I said, “Nothing like you, thank god. Knock it off and pay attention. Someone stuck this under the back bumper. They want to track me. They had the hood open, too, then got spooked and ran.”
He gestured to the window. “It couldn’t have been her—not if she’s simpatico with my books. They tend to be gentle, spiritual beings. Highly intelligent. What’s she like? From a distance, a pretty nice body, I’d say.”
“How the hell would I know? And enough with the crude remarks, okay? We only talked for a few minutes. Stick to the GPS. There’s a long list of people who might have a reason to want to know where I am.”
Tomlinson hoped I was about to open up regarding my recent visit to South America. It was in the eagerness of his laid-back reaction. “Hey, cool. If you need to rap or get something off your chest, I’m all ears. Or not . . . Whatever . . . How dangerous are these dudes?”
I replied, “When the internet reboots, I’ll look up the make of the transponder. That might tell me something. I don’t know . . . Could be the Bahamian government, maybe.”
This was a red herring, but a possibility. I was referring to the recently rendered gold ingots in my floor safe—and an additional hundred pounds of gold, twenty-two karat, that lay hidden beneath my dock in the form of a mooring anchor.
The windfall was a recent acquisition. Tomlinson was the only person I’d shared the story with—not solely out of trust, although I do trust him. As a small-time ganja merchant, he’s also had a lifetime of experience at money laundering. Dodging taxes wasn’t my intent. But how does a low-profile biologist liquidate two million dollars in gold, then declare it as income?
Slowly, carefully, a few thousand dollars at a time, was the answer. As a result, my lab was now equipped with an acetylene torch, a jeweler’s oven, and graphite molds in various troy-ounce sizes.
“Bahamian spooks, that makes sense,” Tomlinson reasoned. “You’re a rich man now—and you can always go back to fatten the kitty if you want more.” He said this in an odd, testing way. “You know what that means, don’t you?”
I got up. “There’s got to be at least two beers left. Want one?” Then, at the door, I listened to him explain, “Dude, I grew up wealthy. Take it from me, even the best of us are potentially dangerous. Greed isn’t a financial issue. It’s the most common of human flaws.”
I stopped. “I don’t feel guilty about stealing from a thief, if that’s what you’re hinting at.”
“I’m talking about me. All of us. That’s why I’m sort of excited about this DNA test thing. When the internet’s running, I’ll show you emails from my test tube heirs . . .” He turned to the window, more interested in our recent arrival than his claims of munificence. “Doc, this might be my best last chance to give it all away.”
* * *
—
In the morning, puttering out the harbor in my fast, open boat, I got my first daylight look at Delia with the complicated last name. She was atop the cabin of the little Catalina, hanging out laundry to dry. Her bikini top consisted of two swaths of cinnamon handkerchief that tinted the olive glow of her skin. A tall woman, almost six feet, with a spill of glossy, cherry-black hair. She had a body that, at first glance, I knew would cause Tomlinson to make an absolute ass of himself if I didn’t intercede.
She waved in a Hello, new neighbor way. I waved in response.
On the docks, the fishing guides—Jeth Nicholes, Neville Robeson, and Big Alex Paine—speared me with looks of pure envy. This confirmed my assessment of Delia’s physical attributes. Immediately, I turned away from the channel and idled another hundred yards to my friend’s sun-bleached Morgan, the name No Más in script on the stern.
“Are you awake?” I called.
My pal came yawning up the cabin steps. “Yeah, man. I was just braiding my hair. What do you think?”
“Geezus.” I grimaced and gestured to our audience on the dock. “Get some clothes on, for god sakes—at least a towel.”
Delia was watching, too.
He abandoned the Rastafarian clump of hair he’d been frizzing. “Whoops! My bad.” He reappeared wearing baggy surfers shorts. “What’s shakin’, Elvis?”
“I don’t make promises unless I intend to keep them,” I said. “You know that.”
