The Heat Islands: A Doc Ford Novel (26 page)

In the fresh silence, Tomlinson heard what seemed to be voices competing with static.

He looked at Ford, and Ford explained the noise: "Police radios, somewhere over there. A couple of squad cars, maybe more, parked up the river a ways. If you watch, you can see the flashing lights through the smoke." Tomlinson said. "Maybe they're citing these guys again for cutting mangroves."

Ford shrugged. "I don't see why it would take more than one car to do that. Must be something else. Maybe somebody got hurt."

"You want to go have a look?"

"Nope. I've had enough police business for a while. Is this what you brought me to see? The way it's being developed?"

"After doing all that research, I guess I wanted to have a look for myself. See it from the water."

"I'd have been willing to take your word for it. I've got a lot of work to do."

Tomlinson smiled. Doc always had work to do—his way of isolating himself from those things he did not enjoy or that made him uneasy. Tomlinson said. "You're pissed."

"No. If Jeth wasn't already out. your research could have helped. And maybe we can do something with it, anyway. I know a reporter."

"Jeth's out?" On the trip up. Doc hadn't said a word about Jeth; had hardly said a word at all. Just listened and nodded. Which was usually what Doc did.

"Let's get downriver, find some shade, and I'll tell you about it. My eyes are starting to water from the smoke." An hour later, after they sat and talked, and after they cleared the final oyster bar. Ford checked his watch. It was half-past five.

Over the mainland, storm clouds leaned seaward, feeding on air turbulence generated by cities along the coast, the concrete heat islands. The concrete radiated sunlight; the amassed heat created thermals. The thermals sculpted towering thunderheads that funneled cool air off the bay, spawning nervous crosswinds. The dynamics caused a volatile collision of temperatures, then a buildup of opposed electrical charges: positive charges arcing from the high black clouds to negative charged ions in the earth.

S-z-z-z-BOOM.

Ford could feel the rolling vibrations of thunder through the hull of the boat. To Tomlinson, he said, "We're gonna have to hustle not to get caught in that squall. And we're supposed to meet Harry at six."

Tomlinson could feel the vibrations, too. and he was thinking.
Through the air, through the water, through the fiberglass, through my feet. I am connected to the storm, and to all things....

Ford said, "Did you hear me?"

Tomlinson was remembering the kinetic jolt he had received from Jeth, the dark electricity of his touch. In that way, he had already known what Ford would tell him. But to have it verbalized aroused in him the old madness, and stirred to the surface grave feelings of fear and pain and wistfulness for the child in Harry's womb, the child whom he had helped give life and, he hoped, would help bring into this world.

As the boat gained speed, Tomlinson took into his mind the refrain that had become his private mantra:
All the way to heaven is heaven all the way to heaven is heaven all the way to heaven is heaven....

After many minutes, and with the El Jobean bridge within sight, Tomlinson spoke so unexpectedly and loudly that Ford jumped. "It's going to be okay. He'll become a teacher. A great one. Jeth, I mean."

"What?"
Ford was irritated. He didn't like being forced into conversation while he was running shallow water— especially when he was trying to outdistance a squall. Plus, he'd been thinking about Dewey. about the way she looked, hoping he would have a chance to hold her again; just hold her. That he felt such a strong surge of affection surprised him, and he didn't want to release the mental picture he had of her, nor the warmth of the emotion. He repeated. "What did you say about Jeth?"

Tomlinson had a soft smile on his face, amused by Ford's pique. "I said everything's going to be okay."

Huh?"

"He's going to be just fine, Jeth. Whatever happens."

Drifting two miles off Lighthouse Point, Karl Sutter heard the rumble of thunder, and said to his four clients, "Better reel in your bails, folks. Better luck next time, huh?"

He watched them cranking in their lines, two asshole men and two good-looking ladies wearing bikinis, which is the only reason he'd agreed to fish them.

