As I looked up from the note, Ransom asked, “I already read it. What’s that last part mean?”
I said, “It’s an affectionate way of saying goodbye. Spanish. ‘I give you a hug, my brother.’ ”
Ransom told me, “Jes’ like I said, your brother. What kinda person gonna say that and not be your friend? And you talking about them like they was shacked up together in some hotel.”
“I don’t feel real apologetic right now. Maybe it has to do with finding out I’m maybe not the real father of my son.”
Ransom began, “Let me ask you somethin’, Marion Ford”—using her serious voice, the one she employs when making a point or assuming a platform of wisdom—“did you feel like the boy’s father before you read them letters? Course you did. Then tell me, how can a few words change a man’s feelin’s for his child? Where’s it say you got to have the same blood to be a father? Hell, man, I ain’t your real sister. But, ’cause of the feelings I got, I am your real sister. See what I’m sayin’?”
I was tempted to share the irony with her. It was only in recent hours that I’d had my first insights into the power of blood kinship—the first to which I had ever attached any emotion, anyway—and now those feelings were already being challenged.
I shook my head wearily, made a flapping motion with my hands, and began to undress. “You’re right. He’s my son. No matter who the real father is, he’s still my son.”
“Yeah, that a healthy way to think of it. Now, get them clothes off. You so bone weary, you get you some sleep now. I stay and rub your back maybe. Say—why you not wearing the gris-gris bag I give you? That good luck, man!”
I had my shirt off, so she could see that I wasn’t wearing the little leather sack of herbs and who-knows-what-else around my neck. I never did.
I let my fishing shorts drop to the floor, stepped out of them, turned, and walked to the west window, then stopped, looking out, as she said, “Something else you need to make you feel better, I can get some goofer dust. Put a little on you, then pray over it every day for nine days. I got some nice lotion, too—turpentine and rose petals mostly—that make the heart pains go ’way.”
I said, “Do you have any magic dust that’ll make Dewey come back? Or at least call.”
I’d told her about that, too.
“Oh yeah, man. The bring-me-lover-home spell, that an easy one. When the moon full? We do it then, and that girl, Dewey, she soon back in your arms.”
I was standing in my underwear, looking out over the mangroves, the marina lights off to my right, a wedge of moon showing over the trees. The moon would soon be setting over the Gulf; setting almost exactly at the same time the sun was rising over the bay. Decided that, as long as I was up, I might as well stay up to see it.
I told my sister, “I’m too tired to sleep. I think I’ll jog down Tarpon Bay Road to the beach, do a short run and swim.”
I could picture myself swimming toward the moon on a lane of silver light, the island widening behind me. What a temptation, to just keep swimming toward the moon.
I wondered if Dewey was awake, thinking about me, thinking about us.
Yeah, the mood I was in, that would be better than trying to sleep.
TWENTY
I saw Tomlinson briefly late that afternoon at the marina. He’d puttered ashore in his little dinghy so he could drive to Bailey’s General Store and buy supplies. The encounter was as uncomfortable as it was unexpected.
Unexpected because he makes shopping runs less frequently these days. Too much risk of being recognized. He has a garden variety of phobias, and the newest is the fear of being mobbed by foreign-speaking strangers.
It’s happened because of his growing cult status as a Zen teacher. His adoring groupies come to the marina to seek him out, and the attention makes him edgy. Until Mack, who owns and manages the marina, put a stop to it, they’d hang around the docks, hoping for a glimpse of their beloved prophet.
That’s the way they think of him, too. It has to do with a religious treatise that he wrote years ago when he was still a university student, One Fathom Above Sea Level. A fathom is six feet, so the title refers to the universe as viewed through one man’s eyes—Tomlinson’s.
The paper was published in Germany, enjoyed a brief European vogue, and then vanished. But a while back, it was rediscovered. It was translated into Japanese, then Chinese, and began to circulate around the world on the Internet. The Internet’s great triumph is that it is successfully joining us as one race, even while inviting dependencies that amplify our vulnerability, and that may well destroy us as a modern society.
