Night Moves (Doc Ford)

27




I WENT PAST THE BOOKSHELVES INTO THE KITCHEN and opened the little oven where I had rehidden the bottle of Eldorado that Tomlinson had stashed under the sink. As I got ice, I was thinking about my two-minute conversation with Vargas Diemer. The Brazilian had asked—no, urged—me to leave Tomlinson behind in the morning. Said he was worried the effects of the LSD would cause some kind of screwup. I’d refused, of course, and was now wondering if he had enlisted Cressa to put additional pressure on Tomlinson to stay.

Why would the Brazilian be so insistent? And devious? If Diemer wasn’t leaving for the Bone Field until tomorrow night, a Friday, what did it matter if I arrived alone tomorrow morning? My suspicions struck me as nonsensical until I’d sorted through potential motives.

I came up with three possible explanations. In two, Tomlinson wouldn’t be able to deal with the fallout in his current state, so the Brazilian was right in a way. He was better off staying here an extra day. In the third, though, Sanibel was the more dangerous place because, in that scenario, Robert Arturo Sr. played the role of Diemer’s target. And if Tomlinson happened to be at the beach house, and if he happened to get in the way . . . ?

But as I pictured it, the threads came unraveled. Why would the jet-set assassin court the mistress of a man he’d been hired to kill? Why would he risk robbing Cressa’s safe? Why the hell would he moor his yacht less than a mile from her beach house?

As I poured rum over ice, I forged several decrepit explanations, then discarded them. No . . . The father-in-law might be worthy of an enemy’s bullet, but he wasn’t Diemer’s target. The Brazilian was too good at what he did. He was here for a reason, I no longer doubted, but he was too skilled a technician to drag his spore over an X spot—a killing zone—more than once.

Convinced of it, I placed Tomlinson’s glass on the desk next to him, saying, “I think an extra day on Sanibel’s a good idea. Fly down with Dan. But do me a favor—stay off Diemer’s boat, okay?”

My pal had given up on tug-of-war and was sitting in front of the computer. “Whose?” he asked, not turning.

I’d slipped again. “I mean the Brazilian,” I said. “He’s got a weird vibe about him.”

“The Nazi dude, yeah, no kidding. I don’t think he gives a damn about the Bone Field or the wreckage. What’s he really up to, you think?”

“He’s not a Nazi,” I replied, “and he knows almost as much about Flight 19 as Dan. It was a hobby long before he came to Dinkin’s Bay, so you’re wrong. Thing is, he’s got his eye on Cressa. Which means he sees you as competition. That’s why I want you to stay away. You two alone on a boat is just asking for trouble.”

The letter from the dog’s Atlanta owner was on the computer screen, I realized, so Tomlinson only bobbed his head a couple times to agree with me. Then said in an offhand way, “Cressa, she actually is a good person, you know.”

He expected a response. Instead, I poured a dab of rum into my iced tea and stirred it with the closest thing handy, a scalpel.

“Women who aren’t allowed to follow their own paths,” he mused, “either fake it until their spirit shrivels up and dies or they fight for their lives by going underground. Cressa was forced underground. I can’t blame her for that.”

Before I could tell him he was misguided, Tomlinson shifted the subject to the letter. “This has gotta be a joke, right? You rescue the family dog, now this guy wants you to jump through his legal hoops? Screw him, that’s what I say.”

“Some of my e-mails are in Spanish,” I replied. “If you need help translating, let me know.”

Right over his head. “Not a problem, usually, but this one really burns my butt, man.”

“Because you’re so sensitive,” I countered, then gave up by reminding him the woman was waiting in the car, and also offered a warning: “Keep an eye out for the Haitian tomorrow. Sooner or later, someone’ll tow his boat in. And he’s going to be pissed! Straight for No Más, that’s what I think. He’ll try to catch you alone. So stay at Cressa’s place . . . no, that’s no good either. Whether she admits it or not, Kondo might have sold Deano drugs through her. So it’s better if you both stay here.” I waited a moment. “You hear me?”

“Atlanta!” Tomlinson exclaimed, noticing the letterhead. “They’re saying the dog ran away and survived all that insane traffic? Even if he did, this dog’s a stud with brains—he would’ve stopped in Central Florida, not gone clear to the Everglades. All the nice lakes up there, loaded with ducks and trees. Lots of cute little poodles, college girls with golden retrievers—but our guy chooses the land of giant snakes and gators instead? I don’t think so.”

“That’s my personal mail you’re reading,” I reminded him.

“The dog’s yours, too, by rights. That’s why I’m trying to help.”

“Don’t help me,” I said. “I hate it when you try to help me.”

Tomlinson replied, “It’s no trouble, really,” while his fingers moved like spiders across the keyboard. Now the legal forms were on the screen and he looked up, his expression showing disbelief. “You actually signed this bullshit! Doc, the guy’s an asswipe, you can’t tell? It was his father’s dog, not his. And the dog’s happy here—aren’t you, boy!”

The dog snatched the chunk of rope away as a boney hand sought his ears, Tomlinson adding, “This doctor dude sent you an ultimatum, not a thank-you note. What you should do is refuse to go along with the attorney. Hell, maybe that’s what the guy wants. You signed on the dotted line, so what? As long as you haven’t sent these stupid forms yet.” Tomlinson turned. “You didn’t . . . did you?”