They'd come in the day before, right at closing time, begging for a charter. But Dalbert was booked and Javier insisted he had to go into town in the afternoon on important business, though what important business a colored spick could have was anybody's guess. So Sutter told the men that he'd been canceling all his charters since he'd become an administrator—but they were such nice folks, he'd take them personally. Thinking:
Just on the chance your women take their lops off. 'cause they sure have nice tits.

Sutter had given them his standard all-day charter. Took them off Lighthouse Point and drifted frozen bait beneath balloons, so they caught nothing, didn't even get a bite. When the men suggested they go into the bay and fish for sea trout, Sutter said, "Why bother? Trout are loaded with worms," which was his standard reply. He hated fishing for sea trout 'cause it was so much work and he never caught any, so that's the line he always gave them, the bit about worms.

What was wrong with just drifting around out on the ocean?

Which is what they did for eight hours, the two men getting grumpier and grumpier because they weren't catching anything. But the women kept slathering on oil, spread-eagled out there in the sun and drinking frozen daiquiris, pushing their tits out, though still giving him that buggy look, the bitches. But there was a bottle of vodka and an FM radio, so Sutter had a decent time; not like he'd had to work.

But he didn't like being out in storms. Hated them, always had—ever since he was a kid. Hated the smell of them and the way they made his stomach vibrate, and there was no place to hide. Like the night Marvin disappeared, when all those tarpon came squirming to the surface, dead or dying. That lightning scared the hell out of him. Plus, it was time to go in, anyway. Past it really—hell, he'd gotten a little drunk and lost track of the time. Nearly 6 p.m., which is when the marina closed.

Sutter went to the wheel and started the engine. "Grab your seats and hold on tight. We got to try and beat a storm. Damn thing snuck up on me." Figuring to put a little scare into the two asshole men; let the ladies know they had to depend on him for their safety. But, halfway back to the lighthouse, Sutter realized the storm really might catch them: Those clouds were moving fast, like some gigantic train.

Shit.

Damn passengers could keep dry, sitting up there in the little cabin. But he had to stay out in the weather and steer. And he didn't like getting wet when he had a nice buzz going. Ruined the whole effect. The trick was, stay dry.

Trying to watch and hold the wheel. Sutter cracked the storage bin beside his seat and fished around until he felt his rain suit. Heard a clunk and knew it was the Taurus automatic he'd hidden there, but went ahead and pulled the jacket out and put it on. Stored two packs of Marlboros inside one of the Velcro pockets, then settled back to drive.

Now he could see the rain haze hanging over Punta Rassa and Estero Island. The waves beyond the lighthouse bar were a bile green with hard white tops. Sutter steered his boat through them, around the point—and that's where the storm wind hit them: big wall of chilled air that seemed to nearly lift the boat off the water. But no rain; not yet, anyway.

Inside the cabin, the women squealed and Sutter could hear the men swearing. "Jesus Christ, take it easy out there!"

"You people just relax! We're almost to the marina now."

With the storm charging hard off the starboard side, Sutter picked up the markers of the Intracoastal Waterway. pounding through the waves into Pine Island Sound. To his left was the entrance to Sanibel Marina and. just ahead, the causeway: sections of bridge that led to the mainland. Sutter could see heavy traffic backed up on the bridge, like there was maybe a wreck near the tollbooth.

That's the way his mind filed it:
traffic jam caused by a wreck.
That's what he thought when he steered beneath the bridge, holding his breath when it seemed those big waves would swing his boat into the concrete pilings. But he made it, passing beneath all those cars.

Some nasty traffic jam. Must a been one hell of a pileup..
..

But then some instinct in him, some atavistic sensitivity, brought his mind to focus on the line of cars. Caused him to study the source of the backup. Made him focus on the cluster of police vehicles sitting at the causeway exit ramp, stopping each and every car trying to leave the island.

Uh-oh. uh-oh. uh-oh. not a wreck. A fucking roadblock!