Anyway, Tomlinson has his faults, but ego isn’t among them. Except for an understandable wariness, he’s been unchanged by all the attention. The problem is, he says, he can’t remember writing One Fathom, nor what inspired it.
It used to trouble him: not remembering what he’d written, or what had moved him to that level of virtuosity. As he explains it, heavy drink and drugs were involved, so the brain cells that did the actual creating are long since dead.
It bothered him so much, in fact, that around Christmas, he disappeared for a couple of months on what he later described to me as his personal quest to rediscover the source of that lost inspiration. When I asked for details, he demurred, though I noticed that he stopped speaking of One Fathom as if it had been written by an unknown person.
And he was forced to change his lifestyle because of the unwelcome fame. Tomlinson has always kept his sun-battered Morgan sailboat moored only a few hundred yards offshore from the docks, and just across the channel from my stilt house. Now, though, he’s moved it near the middle of the bay to discourage his followers from attempting to swim out to meet him. It’s a considerably longer distance, and one of the reasons he makes fewer trips to the marina.
Which is why I was surprised to run into him that afternoon. I’d seen him ride by earlier that day—probably to pick up his cell phone, which I’d left for him behind the counter in the marina office. With the phone, I’d also left a note that listed the medical supplies we needed, and a brief explanation. I couldn’t help adding a postscript reminding him that he had hipster doctor buddies who were happy to sell him sevoflurane gas and laughing gas to sniff for recreational use, so maybe they’d come through with a couple of drugs that were actually intended for medical purposes.
The sevoflurane gas he used was the worst. Smelled exactly like anchovies to me. But Tomlinson loved the stuff, and would walk around giggling for hours, stinking of marijuana and fish.
I’d told him where to find his cell phone in a brief exchange on the VHF radio. Other than that, I saw no need for us to talk.
We had no pressing business.
Pilar had called me from her hotel room early that morning just as I returned from swimming, and I’d already told her about my e-mail exchange with Prax Lourdes. I’d described the bizarre call on the satellite phone. Told her a lie—that he’d demanded my e-mail address, and that he’d written me directly. Explained it all without mentioning that I’d broken into her Internet account, her personal e-mails, and that I’d already read Lourdes’ earlier demand that we drive to St. Petersburg.
I’d let her find that letter for herself, then act surprised when she told me.
Behaving as if I were surprised—after all the experience I’d gotten in the last few hours, that’d be no problem.
I’D slept off and on during the day, Ransom keeping me company. She works at Tarpon Bay Marina, managing the little store there, and also at the Sanibel Rum Bar & Grille. She said things had been so slow, taking a day off was no big deal.
That indicated to me the degree of her concern.
It was showing. The turmoil, all the stress, were getting to me, or she wouldn’t have taken a day away from work.
I found myself worrying about Dewey—Where was she? Why hadn’t I heard from her? And Lake—Would they let him write me? And when?
I thought about Tinman. Who the hell was he?
I have a satellite phone of my own. Seldom need it; keep it packed away because I can use it to contact only one man: a guy named Hal Harrington.
Hal’s with the U.S. State Department. He’s also a member of a covert operations team that is known, to a very few, as the Negotiating and System Analysis Group—the Negotiators, for short.
Because the success of the team requires that members blend easily into most societies worldwide, each man was provided with a legitimate and mobile profession when he joined. Harrington became a computer software wizard.
Another of the group’s members became a marine biologist.
The trouble with becoming a Negotiator was that, once you were in, there was no getting out. You could never be free again.
Whenever I talked with Hal, he reminded me of that.
“Quid pro quo,” he would say, granting most technical favors I asked, but always giving me an assignment in return.
I hadn’t talked with him in a while.
I decided not to talk to him now. But I did send him an e-mail, asking for information on Thackery. Did the crazed surfer ever go by the alias “Tinman”?
