jeth looked at him, then back at the stack of letters. He said slowly, "You never struck me as the type to read another man's mail, Doc. I don't like that."

Ford pushed the microscope away and adjusted his glasses on his nose. "I didn't read your mail. I didn't have to. You told me."

"I didn't tell you nothing. Not about that."

"Yes, you did. All the last two months, you've been telling me. You went to the eye doctor because you've had headaches, but it wasn't your eyes. I knew that. You've been clumsy as hell, running into stuff, and your hands shake. There's something wrong with your muscles or your coordination; anybody could see. You haven't been yourself, disappearing for weeks at a time. Going off for tests, that's why. You stopped stuttering. And you took the blame for what you thought was a friend's crime because you figured you were going to die anyway, so why not—as long as they didn't electrocute you before you died naturally."

Jeth stood by the window, holding a manila envelope, looking at the address. He stood quietly for a long time, then he said, "You can't tell anybody what you just said to me."

"With the exception of Tomlinson, I promise," Ford answered.

"I guess Tomlinson's okay. I almost told him myself."

"Then I'm right?"

"Except that's not why I quit stuttering—because I'm sick. It just happened. Like magic."

"Off Cape Sable," Ford said.

"Right. I saw the green flash. Just like that. I was down there alone, and I was so damn scared. Just so damned seared. That's the only part I didn't tell you."

"You can tell me now, if you want."

Jeth placed the mail on the desk and sat with Crunch & Des on his lap. He said, "I was scared, when I found out. Listening to that doctor made my ears ring, that's how scared." He shrugged. "That feeling, that sea redness, I hope you never know it. It's the sickest, weirdest feeling: like there's warm oil in your spine, but it gives you a cold chill so that your knees are weak, and you have to piss all the time.

"That's the way I felt, for two whole weeks, and I couldn't tell anybody. I didn't have any money for doctors, and I got other payments out the ying-yang. No insurance. Didn't want to go begging. Didn't want to mess up the lives of my sisters or my friends. And I was just so damn scared all the time. But seeing the green flash made me feel...
better.
Took the fear right away." He snapped his fingers. "That quick. Like someone was around, making sense of it all. And I knew it.
Really
knew it, for the first time. There's a reason for everything, Doc. Everything means something."

Ford felt that he should speak, but he couldn't bring himself to do it.

Jeth turned, took the sleeping cat in his hands, and sat.

He said, "I got something growing on my brain."

Ford said, "I thought it might be that."

"It's like waking up to find some stranger's broken into your house, and you can't get rid of him. I had all sorts of tests done."

"So you know what kind of tumor it is."

Jeth shook his head and pointed to the manila envelope on the desk. "Those are probably the results of the last test, sitting there. I had to lay on a table inside this machine that spun around and around me. The doctors were going to send them. Tell me if the tumor's gonna keep growing, or if it's something else. I forget what—"

"A meningioma?" Ford said. "I hope to hell that's what it is."

"Yeah, that's the word."

"Then, damn it, Jeth, you may not be dying. Hell, it might be something they can fix right off the bat! Open the envelope, and let's take a look."

Jeth shook his head. "Not here."

"Why the hell not? You want to punish yourself a little longer?"

"I been bad enough in my life. I deserve it. But that's not the reason."

"What then?"

"I don't want to read it in front of somebody."

Excited. Ford had stood. Now he sat again. "Exactly right. It's private. Take your cat and your mail and go home. Figure out what you're going to do for the next month or so. Either way, we'll get you fixed up."

Jeth was gathering things, standing. "I told you what I'm doing the next month or so. I'm traveling. Going to California. Palo Alto, like I said."

"But what if the tests say—"

Jeth cut in, "I don't care what the tests say. Either way. they'd have to cut into my brain, and I don't want that. If the results are bad. I'm probably gonna die anyway. If the results are good. I'll probably live anyway. So why the hell should I risk reading 'em and getting scared all over again? You know what the hardest part of all this was. Doc?" Jeth's face had a soft, worn look. "The hardest part was thinking about not being on the water."