Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
EPILOGUE
“Anyone who insists that mysteries cannot be ‘real’ literature should be duct-taped to a chair and handed Randy Wayne White’s Tampa Burn. Mr. White offers his readers everything they could want: finely, fully developed characters, a plot with believable twists and turns, rich—and accurate—local color, and esoteric information as icing on the cake.”
—The Washington Times
“White magically keeps anxiety levels high for characters and readers alike . . . a marvelous book.”
—The Raleigh News & Observer
“Best sheer storytelling in years.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A spellbinding story-spinner . . . [Tampa Burn] is highly suspenseful, with strong characters and a complex moral dimension.”
—St. Louis Post-Dispatch
“White is back in fine form with Tampa Burn, and it’s likely to leave his fans eager for his next book.”
—St. Petersburg Times
“Compelling action.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Keeps the suspense churning.”
—Booklist (starred review)
PRAISE FOR EVERGLADES
“What James Lee Burke has done for Louisiana, Tony Hillerman for the Southwest, John Sandford for Minnesota and Joe R. Lansdale for east Texas, Randy Wayne White does for his own little acre in Everglades.”
—Chicago Tribune
“White brings vivid imagination to his fight scenes . . . it all roars along with cliffhanger chapter endings and great technogear. Think Mickey Spillane meets The Matrix . . . Rich and mysterious.”
—People
“White just keeps getting better, his plots more shapely and intricate and his characters more complex and believable.”
—The Miami Herald
“Superlative . . . pulsating action . . . Righteous indignation never felt better.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Randy Wayne White . . . writes about Florida’s natural world with lyrical elegance and passion . . . [He] mixes his naturalist’s eye and small-town sensibilities with a combatant’s edge. His book is simultaneously gentle and compelling, a rare combination.”
—The Times-Picayune
“White’s Ford novels build slowly to a breathless ending . . . [He] doesn’t just use Florida as a backdrop, but he also makes the smell, sound, and physicality of the state leap off the page . . . Ford continues to excel as an unorthodox detective whose beat is the watery byways . . . Unique.”
—Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
“This satisfying, madcap fare could well go seismic on the regional bestseller lists.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A remarkable writing job.”
—St. Petersburg Times
“Before it’s over, White takes us on a wild ride . . . heart-stopping.”
—The Raleigh News & Observer
“White masterfully guides his narrative to a riveting conclusion that will have readers eagerly awaiting the next Doc Ford adventure . . . White’s writing is as muscular as ever.”
—The Tampa Tribune
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF RANDY WAYNE WHITE
“Randy Wayne White and his Doc Ford join my list of must-reads. It is no small matter when I assert that White is getting pretty darn close to joining Carl Hiaasen and John D. MacDonald as writers synonymous with serious Florida issues and engaging characters.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Enough twists to satisfy any hard-boiled but intelligent detective fan.”
—The Dallas Morning News
“One of the hottest new writers on the scene.”
—Library Journal
“Great action scenes, terrific atmosphere, and a full-bodied hero add up to a pleasure.”
—Booklist
“Packed with finely drawn characters, relevant social issues, superb plotting, and an effortless writing style . . . The best new writer since Carl Hiaasen.”
—The Denver Post
“White is the rightful heir to joining John D. MacDonald, Carl Hiaasen, James W. Hall, Geoffrey Norman . . . His precise prose is as fresh and pungent as a salty breeze.”
—The Tampa Tribune
“A series to be savored.”
—The San Diego Union-Tribune
TITLES BY RANDY WAYNE WHITE
SANIBEL FLATS
THE HEAT ISLANDS
THE MAN WHO INVENTED FLORIDA
CAPTIVA
NORTH OF HAVANA
THE MANGROVE COAST
TEN THOUSAND ISLANDS
SHARK RIVER
TWELVE MILE LIMIT
EVERGLADES
TAMPA BURN
DEAD OF NIGHT
DARK LIGHT
HUNTER’S MOON
NONFICTION
BATFISHING IN THE RAINFOREST
THE SHARKS OF LAKE NICARAGUA
LAST FLIGHT OUT
AN AMERICAN TRAVELER
TARPON FISHING IN MEXICO AND FLORIDA (An Introduction)
RANDY WAYNE WHITE’S
GULF COAST COOKBOOK (with Carlene Fredericka Brennen)
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
TAMPA BURN
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to quote from the following:
“
A Horse with No Name” by Dewey Bunnell © 1971 Warner Bros. Music Limited. Copyright renewed. All rights for the Western Hemisphere controlled by WB Music Corp. All rights reserved. Used by permission. Warner Bros. Publications U.S. Inc., Miami, FL 33014.
