Salt River

by Randy Wayne White

  “Do you have a name?”

  “Well . . . no. At first, we all went by the numbers assigned by the DNA chat room. The minister—his name’s Chester—he was open from the start. And I have a bio sister in Arizona, Imogen. She’s sounds a little ditzy, too, but not in a bad way. She can’t wait to meet us all—like this is a party, nothing to worry about. Which is . . .” The girl paused. “What’s that stupid saying about the apple falling from the tree?

  “Dr. Ford?” Her tone demanded honesty. “I’m going to tell you something, like, no kidding around. I’m scared.”

  “Of what, Tomlinson?”

  “No—yes—well, maybe. Scared of me, of what’s inside. I hate the feeling there’s something in my brain that, down the road, I can’t control. I want to live a long, healthy life, and I hate drama. Everyone’s a little screwy. No shit, right? But tell me this now. Is Tomlinson a good person? You know what I’m asking. Deep down, the whole package?”

  “One of the best,” I replied.

  The girl stared as if expecting me to blink. Instead, I confirmed the truth by giving her arm a squeeze, then stepped away and looked toward the sound of an outboard motor.

  “Uh-oh,” I said.

  The blue flats boat was close enough now, I recognized the boat and the driver. It was a pristine 21-foot Maverick—a fast, shallow-draft skiff—that I will always regret selling. At the helm was a lanky, dark-haired woman, shapely in a T-shirt, wearing Polaroids and a visor. I stood straighter and waved. In response, the woman glared at me and my passenger, then ignored us.

  It was Hannah Smith, the celebrated fishing guide and mother of my child.

  “Oh . . . perfect,” I murmured.

  Delia sniffed and returned Hannah’s glare. “Damn stinkpotters,” she said. “Well . . . at least give the lady credit for running her own boat.”

  * * *

  —

  At sunrise, I left Hannah’s dock across the bay from Sanibel. The route took me east toward an unmarked swath known as the Mailboat Channel. Before Florida was lacerated with asphalt, back bay access was how mail was delivered along the coast. Off York Island, I slipped the channel and turned toward Dinkin’s Bay, where mangroves were honey-glazed by fresh morning light.

  I had left the bay shrimper at home in favor of a recent acquisition, a 26-foot Pathfinder. It is a favorite among Florida’s light tackle guides, so less conspicuous than a Marlow or my previous high-tech ride. Skip Lyshon at Pathfinder had built it to my specs. The skiff is painted Whisper Gray and loaded with the latest fishing gizmos. As a favor to me, it was also outfitted with an extra long-haul fuel tank and special electronics unique to my needs.

  I didn’t plan to fish that morning but, spend three hundred days a year on the water, the rare can’t-miss intersection is bound to plow across your path.

  It happened. The bay was calm, a neon gel. I saw sparks in the distance. I dropped off plane and killed the engine. Momentum drifted me toward a glittering carousel of scales and tails that was a school of tarpon.

  I readied a fly rod, then deployed a potent little trolling motor and steered toward them.

  Years ago, after I’d lost and landed a few, I stopped thinking of tarpon as fish. They now move into my mind collectively as a singular being—Megalops, a creature with giant, primal eyes—that has survived, unchanged, since the Jurassic period when only tarpon and other dinosaurs populated the Earth. As a genus, Megalops is pure and tidal, indifferent to time or the brevity of one’s own life.

  Grinning, I got ready to cast.

  Ahead, water bulged with a slow passage of shadows. The shadows schooled closer, then vanished, only to reassemble on the surface as a conga line of chromium scales. They were out of range, but what the hell? I double hauled and offered the stragglers a Mylar-laden streamer to eat. On the retrieve, the lure resembled an absurd water spider—until it was inhaled by what felt like deadweight.

  I lifted. Beneath the surface, Megalops spun an incandescent circle. Then the animal vaulted free of its world, high into mine, mouth wide, gills clattering with the resonance of bone. For a frozen instant it paused in midair, a silver folklore framed in blue, then threw the hook and fell. The sound resembled the percussion of a refrigerator falling from the sky.

  By the time I recovered, Megalops, as a tribe, was gone.

