Night Moves (Doc Ford)

4




TOMLINSON ASKED DAN, “WHO’D WANT TO KILL A sweet guy like you, Danny boy?”

Futch was glaring at my hipster pal. “That’s exactly what I’m wondering. I’ve known Doc a long time, but all I know about you are stories. Lots and lots of stories, and most of them not exactly PG-rated. So maybe you already know the answer.”

I brushed past Tomlinson and was soon peering into the seaplane’s aft inspection port, seeing springs, a simple pulley system—the elevator bell crank—and several cables that branched toward the tail fin, trim tabs, and the elevator. The cables were secured to the main pulley, all except one. That cable lay curled on the deck, its crimped eye loop intact, but the line had pulled free for some reason.

“See how they did it?” Dan asked.

I wasn’t sure. “Why would someone sabotage your plane?”

“Murder,” Dan said. “A first-degree scalp hunter.” He reached across the tail and took the stub of free cable in his hand. “See this? This should be bolted to the bell crank—just like the others. And it was. How am I so sure? Because I bolted the goddamn thing myself. Sprayed it with LPS 3, then snubbed her tight. Some a*shole backed the nut free, removed the bolt, then replaced it with this.”

Now in his wide fingers he held a twisted two-inch loop of wire fishing leader. The loop had snapped in the middle. “Whoever did this knew planes. The a*shole knew the wire would hold long enough to get us into the air. Under any serious pressure, though, the first little bit of turbulence, and BANG! This breaks.”

Furious, Dan started to toss the wire away, but then reconsidered. Instead, he looked at it for a moment, then placed it in his billfold. “That’s what we heard just before we went into a dive. I thought at first a bullet hit the fuselage.”

“Jesus,” Tomlinson muttered. “Crazies have taken over the planet. It’s been coming for a while.”

Dan ignored him by addressing me. “I’m surprised the wire held as long as it did, truthfully. I can’t find the missing nut and bolt, either, so whoever did this was worried I might do a quick inspection. Military A-N cadmium steel hardware—thank god, I carry extras. So I can have this fixed in five, ten minutes, but I want to ask you something first.”

Futch motioned toward the tail and looked at us. “This was intentional. It could’ve happened night before last while my plane was docked at Boca. I had smooth air yesterday when I flew to Sanibel, and it’s only a quick hop. Or it was last night, someone snuck into Dinkin’s Bay and . . . hell, it would only take ten minutes.” The pilot paused, his attention inward, before he asked, “Either one of you have any serious personal problems? Somebody you owe money? Or a husband so mad he’d kill us all just to take you out?”

Giving Tomlinson a sharp look, I said, “That is a possibility, I suppose. What about it . . . Quirko?”

Instead of being offended, Tomlinson became thoughtful. “I’ve been seeing a married lady, sure. From New Jersey. Her husband graduated from an engineering school. She’s a quality person; not the screw-around type normally, just lonely, plus some personal issues. And ten years older than the guy she married. That information doesn’t leave here, by the way. Understand?”

Tomlinson has some maddening flaws, but compromising a lover’s secrets isn’t among them.

Dan’s eyes swung to me. I told him, “A mechanical engineer wouldn’t have trouble figuring out how to sabotage a plane even if he wasn’t a pilot. Depends on how hard he took the news that his wife was screwing around.”

Tomlinson said, “No, she says he doesn’t suspect. His family has money—they’re big-time developers—and he’s made a pile more by investing in Florida real estate. So she spends a week down here every month on business—it’s just part of her normal routine. And he’s not the physical type. There are a couple more married women on the islands I have a history with—but we’re still good friends. Same with their husbands.”

“How’d you manage that?” Dan asked. He was sorting through a box of cadmium nuts and bolts, already back at work but paying attention.

“Shameless lies of omission,” Tomlinson replied, “and good eye contact. Not that I’m proud of it, but life happens. If everyone knew the truth about their spouses, the world would either be crazy serene or there would be crazy fighting in the streets. Honesty is risky business when it comes to love.” Tomlinson glanced at me before adding, “That’s why Doc has all sorts of rules when it comes to women and honesty . . . especially married women. So no worries about a homicidal husband in his closet.”