“For sure, amigo. Good ol’ Marion Ford—the last honest hall monitor at the school for wayward boys.” He sniffed and gave a long sigh as he refocused on Delia, who, even from a distance, was stunning. His eyelids drooped. A second deep breath communicated pain, and he wet his lips. “Dear heaven above . . . what a beautiful vision to behold. The girl loves my book, does she? Hot damn, Sam. My cup runneth over, methinks.”
“Your cup needeth a shock collar,” I responded. “That’s why I stopped by. There’s something you need to know.”
Tomlinson seemed not to hear. “In a way,” he mused, “I hope she chooses not to become one of my Zen students. I have very strict rules about fraternizing with students. Although, let’s be honest—I’ve broken them a time or three.” After another painful sigh, he added, “If this is another one of God’s shitty morality checks, all I have to say is, Thank you, Jesus . . . There oughta be a law, huh?”
“There is,” I said. “Don’t look at her, dumbass, look at me.” He did. “Remember what we were discussing last night?”
“Uhh . . . no.”
“DNA? The fertility clinic? She’s your daughter, you bonehead. One of them anyway.”
Shock registered as a question. “What?”
I said it again.
My pal recoiled with an expression of self-disgust. “Oh man. That’s just freakin’ cruel, if you’re joking. Please tell me you’re joking. Wait, you’re not . . . Are you sure?”
“She asked me not to tell you. I’m only doing this because I know what an idiot you can be.”
“My daughter?” It was too much for him to process. “Geezus, God has smitten my wicked ass once again.” He wheeled around, suddenly dizzy. “Oh, this is just . . . Know what I am? Lowlife scum is exactly what I am. I’ve been eyeballing that innocent young creature all morning. I should be lassoed and put in a cage for some of the god-awful scenarios that went through my head. And just now, in the cabin, I . . . I almost—”
Tomlinson put his hands on his stomach as if about to retch. He flapped his arms and sat heavily on the starboard bench. “That does it, man. I’m done with sex. I mean it. Total celibacy until we get this whole DNA mess sorted out. Doc—promise you’ll help. We both know how weak I am.”
“When you meet the girl,” I said, “don’t bother acting like you’re surprised when she tells you who she is. You’re a terrible liar, and I’d prefer not to add another lie to the mix.” I throttled my boat into reverse and pulled away.
“Dude . . . you’re not leaving? Wouldn’t it be better if you introduced us?”
“Put some clothes on and invite her to breakfast,” I called over my shoulder. “Relax, be yourself. The girl’s smart enough to know she could’ve done a lot worse in the gene pool lottery.”
* * *
—
I exited Dinkin’s Bay at cruising speed and turned east toward the Sanibel Causeway. The bridge is a series of arches linked by strands of beach and passageways of blue that funnel into the Gulf of Mexico. There were only a few boats out on this heat-dense morning. Highway traffic was sparse—a seasonal rarity I’d been counting on.
I was about to set a trap.
On the console, open to satellites above, was the GPS I’d found on my truck. If the person or parties tracking me were applying tight cover, my boat would soon blend with the snail’s flow of cars on the causeway. If someone was sent, they would arrive expecting to find my old blue Chevy pickup, unaware I was watching them from the water.
Whoever had done it had botched the job by leaving my hood up. I was not dealing with professionals.
They were.
At Woodring Point, I hugged the shoreline, ran beneath power lines along Bay Drive, then turned northeast parallel to the bridge. Car traffic would provide cover when viewed from a satellite. Years ago, dredges used to build the causeway had created two mini islands and cut winding, unmarked channels through the shoals. I crossed the flat to where casuarina pines shaded a parking area and a public restroom. In three feet of water, I shut down and drifted along a strand of white beach.
No one around, just me. Had this been a Sunday in March, the place would’ve been packed with a cheerful circus of RVs and charcoal grills. This was a Tuesday in July—but the heat was not the only reason for the absence of visitors. Southwest Florida was just beginning to recover from months of a toxic algae bloom that, generically, is referred to as red tide. It is a cancerous natural phenomenon, exacerbated by human-borne contaminants. Influences are still a matter of rancorous debate, but it is generally agreed that during these blooms, algae dies, sinks to the bottom, and the process of its bacterial decomposition depletes the water of oxygen.