Sutter immediately shoved ahead on the throttle, fighting panic. Turning his face away, as if the cops might look across a mile of green water and spot him.

Wait a minute, it's not for you. you dope. No way they could find out anything about Greta; not this soon. Far as anyone knows, she Just packed her bags one day and ran off. Use your head. Relax.

Still, he didn't like it. The causeway was the only way to get on or off the island. With that road blocked, the cops could nail whoever they wanted to nail. Just a matter of time.

Some dumb schmuck probably tried to rob the bank. So they'll just sit on the bridge till they make him.

Sutter took a deep breath and angled off the channel toward Two Parrot Bight, picking up the red and green marker gate that led into the canal. He was going much slower now, taking his time because warning bells were going off in his head. He was sober, too, like all the alcohol in his brain had evaporated with the first rush of fear. That quick, he'd almost forgotten about his four clients.

But there was no forgetting about the storm. The wind was really starting to howl now, and he could see veils of rain sweeping across the water toward him. Normally, he would have gunned his boat and sprinted up the canal to the marina. Been standing beneath the awning before he even got damp.

Now, though, he waited for the rain to catch him. Waited for the rain to envelop his boat, then idled along with the wind, feeling the first fat drops thump his rain jacket. Then it was like standing beneath a fire hose, the rain came down that hard. Sutter tried to shield his eyes with his hands, squinting to see the marina parking lot. Could see the outline of the marina office... and the vague shapes of cars ... and then—

Shit.

Police cars. A couple of them, maybe more. No doubt about it. Parked back in by the pine grove, as if those skinny trees could hide a car, the idiots. But were they waiting for him?

Sutter had pulled the throttle back into neutral, standing there in the rain, thinking.

Maybe the best thing to do was go on in, find out. Hell, he could talk his way out of anything. Cops were so dumb. But what if he couldn't talk his way out of it? And what if it was about Greta? Once they got their hands on him, they damn sure wouldn't let go. Not again. Not after Denver. And sure as hell not after Seattle. Once they found out.

As if it's any of their damn business, the assholes! If only people would mind their own damn business.

Sutter put the boat in gear and made a smooth turn out of the canal, back into Pine Island Sound. Going slow so as not to look suspicious. Though they probably couldn't see him, anyway. Not in this rain.

The little door to the cabin opened, and one of the men poked his face out. "We about to the marina yet? A couple of us are getting queasy down here."

Sutter held up one finger, as if he needed a minute. Then, without warning, he jammed the throttle forward, and the man came tumbling out onto the deck, face-first. Every time the man tried to struggle to his knees, Sutter heaved the wheel over, so the impact of the waves knocked him back onto the deck. The guy had landed on his face pretty hard, and his nose was bleeding.

"That ought to make you feel better, dumb shit!"

Inside the cabin, the women were screaming again, and Sutter held the throttle down hard, his eyes closed, running blind in the rain. He waited for the boat to gain all the speed it could, letting the waves hammer them. Then he slowed suddenly and reached into the storage bin beside the wheel. He took out the Taurus automatic, used the handrailings to make his way forward.

"Hey—get the hell out of the way. Move it!"

The guy on the deck was blocking the door to the cabin, bleeding all over the place. Sutter kicked him in the side. "Can't you hear?"

The man looked up, blinking in the rain. "What did I do? Why are you doing this?"

"You got about two seconds."

"For God's sake, please don't shoot me!"

"Then move it. asshole!"

Sutter kicked the guy once more, and finally got the door open. The little cabin was a littered mess, and three pale faces stared back at him. He waved the gun at them and had to shout to be heard over the sound of the rain on the hull. "Take out all your money. All of it, Traveler's checks, plastic, everything. Put it on the floor, right there by the steps."

The women started crying the moment they saw their buddy with the bloody face. Now the guy in the cabin was bawling, too, saying please don't hurt him, he'd do anything, just please don't shoot. Taking the money from the women and making a real neat pile of cash on the floor, as if neatness might save him.

