Night Moves (Doc Ford)

32




FRIDAY NIGHT, AND MY DATE WITH HANNAH SEEMED a long time coming. The fact that the retriever was gone, claimed by his owner, when I got home late Sunday had nothing to do with it. And it wasn’t just because I was nervous about a dinner date—although I was. So I buried myself in research and started a version of my hook placement study for weekend anglers. I worked out twice daily—running, swimming, wearing a forty-pound vest on the VersaClimber—and I also kept a very close watch on the news.

Sooner or later, someone would find the Stiletto ocean racer, one dead witch doctor aboard, and competent men with badged IDs would appear at Dinkin’s Bay, eager to ask questions. Sooner or later, Cressa Arturo would discover she had been robbed—same tight sphincter scenario.

The eventuality didn’t seem to bother Vargas Diemer. Probably because the man was too smart, too cool to behave as if he had something to hide. So his million-dollar yacht remained where it was, the jet-set assassin happy to entertain guests, including his beautiful victim, Cressa, the soon-to-be-unmarried mistress. I, too, was a regular visitor during that short span, Monday through Friday, but only when I was bored or restless—which was constantly.

It was Wednesday evening, around sunset, sitting topside with Diemer, that I first learned that Dean Arturo had tried to escape from a state psych ward and then, inexplicably, had been released after his father posted bail. The Brazilian and I had been debating the true intent of the old aviator’s secret mission while also discussing the role of American Indians in World War II. Many tribes had sent volunteers as “Code Talkers” to befuddle the Japanese and Germans by communicating in their native tongues. Something I didn’t realize, though, was that ninety percent of Native American males had rushed to enlist after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Their astonishing loyalty to a government they had every reason to distrust had provided the nation with highly decorated heroes in every service branch—including the Marine Corps’ top fighter pilot ace, Gregory “Pappy” Boyington, a Sioux Indian.

It was an interesting irony that called for more research, and my respect for Angel Sampedro, and the airmen who had perished among ancestral bones, had grown exponentially. Same was true of the Brazilian, I think, who that Wednesday evening had turned the conversation to why those four men were being trained secretly for a night bombing mission off Guam.

Diemer pressed a three-pronged theory: 1. The U.S. government would have been derelict not to anticipate the Indianapolis being disabled. 2. Only bombers flown by American Code Talkers could have breached the ship’s security umbrella while also communicating freely among themselves. 3. The training mission’s secret couldn’t risk compromise by a prolonged search for three missing men.

Sinister government conspiracy theories are as commonplace as the simpletons who believe them, but this was the jet-set assassin talking so I had to at least listen patiently. Which is what I was doing when Diemer’s cell phone rang: Cressa Arturo calling, frightened once again because her crazy brother-in-law was on the loose.

“Why don’t you take her on a cruise?” I suggested when he’d hung up, then had to add, “Deano couldn’t get to her on your boat—and less chance of her looking inside her wall safe. Whatever it was you took.”

Diemer dodged the implicit question by asking, “Is he dangerous? I’ve never met the man.”

Later, I would regret my answer, but what I told the Brazilian seemed true at the time. “No, but in the way most snakes aren’t dangerous,” I said. “The guy will run unless you corner him.” I then repeated my suggestion that he take Cressa on a trip—Key West, although she’d probably enjoy Palm Beach more.

The man was already shaking his head. “Even on a vessel the size of Seduci, quarters are too close with a woman aboard. Not for more than a day or two. Better, I think, if I simply make nightly visits.”

“Just an idea,” I said. “A beautiful woman—very neat, too, so you have a lot in common—and she’s rich.”

“Tempting,” he said, “but unwise. Risk ugly scenes, emotional involvement? No . . . In certain professions”—the man attempted a kindred smile—“romantic relationships are wasted time. Never do they survive more than the first or second new assignment. They ask questions, they suspect infidelity. How does one answer? Impossible!”