Fish and filtering species literally die of suffocation.
Every ten to fifteen years it happens, according to records I have long collected. And every cycle it seems the harbinger of an environmental apocalypse. That is as true today as it was in 1857, when locals referred to it as a poisonous plague, and in 1947, when Navy warships were summoned to blow hundreds of acres of dead fish out of Tampa Bay.
This year, however, was the most destructive red tide I’d experienced. And, unlike dead fish, internet images of the mess had lingered months after the worst was past. Bloated corpses of bottlenose dolphins, dead sea turtles—photos of these amid mounds of decomposing sea wrack had displaced reality via social media. Tourism on the coast had taken a massive hit. Thus the scarcity of boat and car traffic.
I nosed onto the beach, put the GPS transponder into my pocket, and slipped over the side into the water. Near the public restroom, I knelt to tie my shoes. Once the transponder was hidden under a scoop of sand, I returned to the boat and began fishing not far from shore. The meadow of turtle grass there is in five feet of water—ideal for an 8-weight fly rod with a floating line.
I drifted in the heat until I lucked into a mixed school of ladyfish and spotted sea trout. Ladyfish are superb fighters. Sea trout, a member of the drum family, are more of a visual pleasure than a sporting challenge, but they’re pretty good to eat if not overcooked. Better yet, they are among the last species to rally after a prolonged red tide.
This was an encouraging sign.
Fishing kept me busy through a few false alarms. A van with a mother and children arrived, then an SUV with a nervous couple possibly looking for a secluded place to continue their affair.
Half an hour and several nice sea trout later, my trackers arrived from the mainland in the form of a hefty Harley-Davidson carrying two helmeted riders. A big-shouldered male sat at the handlebars. He wore a checkered racing helmet, silver on black, full-faced. A female, riding aft, watched the screen of her cell phone and voiced directions into a wireless system built into the helmets.
I couldn’t hear them, nor did I show any interest. They did a slow pass. They made another pass, then circled back and stopped near where I’d hidden the transponder.
Body language told a story. The woman was insistent: Damn it, the blue truck had to be around here somewhere. The man was impatient. As a pair, they took a look inside the public restrooms. Unfortunately for me, they still wore helmets when they remounted the Harley and sped off toward Sanibel.
After that it was a race, me against them. I retrieved the GPS, slung myself into the boat, and motored full throttle back to Dinkin’s Bay. By the time the Harley rumbled into the marina parking lot, the magnetic transponder was under the bed of my truck. I watched from a mosquito haze in the shadows of mangroves.
Again, they did a pass by, circled back, and stopped. Body language communicated confusion, then irritation. The woman pantomimed throwing the GPS tracker away. This damn thing can’t be trusted! The man seemed accusatory. How’d you screw up such an easy job?
The bike was too far away for me to get the license plate, so I took a chance. I exited the boardwalk and stepped out into the sunlight. I offered a friendly wave and approached. The man, helmet visor down, took one look, nudged the woman, and they sped off.
I felt a little better after that. They were bungling amateurs. In my mind, this eliminated cartel traffickers from Guyana as my adversaries, but nonetheless left a long list of thugs I’d offended over the years.
I have lived an unusual life.
More likely, I decided, they were treasure hunter types on the scent of a shrewd operator named Jimmy Jones. Jimmy had been the hottest high-tech treasure hunter in the business for a while. National magazines ran cover stories. There had been documentaries on the so-called engineering wizard who’d solved the impossibility of salvaging wrecks in water that was two miles deep.
But Jimmy was a thief at heart. He had used his notoriety to attract big-time investors and bilked them out of millions. And then one day he had just disappeared. With him vanished many tons of Spanish and Dutch gold that archaeologists considered to be a treasure trove of history.
It took the feds years to finally nab the guy, and they offered him a deal: Reveal where he’d hidden the stuff, then maybe a better deal and bail could be discussed.
One of Jimmy’s investors was more succinct: Draw a map or die in jail.