Dan missed the double meaning and the insinuation. The insinuation was that I don’t take anyone into my confidence.

The pilot shook his head. “No husbands for me, but some crazy fisherman, that’s a different story. I’ve guided tarpon for thirty years and there are more pissed-off boat captains every season—especially in Boca Grande Pass. Doc knows what I’m talking about. When your study on tarpon snagging comes out—in two weeks, right?—there’ll be a lot of people pissed off at you, too. But at least Tallahassee will finally understand the bullshit they’ve let go on too long.”

I nodded, even though the study was already being circulated on the Internet—there’d been a leak when the document was sent out for peer review comments. That wasn’t unusual, although I didn’t like the fact that an uncorrected copy was out there. I take my work seriously, had invested a lot of effort in getting the project right. The data had been collected over six weeks in that unusual deepwater pass during tarpon season; thirty-two consecutive days working with research assistants on a hook placement census—where a tarpon is hooked says a lot about how it was hooked. Our findings were at odds with a badly flawed study done by the Florida Fish and Wildlife Commission, so it would be controversial despite the convincing data we had collected. Tomlinson already knew something about the project, so I gave him a look that said I’ll explain later because Dan wasn’t done.

“Some of these tournaments I fish, the prize money is big. When the purse gets to be five hundred grand, there’re guys out there who’d cut their mamma’s throat to win. Outsiders especially. The so-called jig fishermen and us Boca Grande tarpon guides have been in a sort of war since the eighties—that’s what’s going round and round in my head all of a sudden. What do you think, Doc?”

I nodded because animosity between the two groups had spiked the previous season. I said, “You’re a high-profile guy. You’re president of the Boca Guides Association, and I see you quoted all the time in fishing magazines.”

“This jig-fishing thing,” he said to Tomlinson, “it’s actually snag-fishing, which we’ve known all along, but Doc’s study actually proves that—”

“The data we collected is strongly suggestive,” I interrupted.

“Same thing,” Dan said, then continued. “See, what’s at stake is some big-money people started a tournament series, an organization calls itself Silver King Pro Circuit. We hate what they do and they’re on my ass all the time for trying to make lawmakers understand. Because they know Doc’s hook placement study might convince Tallahassee, they’ll be all over his ass, too. You just wait. When there’s big money involved, some people don’t give a damn about the truth.”

His talk about tarpon fishing caused me to fixate on how the plane had been sabotaged. “The fishing wire used on the bell crank, it looked like the good stuff,” I said. “Is it Malin’s?” Malin was a well-known tackle manufacturer.

Futch touched fingers to his billfold pocket and nodded, aware of my meaning.

“How many tournaments have you won the last few years?”

“That’s something else I’m thinking,” he replied. “Somebody wants me out of the picture. My boat took the two biggest pots last season, and we almost always place pretty high. One tournament, my anglers split a quarter million dollars between the four of them. And I went home with fifty thousand cash just from the calcutta. Get rid of me, some idiot might picture himself moving up a few rungs.”

The calcutta was an auction-style event in which fishermen bid on the different tournament teams. At the end, the winning bidder got a payout from the pot.

Futch couldn’t come to terms with the idea, though, and began shaking his head. “I don’t know . . . it’s just too damn hard to believe. We get our share of hard cases and a*sholes fishing that pass, but I don’t know anyone who’d do something as crazy as this. Hell, if there’d been rough air when we crossed over Naples, we could have killed a houseful of people. Or that field where we saw all those kids playing soccer? Imagine what would’ve happened!”

Tomlinson had an alternative ready, one I would have never considered. “Maybe it has to do with Flight 19. Think about that. How many people know we’re looking?”

“Nahhh,” Dan replied. “There’s no money in finding those Avengers. The government owns them. Because men died, the sites will be protected—nothing to sell. There’d be some fame, maybe, but who cares about that?”

