Night Moves (Doc Ford)

9




OUR FIRST STOP BEFORE FLYING TO THE GLADES WAS just across the bay. Dwarfed by a ridge of condominiums, I followed Tomlinson into a one-room cabin at the water’s edge, Tomlinson slipping into a receptive state of mind, his bare feet absorbing vibes from the cabin’s pine floor where the imprint of a potbellied stove was centered, brick chimney above, three windows conveying dusty morning light.

“Wood absorbs energy,” my friend replied. “Control your breathing . . . open your receptors. You’ll feel it, Doc. A lot of life flowed through this tiny space.”

Tiny was right. The shell of what had once been a telegraph office was the size of a gardening shed, an incongruous element among towers of concrete, gated grounds trimmed with palms, the Sanibel Causeway within shouting distance, if not for all the traffic.

It was from there that “George” had supposedly sent his telegram.

I tried to ask Tomlinson about his Haitian visitor, but he hadn’t said much, only that he and his competitor had decided to be friends. Kondo Ogbay—finally, I could pronounce the drug dealer’s name—was supposedly a reasonable man, and also very spiritual, which apparently was required of witch doctors.

Tomlinson had dismissed my warning Keep your friends close, your enemies closer with a laugh that informed me I was guiding my life via clichés. Now Kondo’s trusting pal was immersed in vibrations so deafening, he could neither hear nor respond.

“When the battleship Maine exploded in Havana Harbor?” Tomlinson tapped his foot, mimicking Morse code. “This is where the news first touched land. Almost three hundred men dead. Eighteen ninety-eight. It was in January, so this room was still decorated for Christmas.”

He sniffed the air, perhaps in search of a holly wreath, then held up a finger to request silence. “The clicking of a telegraph key. Copper hitting copper. Smell it?”

No . . . but the room had a pleasant odor, typical of old Florida structures. Pine sap, wood, and dust, a hint of warming tar on tin.

Behind us, Dan had set a temporary line to secure his seaplane and now appeared in the cabin’s open door. Unaware we were communing with history, he asked, “How the hell did you get the key to this place?”

I told the truth. “He stole it. The lady he wanted us to meet wasn’t feeling well.”

“Borrowed it,” Tomlinson corrected, peeved at the interruption. “She’s getting up there in years or she wouldn’t have canceled. I wanted you to hear the story for yourselves. Like that’s a federal crime?”

“The lady who told you about the telegram,” Dan nodded. “And she knows for sure it was sent from here?”

Tomlinson opened his eyes, surrendering the mood. “I should have gotten her on tape. The man who used to run the ferry to Sanibel, before the bridge was built, he’s the one told her. Leon was his name.”

I wasn’t surprised. In my teens, I’d known the old ferryboat captain. He was an accomplished waterman, and fun to be around because he told riveting stories—some not easy to believe. Tomlinson was on stage, though, and Dan was interested. The facts could wait.

“The telegram was sent three weeks after those planes disappeared,” Dan reminded him. “Which supposedly means one of the crewmen lived. This lady believes that?”

Tomlinson nodded, an emphatic Yes. “Leon told her about a wounded airman limping down the street, then into this room. Try to picture it—no condos, no bridge, but the same narrow street along the bay, just like now. It was Christmas Eve. That’s why he was so sure.”

Dan and I exchanged looks. Punta Rassa had once been an isolated village. In such a place, an event witnessed on the day before Christmas would be anchored in memory. Didn’t mean it was one of the missing airmen, of course, but the story became more credible.

“Five missing warplanes was big news,” Tomlinson continued, “but details about the telegram didn’t come out for a while. When he found out, Leon put it all together. It’s been two weeks since the lady first told me, but I’ve spent time alone in here since.” He tugged at his hippie hair while his senses absorbed vibes from the little room. “Flight 19 . . . they didn’t all die.”

The pilot gave it some thought. “You never know,” he said in the way that open-minded people do, then herded us out the door. “We want to be in the water by noon, the sun directly overhead. Visibility’s bad enough down there without us being dumb, blind, late, and lazy. Okay?”

—

WALKING TOWARD THE WATER, Tomlinson confided to me, “I took three Xanax. You’re sure he inspected that damn plane. Right?”

“Drank them down with a shot of rum, I suppose,” I replied.

“Coors Light. I’m nervous, not suicidal.”

“You and Kondo, two drug dealers having fun. Let’s hope your new buddy didn’t slip a half dozen roofies into your beer as a send-off.”

“Nothing wrong with fun,” Tomlinson responded, changing his tone and the subject. “As long as you don’t break the karmic rules.”

My god . . . was he referring to last night, me and Cressa Arturo? I couldn’t help laughing. I’ve heard the man say some outrageous things over the years, but this was a new low in hypocrisy. “You’re something, you know that?” I told him. “A real piece of work.”

“Don’t worry, it’s cool, Doc, it’s cool. Crescent said she had a fab time at your place. Very bubbly on the phone this morning—but sounded, you know, like she overdid it a little.”

It took me a moment. Cressa was short for Crescent, but I didn’t stumble.

“Oh?” I said. “Good.”

He hadn’t mentioned the scratches on my face but did now by pretending to notice for the first time. “Looks like you might have overdid it yourself.”

“Nope,” I told him. “Did some work, then hit the bed.”

“Hit the bed,” he said. “I just bet you did.”

I derailed him by telling him about my adventures with the dog. “He’s valuable. He belongs to someone, I bet—they’re running ads in magazines. Hell, they might have even hired a search plane—which would explain why we got buzzed. That’s why you and JoAnn and the others can’t let yourselves get too attached.”