That gave me the opening I’d been waiting for to ask about the gawky teenage blonde in the photo—Diemer was smart, he would know I had looked inside his tactical bag—but it would also open up the subject of a half million or more in euros, cash. And did I really want to know the truth in advance of being questioned by police?

No, I did not.

So, instead, I remained silent, which gave the Brazilian an opportunity to add to my restlessness when he said, “You think I’m selfish, don’t you?”

“Top-of-the-food-chain selfish,” I said.

“You’re right. Of course! I have to be—and so do you. But do me the kindness of looking at it from the woman’s perspective—Cressa, in this case. I fall in love with her, allow Cressa to fall in love with me, even though I know she will soon hate me—and for good reason. So I keep love in the bedroom, where it belongs. You see? It allows me to be selfish, but also extremely unselfish.”

The Brazilian, pleased with his rationalization, sniffed, placed his wineglass on the table, vanished for less than a minute, then handed me a sealed envelope as he walked me to the door.

“It has been . . . pleasant working with you, Dr. Ford. I was afraid you would ask all the obvious questions. Instead, you lived up to your reputation.”

“At the risk of being obvious,” I replied, “what’s this?” meaning the envelope, midsized manila, but it had some bulk to it.

“Professionals get paid. Isn’t that what the word means?”

When I got back to the lab, I opened the envelope. Twenty thousand in euros—almost five percent of a half mil. Not bad. Generous, actually, by European standards.

I gave some thought to calling the man and thanking him. Plus, I’d forgotten to request updates on Dean Arturo.

I did neither: an oversight a thinking professional wouldn’t make.

—

TWICE THAT NIGHT, I called Hannah. In total, talked for nearly an hour—an outrageous amount of time for someone like me. Pleasant, we laughed a lot, yet I still couldn’t sleep. Days may not move quickly for a dying man, but the night moves slowly, too, for a man who lives alone and who is starting to ask himself, Is it time?

That’s why I was restless and I finally admitted it.

Like it or not, a formal date with someone like Hannah Smith implied a commitment, however minor, that caused a claustrophobic twinge. But Hannah wasn’t the cause. By three a.m. I’d convinced myself it was true so celebrated by pulling on running shorts and shoes, then jogging to the beach while my brain thought it through.

What I felt was more accurately linked to a combination of recent events and elements, I decided: the haunted look in Angel Sampedro’s face, dried flowers in the family album, the POP-POP of a silencer, the resonance of human bone beneath my own mortal feet.

Is it time to . . . make a change?

Unfortunately, I’d made the mistake of asking Tomlinson that question on the long boat trip home from Lostman’s River.

“First off, Doc, your entire premise is totally bullshit! Same with the question ‘What time is it?’ Try this: start counting in your head, one-two-three-four-five, and keep counting until your attention swerves to something else. Something interesting, man, and there’s your answer! Why? Because time stops the instant we release the bullshit concept that time actually exists. Understand? Let go of all the illusionary crap on the outside and we become timeless beings, man. Inside, you know? Where it counts.”

There are those rare occasions when I envy Tomlinson’s drug-buffered view of life, but I still could not let go of the question and it continued to pester me all day Thursday and into the night. Had I reached a period in my life when it was time to . . .

Do what? Be specific, for christ’s sakes!

Okay. Time to settle down . . . buy a van for the kiddies, take up golf, attend functions, be home by ten, pay bills on time, discuss insurance policies, endure lunch dates, smile blandly at parties, vote the straight ticket, mow the lawn, wave cheerfully at a neighbor when, in fact, you want to stick that leaf blower right up said neighbor’s ass.

That’s what you’re thinking about doing, Ford? Oh . . . then at least be honest and project ahead: might as well burn the false passports, the old logbooks, clean out the secret hidey-holes, and notify your overseas friends—via Facebook, maybe!—that your traveling days are over. Why? Because you have met a long-legged, independent woman who, while not wildly attractive by Hollywood standards, jabs a hole in your chest when you imagine how she might look stepping out of the shower or signaling to you from beneath the sheets. If that’s your problem, remember what the Brazilian said about relationships: Impossible!