“Almost everyone not already famous, that’s who,” Tomlinson answered. “Maybe some military kooks afraid we’ll beat them to the spot. Or just some right-wing freak with an obsession.”

Futch mulled the idea over while he checked the other cables, ratcheting the nuts tighter. “Well . . . I sure haven’t tried to keep it a secret. At the marina last night, how many people were listening when we talked about flying today? There were a bunch when Quirko told the telegram story. And the fishing guides at Boca Grande, they’ve known for years I’m hot to find those planes. So, I guess—”

“In an Internet world, fame is power,” Tomlinson cut in. “Power can be converted into wealth.”

“Nahhh,” Dan said again, his tone more final. “If we were close to finding them, maybe. But we’re not.”

“Could be we’re closer than we think but don’t realize it,” Tomlinson countered. “Either way, whoever did this has a snake loose in his noggin.”

I checked my watch—almost noon—then looked to the east where a horizon of gray hung motionless in the jet stream. “That weather’s coming,” I said, which caused Tomlinson to give me a look, aware I wanted to switch the subject. I didn’t want to lie to Dan Futch, but I also didn’t want to discuss any killers who might be willing to murder two innocent men just to get at me. As I knew for certain, there were several out there who wanted me dead. A couple of foreign agencies, too. Tomlinson had to at least suspect that.

Ours has been an unusual friendship—one linked by polar differences and secrets. Once upon a time, my peace-loving New Age pal had been the underground revolutionary type. We had both lived covert lives, but at opposite ends of the spectrum, so, unknowingly, we’d been overt, unswerving enemies. I don’t perceive any glimmer of good in improvised explosive devices or similar backdoor terrorist carnage—never have, never will. The fact that Tomlinson and I are now friends is irony at its symmetrical best and gives me hope for the other warring coverts in this world.

My boat bum neighbor has gone “straight” by his own twisted definition—although he has still his share of closeted skeletons . . . and possibly secret enemies. I, however, continue to bounce between my public life as a marine biologist and a shadow life that can, with a phone call, send me and my passport packing. It doesn’t happen more than a few times a year, but the calls still come, so I continue to create and keep secrets, old and new. The newest was a trip I’d returned from less than a week ago, another name added to my own list of enemies. Yet another reason to dodge the pilot’s question.

When I mentioned the storm clouds, Futch stepped away from the plane, wiped his hands on a towel, and looked for himself. “How about you two go back to marking snags while I finish here? Once I know what I have to work with, we can decide what to do.”

“I don’t mind walking,” Tomlinson said. “Doc mentioned the weight problem.”

Thinking I must also have mentioned the boa constrictors, Dan showed surprise. “Well, Quirko, you’ve got a bigger set of balls than me,” he said and went back to work.

—

WELL, I COULDN’T LET him hike out alone, could I?

An hour later, two miles from where we’d watched the seaplane lift off, carrying only our pilot, Tomlinson stopped to rest, saying, “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. How much farther, you think?”

I replied, “You can’t be tired already.”

“I keep stepping in holes. Can’t see a goddamn thing, the water’s so black. How about a drink?”

I was carrying a canvas knapsack over my shoulder. Long ago I learned to never set foot on a boat or a small plane without packing the essentials: flashlight, gloves, knife, first-aid basics, mosquito spray, a clip-on strobe, and a handheld VHF radio. From the seaplane, I had added two bottles of water, a liter each, which wasn’t enough for a long hike in the Glades, but it was all we had.

I tossed a bottle to Tomlinson, said, “Hang on to it,” then stepped up onto a slab of limestone. The sudden elevation was like surfacing through a flaxen sea. Horizon to horizon, sawgrass reflected sunlight and heat, flagging wind currents that furrowed the surface like tumbleweed, then springing back in flashes of copper and wheat. To the north was an island of cypress trees . . . an orb of shadows, mossy blue, that felt cool to the eye. Behind us was more sawgrass, our trail a temporary scar that was being reclaimed faster, it seemed, than we could walk. To the west, I noticed, a small plane was coming our way. No pontoons, so it wasn’t Dan.