No, I hadn’t sent the documents, but I would, so I nodded as if it was already done, then blocked more second-guessing, telling him, “Cressa needs to go home. And don’t forget what I told you about Kondo.”

Finally, the name grabbed his attention. “Kondo?” Tomlinson spun the chair around. “What about that pigmy bastard?”

Opening the door, I repeated what I’d said, then shooed him outside while the man continued to argue, reminding me that if I changed my mind, I had several lady friends who’d be eager to dog-sit when I was away on trips.

The reference only made me more eager to be alone. Sheri Braun, I remembered, might still be awaiting my return to the party. Then, for some reason, my thoughts transitioned to Hannah Smith. Hannah was still on my mind as I watched Tomlinson vanish into the mangroves.

—

A THURSDAY NIGHT in February, and for once I had the house and lab to myself. Still plenty of time to . . .

Do what?

I could finish loading the boat: a twenty-six-foot Zodiac I had recently purchased through contacts at the special ops base at MacDill in Tampa—a confiscated drug runner’s boat supposedly, but I knew otherwise. Still had my checklist to run through to make sure power and electronics were operational. Talking over old times with Sheri Braun was a tempting option. Or . . . what about Hannah?

My former workout partner, still on my mind as I flexed my left hand, movement and feeling returning.

Hannah lived two miles across the bay where she was fixing up a pretty little Marlow cruiser. Lived alone, I reminded myself, at the fishermen’s coop docks. No one else around at that isolated place, just a couple of security lights—a damn lonely spot for a single woman. But was it too late to bother her?

Probably not. Diemer had canceled their fishing trip, so, presumably, she didn’t have to be up at sunrise to catch bait. In fact, an hour before midnight was early for a woman with a day off, and the party outside was going strong. So why not do the friendly, neighborly thing and call?

I thought about it as I returned to the lab and taped feeding instructions to each aquarium for Janet Nicholes, my friend and occasional assistant. When faced with a difficult decision, I sometimes use paper to list the pros in one column, the cons in another, and then compare. Tonight, though, I did it mentally and was soon disappointed because the cons won: Hannah hadn’t responded to messages I’d left yesterday and this morning. Calling now would seem pushy . . . even desperate. Which, of course, I wasn’t—an attractive lady doctor was only a short walk away, down the shoreline where music still played and where, as I could see through the window, someone had lit a circle of tiki torches that blazed beneath the moon.

Desperate? Not Marion D. Ford. There were several women available if I wanted company—more, if I put my mind to it. Any of them—well, at least one, maybe two—would be damn happy to get a call.

Nope, I concluded. Calling Hannah Smith at this hour was childish. End of subject.

The decision, however, put me in an inexplicably sour mood that, in turn, caused me to demonstrate my resolve. I sat at the computer, the retriever at my feet, and reviewed the legal documents I had scanned, signed, and that were waiting to be returned to Dr. Arlis Milton.

The forms looked in order. After a second review, I opened the e-mail to which I’d attached the documents and placed the cursor on the Send button. Nothing to it. Click the button and the rightful owner could claim the retriever whenever he chose. But then the jet-set assassin’s adage came into my mind and caused my finger to hesitate.

Pull the trigger and you can never stop the bullet.

I sat there for several seconds, the concept percolating in my brain. The adage was true. I knew it better than most. The long-term resonance that pulling a trigger, any form of trigger, guaranteed was another truth I had experienced. But there was something else I knew: facts are the least malleable derivative of truth, and a singular fact in this instance was this: the dog wasn’t mine.

Pulling triggers is something you’re good at, I reminded myself. It was an accusation that fit my perverse mood. So I did it. Used my middle finger to hit the Send button with conviction—WHAP!—and, a moment later, my decision was irrevocable.

Interested, the retriever looked up.

“It was the right thing to do,” I told him. “At least I’ll find out who the hell you really are.”

The dog’s rump arched into a pyramid while he yawned and got his legs under him. He took two steps, then dropped a heavy chin on my knee, his yellow eyes staring into mine.

“Too late for that boloney,” I warned him. “Your psychic powers suck.”

The dog’s ears perked until his brain discarded the words as unrecognizable. Did the same thing when I added, “The cat—Crunch & Des—he’d just make your life miserable anyway.”

I was scratching the dog’s neck just above the snakebite, the area greasy with salve, which I bent to examine. Big snake, so a big chunk of skin was missing—four inches of flesh fringed by a scimitar of scabs. The boa’s recurved teeth had buried themselves there while the two animals had battled it out. Seeing the puncture wounds, the size of the bite, caused me to scratch at the bandage that covered what remained of the teeth marks on my arm and also re-created the reality of what had happened that day. One hell of a fight, I’d told Tomlinson. I smiled, picturing it.

Soon, my smile flattened because what I visualized was not amusing. A sixty-pound snake, lying in wait, strikes, locks his teeth into the dog just above the shoulder, then begins to subdue its thrashing prey with the first systematic loop as its body coils. One hell of a fight? No, I was wrong about that. What I visualized was life attempting to snatch fuel from death . . . the indifferent struggle of selection . . . one energized entity determined to ingest the beating heart of another.

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.