The infamous treasure hunter had refused. Bad choice. He had been found in the showers with his head beaten in. To the feds, the location of the stolen gold remains a mystery, although a few savvy insiders still suspect that Jimmy’s ex-girlfriend might know where to look.
They are right.
Several months back in the Bahamas, I got lucky. I learned an interesting detail that insurance agencies and several governments had dismissed as unimportant. Jimmy, while a student at MIT, had worked part-time at a place that manufactured commercial mooring buoys.
Mooring buoys.
The rig is used worldwide—a big floating ball connected to a chain with a heavy lead weight below. A mooring buoy is the quickest way to secure a boat where there is insufficient dockage—standard tackle in the islands.
This detail had provided a working theory that proved correct. Jimmy had melted a cache of stolen artifacts into mooring anchors—spoon-shaped plates that weighed fifty kilos each. I’d found dozens of them buried in the sandy shallows, hidden in plain sight.
By then, I’d also met Jimmy’s ex, a smart, mousy woman whom I had helped to disappear.
I’ve had few lucky windfalls in my life, but nothing compared to this discovery. Do the math. One hundred and twenty pounds of gold equals seventeen hundred–plus troy ounces. Multiply that by the daily bullion price, minus the standard ten percent dealer’s fee.
The anchor plate I’d stolen from Jimmy, the thief, was worth in excess of two mil. I’d returned with only one plate, flying solo in my little Maule four-cylinder seaplane. And dozens more were still out there just a two-hour flight away.
But why risk it? I was rich by my standards, and living under the radar has been a lifelong necessity. Not that it has been easy in recent days. At a boat show in St. Pete, I’d been tempted to buy a stunning Marlow Havana, 37 feet long and powered by a triad of Evinrude outboards—750 horsepower. I couldn’t take my eyes off the damn thing, but the same would be true of anyone who knows boats. That’s precisely why I didn’t buy it.
At the Ford dealership in Fort Myers, I caved a little when I test drove an F-150 Raptor. In comparison to my old blue Chevy, it was an off-road rocket ship designed to survive the wilds of Baja. So I’d made a down payment on one in volcanic gray, but minus all the Look at me Raptor badges. Delivery date was a few months away. I still had time to change my mind.
The toughest test, thoug
h, was the urge to buy a new seaplane. My small, usually reliable Maule M-5, a four-seater, the fuselage blue on white, had been in the shop for nearly a month. Both pontoons had sprung leaks, and there was a carburetor linkage problem that even my ace mechanic, Ricky Hilton, had yet to solve.
I’d been grounded—an inconvenience I had to live with as if there was no alternative.
Keep it simple, stupid is an old reliable credo. Now that I had money, greed was an intuited enemy. The urge to expand, add more and more to my pile for money’s own sake, was a bad idea. It had a cancerous parallel to all sorts of lethal phenomena—the recent red tide included.
Tomlinson, the son of a billionaire, was right. When big money is involved, even the best people can become dangerous.
It gave me something to think about on my way back to the lab. When the timing was right, I decided, I would remind my pal that this maxim might also apply to his new list of DNA heirs.
THREE
Delia’s last name was Carapoulos, spelled with a C. Until a month ago, she had believed her parents were of Greek and Swiss descent, but was now in emotional limbo. The same was true of the six half siblings whom Delia had yet to meet but knew through a DNA website that offered subscribers the seemingly harmless opportunity to discover their genetic roots.
Most of the siblings, Delia had told Tomlinson, went by first names only. As a group, they were still in shock over the news yet intrigued when one of them discovered the identity of their true birth father. An email address had been provided by the cult author’s publisher—with the author’s blanket permission, of course.
Tomlinson shared all of this in a rush as he tugged his hair and paced around the lab. It was a Wednesday morning. The squall had washed the air clean and flattened the bay into a blue-green gel.
I said, “I warned you about spitting into a test tube and sending it to an international data bank—especially a guy with your history.” Months ago, when the DNA craze had swept the island, I’d warned several marina locals—all friends. Our tropical boat bum culture is a freewheeling, randy lot, so why invite attention from the past? Returns were still coming in, and reviews regarding the results were mixed.
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