“Tin Man” by Dewey Bunnell © 1974 WB Music Corp. Copyright renewed. All rights reserved. Used by permission. Warner Bros. Publications U.S. Inc., Miami, FL 33014.
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10 9
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THIS BOOK IS FOR NEIL NYREN, WHO GOT ME OFF THE BOAT.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
THE islands of Sanibel and Captiva are real, and, I hope, faithfully described, but they are used fictitiously in this novel.
The same is true of certain businesses, marinas, bars, and other places frequented by Doc Ford, Tomlinson, and pals. When you spend as much time cruising around in a boat as I do, it’s hard not to mention people whom I’ve met and like, and find interesting.
In all other respects, however, this novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book demanded extensive research in several fields, and I am grateful to the experts who took the time to advise me. I’d like to thank Dr. Thaddeus Kostrubala, a brilliant psychopharmacologist, for his friendship, and for his cheerful willingness over the years to provide me with detailed behavioral profiles on some truly nasty fictional characters. Much of the detail in this book regarding shock therapy was provided by Dr. Kostrubala, including his touching recollections of administering the treatments as a resident in training. His e-mails, and our discussions, concerning Praxcedes Lourdes were also immensely helpful.
Captain Tobias Rose of the Tampa Pilots’ Association also provided me with great assistance, including detailed information of the responsibilities of port pilots, as well as touring me around Tampa Bay as we plotted Doc Ford’s night route.
Long-time carnival operator Darrell Boyd, known as DB, provided invaluable insights into the lives of sideshow operators and the town of Gibsonton, as did Chuck Osak, owner and operator of the Showtime Restaurant.
John Dunn, director of communications at Tampa General Hospital, was generous with his time, as was the staff at the Tampa Burn Center—one of the great medical facilities in the country. Joe Guidry was also a great help.
The tarpon spawning project Doc Ford references is an actual project. It began in the mind of Craig A. Watson, director of Aquaculture Lab at the University of Florida, and the first attempt took place at my home and dock at Pineland, Florida. I’d like to thank Craig, Doug Colle, Jeff Hill, Scott Graves, John Baldwin, and Dan Conklin for allowing me to play a small role. Running home from Boca Grande Pass at night in my skiff during a full-moon eclipse, with scientists and my youngest son, Rogan, aboard—along with a live 100-pound anesthetized tarpon—will never be forgotten. The same is true about the night several unnamed fish guides sunk a police boat.
Something else I’ll never forget is the first time I saw America in concert. It was in San Diego. I was on a book signing tour. I seldom go out; avoid crowds like the plague. But being back in Southern California, listening to them nail hit after hit, was one of the truly great nights.
Gerry Beckley and Dewey Bunnell are two of our finest composers. For them to allow Tomlinson to work as a roadie, and for them and Warner Brothers Records also to allow me to use their lyrics in this novel, is a great honor. I would like to thank Dewey, Gerry, Willie Leacox, Michael Woods, Rich Campbell, Pete Leonardo, and Bill Crook for their generous hospitality while on the road. America’s road manager, Erin Edwards, deserves special thanks. She is a great and gifted lady.
Also providing valuable aid or information were Tom Taylor, Dr. David Melzer, Major Robert Macomber, Captain Kerry Griner, and Sergeant Jim Brown of the Lee County Sheriff’s Department, and Carol Wirth, who contributed information on anesthesiology.
My close pals Dr. Brian Hummel, Kristin Hummel, Gary Terwilliger, Donna Terwilliger, Bill Spaceman Lee, Genny Amsler, Sue Williams, Roberta Petish, Debbie, Pete, and Maggie Flynn all deserve thanks, as do Rob and Phyllis Wells for letting me hide out and write in the boathouse.