For some reason, that helped Tomlinson rally. “Attached emotionally to your dog, you mean?”

“The dog we found,” I said. “He already has an owner.”

“Sure,” Tomlinson said, smiling. Then added, “Now who’s a real piece of work?”

—

SOUTH OF MARCO ISLAND and Everglades City, we dropped to six hundred feet and followed the wilderness shoreline, the seaplane’s shadow linking white sand beaches with blue water and swamp. All around us was a region called Ten Thousand Islands—a mosaic of green that, from altitude, resembled an algae bloom of islands adrift on a shallow sea. No villages, roads, trails, or houses . . . Even boats became a rarity as we flew south.

“Lostman’s River,” Dan said through the intercom, pointing. Then tapped the GPS, his finger on some unnamed bay. “We’ll land here. Then it’s a hell of a hike to Hawksbill Creek.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Everybody okay? How you doing, Quirko?”

“Dreamy,” Tomlinson replied with a Xanax sigh, his nose pressed to the window. “Know what I’ve noticed? The busy multitude doesn’t hold a damn candle to nature in the flesh. Photosynthesis and saltwater . . . my god, the power of it all. I wouldn’t mind taking a piss, though. How much longer?”

“We’re gonna follow Lostman’s almost to the sawgrass,” the pilot said. “We’ll drop to tree level . . . a few sharp banks, but don’t let it scare you. This plane’s solid now.”

He turned to me. “I’m glad I didn’t tell the cops. Hell, I didn’t even tell Kathy.” He shrugged. “Probably some guy with a hair up his ass and Johnnie Walker courage. A last-minute deal when he saw my plane unattended—then spent the next day scared shitless, hoping it was all a crazy dream.”

I didn’t agree, but would know more when I heard from Cheng and Bernie—something I couldn’t discuss. Ahead, a black crevice appeared in a canopy of green: Lostman’s River snaking its way inland from open sea.

“You ever fish the oyster bars at the mouth?” I asked.

Futch grinned. “Granddaddy told a story about setting trotlines there. Not really a trotline ’cause they’d tie the lines to trees. You know, camp, roast some oysters, then do a check. One morning they came back, the damn tree was missing. He swore it was true!”

“Big snook there,” I agreed.

“Or tarpon. The bull sharks get in that river sometimes and just tear it up. Or a big gator. I’ve seen lots of gators, they don’t mind brackish water.”

The prospect of a big bull alligator had been on my mind since packing my dive fins and mask that morning. And was still in my mind when Futch said, “You boys hold on,” and banked the plane sideways, Tomlinson’s voice moaning, “Whooooooa, Mamma!” through my headphones. Then: “Float on, Sky King!”

At tree level, water glittered beneath us as we carved a switchback trail, following the river at a hundred knots. Geysers of wading birds, egrets and herons, erupted off our wingtips and sprayed white arcs into the sky. Manatees, four or five adults, plus infants, gathered like hippos in the drop-off pools, and cormorants slapped the water ahead of us, desperate for flight.

“Up here’s what I want to show you,” Dan said. “We’ll circle it so you see what I mean.”

It was the only explanation he offered for suddenly climbing to fifteen hundred feet and flying east until mangroves gave way to sawgrass, which marked the freshwater boundary of the Everglades.

“Now we circle back,” Dan said. And we did. Lostman’s River was to the north, mangroves below, when he pointed again and said, “See the scars! Right there!”

No . . . not at first. But then I did: slight furrows in the mangroves. Two . . . maybe three separate lines not easily noticed because the tree canopy was so dense. The curvature of each indentation reminded me of old propeller scars on a grass flat.

We began to circle while Futch oriented us. “Years ago, something cut a path through those trees. Cut their tops off. I didn’t notice until after Justin found the throttle plate.”

Justin was his nephew.

“One night I was on Google Earth, that’s when I spotted it. They’re more visible from five miles up. This is the first chance to actually look for myself. See there!” The seaplane’s portside wing provided an axis for a tight circle that froze the spot beneath us. “Two definite scars . . . but I’m seeing three now.”

“Could’ve been tornados,” I offered. “But I know what you’re getting at.” Planes, out of fuel, could have also plowed those furrows.

“Okay,” he said, “here’s the best part.” He turned the wheel until the plane leveled, then dipped our starboard wing. “One of the scars ends here. See it? That’s Hawksbill Creek.”

Below was a vein of glittering water, not much wider than a sidewalk, that disappeared into a mangrove island. Several hundred yards into the interior, though, was an abrupt crown of gumbo-limbo trees. High ground.

“There’s the Indian mound,” I said.

“Calusa pyramid,” Tomlinson corrected. He used the name in a generic way meaning Florida’s first people.

The pilot shook his head. “The highest mound’s pure sand. A burial mound, we figured, so always left it alone. There’re a couple shell mounds, too.”

“The Bone Field,” Tomlinson said softly.

“Nope. The Bone Field’s off in that marl flat. You can’t see because of the trees. If we had a canoe, I’d put us down here and we could paddle. Instead, we’ll land on the other side and hike in.”

We didn’t respond, so Futch agreed with us, saying, “Thick as hell, I warned you. I’ve never cut my way in before—the times I’ve been here, we trailered a boat to Everglades City. So, who knows, maybe we’ll find something new.”

It’s the sort of thing people say even though they don’t expect to be surprised.

Not this time.