  On my way back to the lab, I nudged up to Tomlinson’s sailboat. He was using some kind of purple goop to remove wine stains from the teak railing. “How was your night?” he asked, aware that I had stayed at Hannah’s place taking care of our son.

  “My night went from cold to frosty, not counting windchill,” I said cheerfully. “But I haven’t given up. And the boy likes me. He’s way ahead of the curve, I think, when it comes to motor skills.”

  “Aren’t they all?” my friend said, smiling.

  The smile faded when I said, “Ol’ buddy, you’ve got to tell Delia the truth about your past—including your summer vacation in a psych ward. The others deserve to know, too.”

  “Christ . . . all of it?” He glanced toward the little Catalina sailboat that was still anchored near my house. “Dude, get real. No kid wants to know the truth about her dad.”

  “You’ll never see her again if you don’t. Leave out the felonies and the womanizing—for now,” I suggested. “Your medical history, though, you’ve got to lay it all out for them.”

  “Not one kid at a time,” he groaned. “My balls haven’t left the cave since I took Delia to breakfast this morning. She’s as intimidating as my first Mother Superior.” He slammed down a sponge and stood on boney legs. “Man, that does it. Give me a ride to the marina. I need to talk to Mack about his cottages.”

  “You’re thinking about renting them for . . . Are you still calling it a reunion?”

  “An intervention, more like it, if I drink all the rum it’ll take for me to deal with this one kid at a time. Geezus, yes, rent the cottages. You’re a little slow at the helm today, poncho.”

  “Not until you get some clothes on,” I reminded him.

  Tomlinson did a quick downward inspection. “Oh, yeah. Forgot. Mack’s cottages, it’s not a nudist colony anymore, is it?”

  * * *

  —

  I was in the lab at the computer scrolling through a list of messages posted by Tomlinson’s DNA progeny. Delia had provided a link and her personal password—but reluctantly.

  I said to her, “The guy you described as psychotic, I don’t see that he’s posted anything strange on this chat page. In fact, from what you told me, I expected a lot more interaction between you and the other six siblings.”

  The girl sat across from me, going through my folder of newspaper articles and studies, all dealing with red tide. “That’s because most of the posts were deleted,” she said a little sharply.

  I wondered if her tone was intentional or if she was simply focused on reading. “You deleted the posts because they were weird?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why?”

  Delia, not looking up, said with exaggerated patience, “I’ll walk you through it. Find the upper right-hand corner of the webpage. You’ll see a preferences icon there. Kind of a gear-looking thing. Drag down, you’ll understand—I hope so anyway.”

  I did. A list of options appeared. One was labeled Disappearing Messages. That link opened another list of options. Members could allow their posts to remain public or have them automatically disappear once the posts had been viewed. Or the author could limit the amount of time the posts were readable, from five seconds to five minutes, even as long as a week.

  “You didn’t happen to take screenshots before his messages disappeared, did you?” I asked.

  “No,” she snapped. “Why would I? I didn’t say he was dangerous, just paranoid. The guy—whoever it is—he posts something, I get one look at what he wrote and it’s gone
. It’s the same with most of us now.”

  I replied, “All the more reason to keep a record. People seldom seem dangerous—until they are.”

  Delia lowered the folder in a huff. “I didn’t realize you’re an expert. I’m surprised. How many dangerous people does a biologist meet in one lifetime?” She chuckled as if it was funny, not sarcasm. “Sanibel Island is overrun with, what, bike thieves?”

  “Oh yeah, I live a pretty quiet life,” I agreed but wasn’t done. “Is there a way you can find out the person’s name? Maybe he’s made contact with some of your other siblings. Can’t hurt to try, can it? And I wouldn’t mind seeing a copy of that class action lawsuit email, while you’re at it.”

  She spun the folder onto the desk that separated us. “I don’t understand why you’re so interested. I appreciate you trying to help and all. And you have. Tomlinson—I can’t call him that ridiculous name Tommy—he and I are finally going to talk, so thanks. But that’s enough help for now.”

  “Can’t hurt to have an outsider’s opinion, can it?” I countered.