I was driving myself crazy.

“Crazier,” Tomlinson informed me Friday morning when I sought out his wise counsel as a Zen Buddhist master. Which sent me back to the lab, thinking:

Make a list, Ford, it’s what you always do. Pros on one side, cons on the other. Then measure the list with a micrometer. Note the weight of every loaded word on the con side, compare those weights with loftier words in the pro column. Finally, subtract smallest number from largest number and then . . . and then divide the goddamn results by your total IQ of late, which shouldn’t reduce the sum by one goddamn digit!

My cell phone chirped before I began this idiocy with a pen and legal pad. Hannah texting, See you at 8?

It was 6:30, almost dark outside. Thank god, she didn’t add one of those idiotic smiley faces or I would have hurled the phone across the room, then booked the next flight for Cartagena.

Looking forward to it! I replied, then sat at the computer because I had thirty-five long minutes to kill before showering for our date. Fortunately, and surprisingly, there was an interesting e-mail awaiting to blot up the time. Dr. Arlis Milton of Atlanta writing with answers, as promised, but also to say things weren’t going well with the retriever’s reintroduction to civilization, although the man did his best to hide the truth among seven careful paragraphs.

The most interesting graph revealed much about the dog—Sam was the unfortunate name—and his late owner, Bill, no last name offered:

By now you’ve probably done your homework and discovered my wife’s maiden name so know that my father-in-law was among the most respected field trial breeder/hobbyists in the country. Are you the biologist Marion Ford who has published in various Florida journals? If so, you may appreciate that Bill was also a noted geneticist and wealthy enough to fund his own research as well as his hobby. Bill had great hopes for Sam, and his sire who was a Grand National champion . . .

Geneticist? That was intriguing. So the owner had been William-something, Ph.D. who, the letter informed me, had died in an Alligator Alley car crash on his way to a field trial near Miami. Three paragraphs later, Dr. Milton got to his real reason for e-mailing:

Naturally, we assumed both dogs also died because of the fire. It is for this reason that our attorneys wrongly settled Bill’s estate without addressing a codicil that required my wife to provide for his animals. This was more than a year ago . . .

One year? The physician was telling me that, legally, he and his wife had been spending money that shouldn’t have been disbursed, but all I could think was, Twelve months alone in the Everglades, but that damn dog survived!

Sam had issues, though, the letter continued. He wasn’t “show-worthy” (saleable, I translated) because of physical injuries. But was still “very trainable” (out of control, was the inference) despite the “expected behavioral changes” required of a dog to survive in the wild—even one with “national champion bloodlines.”

In short, by taking possession of the dog, Dr. Milton and his wife had touched a legal base, as required by their inheritance, and now the dog was for sale. I had done a good deed, so was being offered the right of first refusal, but the price—$1,500—was probably firm. If interested, call ASAP.

There was also a P.S. so saccharine sweet it made me wince: Bill loved the movie Old Yeller and the sequel about Old Yeller’s son. Savage Sam. Silly movie but thought his new owner might like to know!

Funny. I was laughing as I skimmed through the letter again, picturing Dr. Milton’s elegant Georgia home and the dog’s swath of destruction that had surely motivated the letter. No time to reply, though, let alone call, because it was almost seven. Time to shower up, shave close, and get ready for my long anticipated date.

That’s when I heard it. A strange Hoo . . . Hoo . . . Hoo . . . sound coming from outside. Reminded me of the hoot-owl call boys sometimes make by blowing through their hands. Whatever the source, it didn’t belong on the walkway or in the mangroves where it was coming from. Had I been in South America, Indonesia, some far-flung place on an assignment—anywhere but in my own home—I would have taken the fifteen seconds required to grab a flashlight. Probably would had slipped a pistol into my pocket, too.

I didn’t. Another mistake—and it might have killed me.