"Out here! Out on the deck, all of you!"

Sutter waved them out with the pistol, and they had to squat in the rain just to keep their footing on the rolling boat. The women were still in those tiny little bikinis, and Sutter thought,
I
would love to. I would love to,
looking at them, knowing he could make them do anything he wanted. Anything. And it might even be better with their men there to watch. That's something he'd tried once or twice, and he liked it.

But he didn't have time for that. He had to use the storm; had to get to a town and find a car. Or a place to hide. Before the weather cleared enough for them to get helicopters out looking for him.

"Jump! Jump or I'll shoot you all dead! Every damn one of you pigs."

Sutter thought maybe he'd have to push them. The moment he said jump, though, all four were up and over the side. Pushing themselves off into a rain so heavy that they couldn't even see shore. He thought about shooting them, plunking them all as they floundered around in the waves. But that would have just made things worse. Not that he would have minded doing it.

The way those bitches gave me the buggy look If I only had some time alone with them...

He returned the pistol to the bin to keep it a little drier, then got the boat up on plane again, but not too fast. He knew he was close to the channel. What he had to do was run from marker to marker—those big steel posts that were placed like road signs, from Key West to Texas, on the Intracoastal Waterway. Even in a storm like this, he could follow those markers. And all he had to do was make it to Boca Grande or Port Charlotte. After that, he could hide the boat, then figure out what he should do next. Use the charge cards to book a flight at one of the small airports. Or rent a car. Something. Right now, though, he had to find one of those damn markers—and there it was, a big red triangle, marker 10.

Hell, he was right by the power lines, not far from Dinkin's Bay, and right on course for Boca Grande!

Sutter began to feel better. It was still raining like hell, and he was soaked and cold, but he felt pretty good. If he could just make it to the mainland and a car. the cops would have a hell of a time catching him. He'd played that game before, and he was good at it. And it would be dark, soon—another thing in his favor.

From marker to marker, Sutter steered, taking his time, being real careful not to get out of the channel. But then, not far beyond marker 24 and the second set of power lines, something went wrong. Sutter kept expecting to see the next marker, but the next marker never appeared. Maybe he'd veered too far to the left. He stopped and tried to retrace his course, but then he couldn't find marker 24, either.

Son of a bitch!

Furious at himself and the damn rain, which made it impossible to see, Sutter pushed the boat faster.

Got to be a marker around here someplace.

Then the boat seemed to lift slightly beneath his feet ... and he felt the sickening shudder of the hull plowing up and over solid bottom ... and then the boat jolted, hard aground. Stopped dead as the engine continued to scream, kicking mud and grass up into the haze of rain.

Oh. no no no no
...

He tried full throttle forward, full throttle reverse. The boat wouldn't move. He shoved the throttle forward once more—and there was the horrible clatter of metal grinding metal. A broken drive shaft.

Sutter switched off the ignition and screamed profanity into the drumming rain. But then he made himself take stock.

Got to find a way out of here quick, or those bastards are going to make me go to prison. Maybe even send me to the chair—they have the death penalty in this state, fucking savages. I've got to do something now!

Ahead and off to the left, he could see the faintest impression of a line of mangroves—not far away, cither, maybe a hundred yards. That was good. Land. Maybe Captiva or Sanibel, no way to be sure.

Sutter gathered the money and charge cards he'd taken from the four anglers, put the Taurus automatic in the pouch pocket of his rain jacket, and slipped over the side. The water was only knee-deep, and he began to walk toward the mangroves. As he drew close to the trees, he heard a reassuring sound: the hiss of car tires on wet asphalt.

Hot damn, road up ahead.

Then he saw the ghostly shape of a channel marker, the outline of a dock, and Karl Sutter recognized where he was: Blind Pass, right by that tennis player's house, Dewey

Nye....