  “When it’s not needed, yes. Look, Doc . . . Marion . . . it’s not like you’re a psychologist or an internet expert or, I don’t know, a security dude. In fact, it’s really none of your business.”

  Mood swings. Tomlinson had warned me. “That’s what biologists do,” I disagreed gently, “study living organisms. Internet security and stuff, sure, that’s way out of my field, you’re right. So think of me as a curious old snoop.”

  “A snoop, huh?” The girl was dubious.

  “More like an obsession if I don’t catch myself,” I said. “I’ve never done a crossword puzzle in my life because I know I’d be hooked. Find an unfinished Times in an airport, I’d miss my flight. Sort of sad, really. I straighten paintings in public buildings. I pocket litter when I go for runs. If I hear about a person behaving oddly—your half sibling, for instance—my mind won’t let go until the behavior makes sense.” I winked and added, “Maybe I’m the one who needs a shrink.”

  Her manner softened. “Sorry, Doc. The real reason I’m pissy is, well . . . you broke a rule and I let you get away with it.”

  “Oh?”

  “Damn right, you did—a rule my parents’ generation doesn’t know about, apparently. You asked for my password. I should’ve said no, or at least explained. That’s like asking for the key to someone’s diary, but I didn’t want you to think I had something to hide.” She poofed—a blowing noise—exasperated. “Maybe we both need shrinks. Honestly? I’m the same, obsessive. At night, I lie awake fixated on the stupidest things and worry maybe I’m losing my mind. Particularly since I found out that my father is a hippie mystic with a history of drug abuse.”

  We discussed obsession for a while, a friendly back-and-forth about the silly oddities of orderly, driven people. Then returned to the subject of Tomlinson. Delia consulted her electronic sports watch. “He’s supposed to be back around four, and we’re going for a long sail. I haven’t been aboard his boat yet. The wind’s supposed to swing northeast and blow fifteen to twenty. Think it’ll be okay?”

  “He’s the best sailor I know,” I said. “Well . . . maybe the second best, now that I’ve met you.”

  This seemed to broker a friendly covenant. “I think you’re a nice man . . . Doc . . . for a harmless old snoop.” She waited for me to laugh, then referenced the folder she’d been leafing through. “Mind if I take this to read tonight? It’s really interesting, especially the old newspaper articles. The ones from the late 1800s and the turn of the century—red tide even back then.”

  The folder was in the girl’s backpack when she stood and shared a fist bump on the way to a window where there was a view of the marina.

  Her smile broadened. “Who are they? They’re gorgeous.”

  In the parking lot were two girls in matching sundresses. They were Maribel and Sabina Esteban, ages thirteen and ten. The girls were on their way to Bailey’s General Store, judging from the baskets they carried.

  “Sisters,” I said. “Cuban American. They live at the marina on a houseboat with their mother. A nice family. They help me around the lab sometimes.”

  “I’m envious,” Delia said.

  “I’d offer to hire you, too,” I said, “but selling fish to Science Departments isn’t as profitable as, say, selling sweepers door-to-door.”

  We were having fun, back on good terms. There was still a lot I wanted to know—particularly details about the lawsuit—but it would have to wait.

  Delia looked back as if inspecting the lab. Her eyes took in a bubbling row of aquaria bright with sea corals, tunicates, and captive creatures that moved in unison or foraged alone. She also noted the baby chair and changing table in the corner.

  “You seem to be doing just fine,” she said. “I was talking about those little girls. I’d like to have children myself one day, and, well, you know what my concerns are. It’s so sweet the way those two walk in step, holding hands.”

  “Down there, holding hands is customary for women, not just sisters.”

  “You’ve been to Cuba?” She asked the way most people do, a mix of surprise and envy in her tone.

  “I’ve flown over it a few times,” I said.

  “In your own plane? I heard you had one.”

  “Just a small amphib. It’s down for repairs, but, no, I meant flying commercial.” This was a misleading truth that I might have amended if the wall phone hadn’t rung.

  It was Tomlinson. He sounded as if he’d been hyperventilating.

  “Lock Delia in the house and get your ass over here,” he said in a panic that carried across the room.