“Beautiful out here,” I said. “Smells good, too.”

Tomlinson took another gulp of water as he untied his basketball shoes, something wrong with his feet. “You’re awful damn cheery. I thought you were pissed at me for refusing to fly.”

“That’s not the reason,” I said. “But I am.”

“Then let’s talk about it. . . Awww, shit. Look at this.”

“I’ve seen your feet. No thanks.”

“I think I broke my toe, man. Wish we had some ice . . . Crap, I think I’m gonna lose this nail for sure.”

“Great!” I said. I took the second bottle of water, found a dry spot for the knapsack, then stood and rolled my shoulders. “Five-minute break. Then we go.”

For an hour we’d been plowing north toward a two-lane road that crosses the Everglades—the Tamiami Trail—and this was the first we had spoken other than to kibitz about directions or to call a warning about the terrain. I’d done most of the warning because it was easier for me, wearing leather gloves, to bull a path through the sedge. Water depth varied abruptly, and so did the bottom. After long bouts of muck, we would exit onto a ridge that was a honeycomb of limestone, its unseen holes masked by sedge and water. The limestone was sharp, honed by a current centuries old, and spiked the crevices that consumed our legs to the thigh.

We were on one of those ridges now.

The little plane was still angling toward us, but the landscape was far more compelling. My eyes allowed it to flood in. “It would be nice to spend a few nights out here,” I said. “All you’d need is a tarp and one of those handheld filtration pumps for water. I’ll bet there’re guava trees at the rim of that cypress head. Seminoles did agriculture sometimes, when they camped. And plenty of fish, if it came to that. Deer, feral hogs. I’ve read there are varietals of orchids and apple snails out here that still haven’t been described. Scientifically, of course.”

“Fascinating,” Tomlinson replied, inspecting his other foot. “You’ve been crabby as hell lately, know that? But one plane crash later, you’re all sunshine and lollipops. I’ll never understand the rational mind.”

I didn’t reply, although there was some truth to what he’d said. We’d left behind the twenty-first-century world, with its cobweb of electronic ties, and it felt good to be dropped into the middle of nowhere. The Everglades was a separate reality from the comfortable existence on Sanibel Island. The region was a self-sustaining biota, an indifferent force. Life was more precariously balanced here. The landscape had an edge. I had yet to see a boa, large or small, nor had I mentioned the possibility, but that was part of the edge. So was our near-miss plane crash. And, as I had to admit to myself, so was the possibility that someone was trying to kill me, Tomlinson, Dan, or all three of us.

Churchill said it: There is nothing so invigorating as being shot at without result.

We all dodge a few bullets in our lifetimes, and I’ve ducked my share. After each narrow escape, I’d felt energized, never more lucid and alert. Now, standing on the low ridge surveying wild country, I was enjoying that cleaved sense of awareness when Tomlinson broke into my thoughts, saying, “The hunter is being hunted. That’s why you’re in such a jolly mood. Your drug of choice, man. Yet they demonize my gentle friend marijuana.” He shook his head. “And if losing my toenail puts a smile on your face, this should make you positively goddamn giddy. See here? A chunk of my ankle bone’s missing, too. I stepped in one of those holes back there. Your little fish buddies are probably feasting, having a grand time. Filet of primate. Yum-yum.”

I hadn’t been smiling, but I did now. “The Zen guru wanted oneness with nature?” I said. “Keep feeding the locals, it’ll happen.” Then I bent to open my backpack.

In a ziplock bag, I’d packed antibacterial cream, Band-Aids, gauze, surgical tape, two military QuikClot compresses for serious trauma, plus a few other basics. I lobbed him the bag, then returned my attention to the airplane, which had banked a few degrees northeast and would soon make a low-level pass overhead. Either the pilot had spotted us or his sudden course change was coincidental. Or . . . something else nearby had caught the pilot’s attention.

Into my head came Dan Futch’s voice. I spotted two snakes so big, I could see them from the air.