These people all provided valuable guidance and/or information. All errors, exaggerations, omissions, or fictionalizations are entirely the fault, and the responsibility, of the author.
It has become my habit, during the last weeks of work on a novel, to disappear to some remote place so that the common, daily interruptions don’t impose. For this book, I chose Anse Chastanet (Ons Chas-ta-nee) on St. Lucia in the Windward Islands. Anse Chastanet is a five-star tropical wilderness resort; six hundred acres of coastal mountain rainforest and beach. In a lifetime spent traveling, I have never stayed at a more beautiful place.
I’d like to thank my new friends there, and hope we meet again soon: Nick Troubetzkoy, a new addition to my list of Mad Russian pals; Karolin Troubetzkoy; Michael and Karyn Allard; Dr. John Wassel; Luci New; Gillian Hurtig; Ike Ononye; and Sharon Brown-Horton.
Finally, I would like to thank dear, dear Debra Jane Objartle White for her kindness, friendship, guidance, and support over many years, and Lee and Rogan White, once again, for helping me finish a book.
Humanity has a limited biological capacity for change, but an unlimited capacity for spiritual change. The only human institution incapable of evolving spiritually is a cemetery.
—S. M. TOMLINSON
One Fathom Above Sea Level
God, why’d you send me down here with a trigger finger and a tallywhacker, if you didn’t expect me to use ’em?
—TUCKER GATRELL
CIUDAD DE MASAGUA REPUBLIC OF MASAGUA CENTRAL AMERICA APRIL
Several hours before Praxcedes Lourdes abducted Marion Ford’s son, he was sitting in a smoky cantina with his getaway driver, bragging about his new fame.
In Spanish, he said, “‘The visitor who burns men alive.’ It’s what the poor assholes in Nicaragua call me. The peasants. And in Guatemala. The ‘night visitor.’ They use my name to scare hell out of children. To make brats behave when they disobey. Understand? At a certain age, kids stop believing in Santa Claus. Even some of the saints. But they’ll never stop believing in me.”
Prax was smoking a Cohiba cigar. He inhaled, perhaps smiling, though it was impossible to tell because he wore a mask made of thin wire mesh. Guerrilla fighters wore identical masks during Nicaragua’s Contra war to hide their identities. Eyebrows and pink cheek flush were painted on the outside—a clownish touch.
Lourdes liked that.
The man always kept his face covered. When he traveled or went out at night, he wore surgical gauze, the kind that protects from germs. Because of certain Asian viruses, it was no longer an oddity.
At other times, he wore a bandana or a bandage wrap, plus sunglasses—except for now, in this dark bar. The Contra mask, though, was his favorite because he could smoke and drink, and also because it provided him with a face when he looked in the mirror.
The driver watched sm
oke sieve through the mesh. He averted his eyes.
“Not long after General Balserio paid me to come to Masagua, your people started calling me Incendiario. Using only the one word. That’s a better name, don’t you think? It sounds like a rock singer in the United States. It’s got star appeal. Sexy—not that you coffee peons know anything about show business.”
Prax made a card-fan with his hands, as if creating a marquee above the table, and said with flair, “The great Incendiario. Like I’m star of this half-assed revolution, more famous than your generals. Which I am. In the mountains, when people say my name, they whisper. You know why?”
The driver was staring at the table, aware the man was not speaking to him; an answer wasn’t expected. He was bragging to please himself. Even so, the driver replied, “It’s because the people of Masagua are superstitious. They don’t believe that you are—” He paused. He’d almost said “human.” “That you really exist.”
Lourdes leaned forward slightly. His Spanish was unusually accented—French Canadian with a dose of Florida cracker. The accent was amplified when he grew strident, and he became strident now.
“No. It’s because Masaguans are stupid turds, like most people. No smarter than a bunch of sheep, including your genius generals. What I had to teach them was, if you kill a couple thousand enemy, nothing changes. But if you scare two hundred thousand of them shitless—make their families afraid to leave the house at night—that’s when a war starts going your way.”
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