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Mack’s cottages, where you think? One of her DNA brothers showed up and he threatened to kill us all. I can’t call the cops on a guy who might be my son, so hurry up. And bring a gun.”

  Delia was eavesdropping. “My god, this can’t be happening. He’s not serious about the gun?”

  She spoke to my back while I headed across the breezeway, into my cabin. I returned wearing a baggy shirt, unbuttoned, over a tank top and khaki slacks.

  “Tomlinson gets excited, he gets dramatic,” I said, tightening my belt. “Stay here, I won’t be gone long, I hope.”

  No way. Delia insisted on going. In the truck, she tried to reassure herself as I drove to West Gulf and turned left. “He probably blew it all way out of proportion. Besides, that’s just crazy. Why would a biologist own a gun?”

  FIVE

  Mack’s old Lincoln Continental sat in the sandy shade of coconut palms. No other vehicles around, just Tomlinson’s bicycle and a rusty swaybacked golf cart used by marina employees. We stepped out into the heat and dozy bird sounds of the July afternoon.

  Delia was nervous. “Maybe everyone has calmed down,” she suggested. “God, I hope so. I’ve never met any of my bio sibs. And why would he threaten to kill . . .” She dismissed the possibility. “It can’t be true.”

  Kill Tomlinson, her birth father, she meant.

  The safest way to handle the situation was to ask her to stay in the truck. When I did, she refused with a curt profanity meant to put me in my place. I scouted ahead, then returned, saying, “Stay behind me.”

  The wind freshened. A flotilla of charcoal clouds scudded inland and muted the sunlight. The collegiate sailor had been right about the weather changing.

  We crossed into a postcard setting of Florida from the 1960s. There were six tiny cabins, whitewashed and trimmed in fresh pink, built around a commons. There was a gas grill, a shuffleboard court, a weedy patch of white sand for volleyball, and a large one-story clubhouse. It was CBS brick and stucco, also painted white and conch shell pink, and large enough for potlucks or bingo, with room to seat fifty or more.

  Mack, red-faced, exited as we approached. He wore a carpenter’s apron. The sound of a power saw inside
echoed off the linoleum.

  “Well, the mystery of Sasquatch, the Abominable Snowman, has been solved,” he said with mock humor. “Tomlinson, in his travels, has apparently sired a race of giant lunatics. You just missed one of his prodigal sons.”

  “What kind of car was he in?” I asked.

  Mack kept talking. “I called the cops anyway, and I hope they catch the crazy picaroon. He threatened to burn the place to the ground—as if I’d rent to him or any of his spawn. The whole family’s batshit crackers.”

  Through the entire speech, he ignored my attempt to hush him.

  He noticed Delia. Mack’s expression asked Who’s she? before he apologized, “Sorry about the language, miss. We’re discussing one of our local nutcases. Nothing to fret about.”

  Delia, furious—or stricken—demanded, “Where is he?”

  “Which one?” Mack asked. “My dear, you don’t want to involve yourself with—”

  “I’m no damn dear,” she interrupted. “I’m an adult who asked you a simple question. The person you described as a gigantic lunatic, where is he?”

  “Not gigantic, a giant,” Mack said. He was unnerved by the girl’s anger. “The crazy bast— This person, the guy, had to be close to seven feet tall. Had hair down to his hips like a Viking, calm enough at first, then started . . . Well, don’t worry. He won’t—”

  A nearby cabin door banged open and Tomlinson appeared. He was surprised to see Delia, but handled it. “Perfect timing,” he called in a cheery way, yet looked exhausted. “Mack, meet Delia—Delia Carapoulos. Isn’t she a beauty? Delia’s one of my daughters, just graduated from Eckerd with top honors. That ought to put your mind at ease about the whole fam-damn-ily being nuts.”

  It did not. Mack, however, as a businessman, knew the wisdom of concealing anger in the hope of future gains. Instead of another nasty reference to genetics, he said, “Congratulations, Delia. Young lady, you’re welcome here anytime. Sorry for the upset.” Then fixed Tomlinson with a mean look. “As for your other sprog, please tell Mr. Deville—or whatever his name is—I don’t care to see his ass on my property ever again.”