I knew that, ultimately, it would mean another assignment from Hal.
AFTER that, I paced; checked my AOL account over and over for e-mails. I paced; glared at the phone, willing it to ring, hoping that I would hear Dewey’s voice on the other end.
I telephoned Janet Mueller twice, pressing her to contact the woman, each time stressing how important it was that I speak with her. When I picked up the phone a third time, I stopped and had to vow to myself I wouldn’t pester Janet again.
There was something else I was obsessing about, too: Tomlinson.
Except for his quick trip into the marina, he’d spent the day out there all alone aboard No Mas. From the windows of my lab, I could see the vessel’s old white hull at anchor, pointing like a slow weather vane against the tide. With all that was going on in my life, I had to ask myself, under normal circumstances, wouldn’t I have sought out his opinions and advice? Wouldn’t I have hopped in my skiff and gone a-calling? Or invited him in for an early beer?
The answer was an unqualified yes. He would have been the first person I would have turned to for help. Ransom was correct. The man had come to seem like a brother to me.
That had changed, though. For now, anyway. Maybe for all time.
WHICH is probably why, that afternoon when I nearly collided with Tomlinson as I exited the Red Pelican Gift Shop, I tried way too hard to mask my uneasiness—which, of course, just made my uneasiness more obvious.
The most startling thing, though, was that Tomlinson’s manner was just as stilted.
“Whoops, sorry . . . oh. Hello, Tomlinson.”
“Doc? Hey, great to see you, compadre. Just really . . . great.”
“In for supplies?”
“Oh yeah, man. Beans and beer.”
“Food and beer, well . . . you need those.”
“Absolutely. Food, yeah . . . even for me, eating is, like . . . mandatory.”
“Yeah, sure. Food. Um. Did you . . . did you get the note I left about the medical supplies?”
“Oh yeah. My doctor buddies are already working on the list.”
“Good. Good. Well . . . nice seeing you.”
“Right back at you, amigo!”
Walking away from him, I could feel sweat beading on my back, and I knew that my face had to be flushed. I was already dreading our next meeting, when from behind me I heard him call after me, “Doc. Hey, Doc? Hold it just a sec, would you?”
I turned to look. I was standing in the parking lot. He’d stopped just outside the marina office, next to the doorway that led up the steps to Jeth’s upstairs apartment. He was conservatively dressed for him: shirtless, khaki British walking shorts belted with a rope, and a knitted Rastafarian cap, red, black, and green, holding his hair in a bun.
I said, “Something wrong?”
I couldn’t remember ever seeing him looking so melancholy. “Yeah, Doc. Your aura, man. It’s impossible for me not to notice. You don’t even have to tell me, and I already know.”
“Know what?”
“I know something’s happened.”
I said, “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
“What I’m talking about is you. That something very heavy has gone down. It’s like—ouch—iceberg country. A solid cold wall has dropped. That’s the vibe I’m getting. Emotional cataclysm; bridges burning.” He seemed to be thinking it through as he spoke, feeling the words. “An event has taken place that has changed the entire social interactive structure. You’ve . . . discovered something. A real mind-bender. Is any of this making sense?”
My tone flat, I said, “No. But that’s not unusual when I listen to you.”
“Are you sure? Then why is it I get the feeling you’re pissed off at me?”
I said, “I don’t know. Is there some reason I should be pissed off?”
He still wore that poignant expression, but there was now also a spark of awareness. “O.K. I’m beginning to tune in. Like clouds moving away from the void.”
“I’m glad one of us understands, because I don’t.” I turned to leave.
“In that case, I’ll walk along with you, if you don’t mind. Maybe we can hash it out.”
I didn’t want him to walk with me, but couldn’t think of a quick excuse that made sense. I looked from one to another of the marina’s main roofed structures. There are four: the combination office and take-out restaurant, the Red Pelican Gift Shop, Mack’s house, which is beyond the docks at the edge of the mangroves, and the storage barn and repair shop behind it.
I was on my way to the storage barn because Mack, for mysterious reasons, had invited me and some of the guides to a private meeting there. So I used that. I said, “I’m in kind of a rush. Mack wants to see me about something—it’s important; I’m not sure what. And I’m late.”
I’ve known Tomlinson so long that I can read his mannerisms nearly as well as he can read mine. The gentle smile on his face told me, I know you’re lying, but it’s O.K., even as he spoke, saying, “It won’t take long, and I’ll walk fast. Promise.”
I began to walk again and he joined in step. “I heard about Dewey splitting. Man, I am so sorry. As you know, good women can’t dump me fast enough once they catch on to how truly weird my act is. So that kind of emotional pain is something I’ve got a handle on. Like, if you need an ear to listen?”
I said, “What I need is to find out where she went. She’s so damn stubborn. I need to discuss something with her. There’s a very important reason that we need to talk. But she won’t. So, if you know where she is, I’d appreciate your telling me.”
He was shaking his head. “I told everybody I don’t want to know. That’s ’cause if you asked, I knew I’d tell you, man. It’s the lady’s gig; Dewey’s secret. Not mine to share. But Doc—” He seemed to put additional meaning in his emphasis. “There’s nothing in the world you couldn’t ask me. Not if I knew the answer. Or do for you. The same deal, man. Anything. ”
I stopped walking. Stood there looking into his blue and ancient mariner’s eyes. “It makes me nervous when friends put little messages between the lines. It’s like they’re trying to make me guess. Or find out what I know. If you want to tell me something, just come right out and tell me.”
He thought about that for a moment, considering, before he said, “You’re in a hurry. You’ve got that meeting with Mack. So maybe tonight, we can have a few beers, sit out and feed the mosquitoes. Yeah, Doc”—this was added reflectively—“I think we’ve got a few things we need to discuss. Maybe clear the air a little, huh?”
Not wanting to sound too unsociable—he was already guarded—I told him, that reminded me: I had a Tucker Gatrell story for him that he was going to love.
THE junk and marine litter that has accumulated around the storage barn and repair shop
is screened from the parking lot by a wooden fence that runs back and along the mangrove swamp that encircles the marina and Dinkin’s Bay.
The marina’s fishing guides—Jeth, Felix, Neville, Alex Payne, Dave—were already there when I arrived, sitting on packing crates or leaning against savaged outboards, all looking at Mack, who’d been speaking. Mack was wearing green Bermuda shorts, a yellow tank top, and a massive straw hat, and was smoking a cigar that was just long enough to extend beyond the brim.
When I appeared, Mack paused long enough to relight the cigar and say, “See? I invited Doc. That proves I’m not crazy.”
I wondered what that meant.
Mack is Graeme MacKinley, a New Zealander who sailed to the States years ago and took a flier on a marina. He is stocky, plainspoken, and a superlative businessman who’s tight with a dime but big-hearted when it comes to philanthropy, and with the quirky cast of characters who live and work at his marina. Like many foreign nationals who’ve done well in the States, he’s both ardently patriotic and also a raging libertarian who despises government regulations and interference. When it comes to marina business, he rarely asks opinions or takes polls.
Unaware of the meeting’s purpose or what he meant, I replied, “Sorry to disagree, Mack, but I’ve come to the conclusion that almost everyone at this marina is a tad crazy—including me,” which got a small laugh and, to my own surprise, seemed to lighten my mood a little.
Mack said, “Oh, you got a point there, mate!” and then added to no one in particular, “Fill ’im in, gents. Tell the doctor what we’re doing here.”
Big Felix Blane took charge. “You wanna talk crazy, well, Mack’s come up with one of the craziest ideas of all time. You know the Sanibel police boat? That shitty little tri-hull they keep moored next to the Island Belle? They almost never use the thing, and the engine’s about shot.”
I said, “Sure, I know the boat,” picturing a stained hull with an older Evinrude outboard. I’d heard the department had gotten it in some kind of sting a few years back.
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