“You had it in your hands, though. Holding is more intimate than seeing. You held me, the way I am when no one is watching. That’s close enough.”
“Give me some credit.”
Barbara said, “I’m trying to,” then flicked the lighter and leaned back, inhaling deeply, her face softening as she inhaled again.
Through a veil of smoke, she told me, “I rarely get the opportunity, but this is how I relax. I become recreationally indecent. When I come out of the bathroom, I don’t expect you to be decent either.”
With her free hand, she was unbuttoning her blouse.
9
On my flight back to Florida, Barbara Hayes-Sorrento confirmed, via computer, what I had suspected but didn’t want to believe: Re: Documents ›Castro Files› (search incomplete.) No entries as T-I-N-M-A-N. However, several references to T-E-N (space) M-A-N. Identified as U.S. citizen, male, no criminal record, address: (indecipherable). Birthplace: East Hampton, Long Island. First name unknown. Surname: T-O-M-L-I-N-S-O-N.
In my hotel room, Barbara had said, “He’s another one I find oddly suspicious.”
Now I understood.
If I had been on a commercial flight, I would’ve ordered a couple of vodkas for the Virgin Marys I usually drink. But this plane wasn’t carrying liquor. There might have been weapons in the hold-machine pistols, Stinger rocket launchers, no telling what-but no booze, no beer.
The airline wasn’t in the business of recreation and it wasn’t carrying paying passengers… not in a conventional sense.
Harrington had gotten me on a SAT-FG (Security Air Transport, Federal Government) flight. The charter group was used by the State Department and all thirteen federal intelligence agencies. In certain code-oriented circles, SAT was known as Spook Airway Tours.
Depending on the classification, if your name was on the SAT roster, as mine now was, the charter company would get you to your destination, day or night, holidays included. It was an elite shuttle service for most. But if you were ASP-Authorized Security Principal-as I now was, you could check bags that would not be inspected and bring aboard unnamed associates, although prior notice was required.
Snow had changed to sleet when I climbed the boarding ladder at Fort Dix at six a.m. on a black New Jersey morning. Military personnel wore aircraft-carrier earmuffs and mittens, staring into cups of steaming coffee, as the copilot levered the hatch closed.
This civilian Learjet was reason enough to avert the eyes. The ground crew was Air Force personnel. They knew it was a Special Operations Flight, Destinations Classified. Presumably, so did my fellow passengers: a naval officer in dress whites sitting aft and a woman sitting amidships. There were no greetings as I seated myself at the forward bulkhead, no attempts to make conversation, no polite inquiries about personal interests or destinations while the plane deiced.
I spent the flight using my laptop, taking advantage of the plane’s communications perks. I traded instant messages with Barbara, who was exhausted, then contacted a relentless Harrington, using cloaking software that encoded and decoded our correspondence.
No news about the missing teen. Harrington believed that if a second photo wasn’t provided within twenty-four hours of the abduction, the boy was dead. “Unless subject has escaped,” Harrington added, “but improbable for a child that age.”
I wondered.
God help them, Ruth Guttersen had said to the FBI agent. A goat ever kicked your ass? the kid had snapped at me. The teen had fire. Some people are born old, others skip childhood to survive. Foster homes might have made Will Chaser tougher, shrewder. Could have added some protective armor.
Because I hoped it was true, I wanted to speak with the Guttersens myself. Maybe a former teacher or two. Barbara had provided me with phone numbers. She’d also provided a satellite cellular phone, a contact list and temporary credentials, all with an efficiency unexpected of a woman who was wine-tempered and very stoned. This performance, I decided, was not her debut.
Somewhere over the Carolinas, I received the senator’s e-mail about Tomlinson. A surprise not just because of the content but because I thought she was finally asleep.
I didn’t trouble her with a reply. Instead, I checked the time-7:10 a.m.-and decided to e-mail the psychic philosopher myself. Normally, e-mail is not the quickest way to contact Tomlinson. He has purged his sailboat of all electronics he considers worldly and intrusive, keeping only necessities: a VHF radio, a turntable and a complicated stereo system.
Every morning, though, he dinghied to the marina around seven, if he wasn’t too hungover. He checked messages, bought a paper, then pedaled to Baileys General Store for a scone.
The timing was about right.
Tomlinson and I have a convoluted history that goes way, way back. Years ago, before either of us had chosen Sanibel Island as home, a group of so-called political revolutionaries sent a letter bomb to a U.S. naval base. One of the men killed was a friend.
Tomlinson was a member of the group but had nothing to do with the bombing, although it was years before I was convinced. A government agency believed otherwise and declared that all members of his group were a clear and present danger to national security. Agents were sent to track them.
As Harrington told me at the time, “We’re not the CIA. We can operate inside the reservation.”
I have never admitted that I was sent after Tomlinson, although he suspects. The man has an uncanny knack for perceptual reasoning that he insists is clairvoyance. I credit his gift for observing nuances and minutiae that most people miss, myself included.
In that way, he is different. It’s impossible to say whether the ability is due to enlightenment, as he claims, or because his neural pathways have been oversensitized by years of chemical abuse.
Ninety minutes later, the jet banked southeast along the sun-bright beaches of Clearwater and Saint Pete, then landed at what I recognized as MacDill Air Force Base, Tampa. The Navy lieutenant got off, carrying a briefcase. I noticed there was no rating emblem on his uniform-meaningful to someone who has worked with naval intelligence. We were soon airborne again.
The Learjet made a short arc over Siesta Key and Englewood before it reduced speed, maneuvering to land. Below, I saw toy cars, coconut palms, seaside estates and the domino concretion that is Cape Coral.
Sanibel Island drifted into view, a green raft on a blue horizon. The island’s shape was impressionistic, like a totem on the Nazca desert of Peru, a giant shrimp petroglyph, tail curved. The totem’s belly was hollow, formed by Din-kin’s Bay, a brackish lake ringed by mangroves. Home.
After landing, I asked the pilot about the plane’s return schedule. “We have another stop or two after we refuel,” he told me vaguely, and handed me his card, his cell number on the back.
When I trotted down the steps onto the tarmac of the civic airport in Fort Myers, it was a little after nine, temperature already seventy-four degrees.
Page Field had been a gunnery school during the Second War. Now it was the namesake of an adjacent mall where six lanes of traffic filed as methodically as leaf-cutter ants, the driver of each anonymous car resigned.
I got a cab and joined the procession. Told the driver, “Dinkin’s Bay, Sanibel,” which was an hour away because of tourist season. After nearly freezing in a Central Park pond, I understood Florida’s allure better than ever.
My note to Tomlinson had read, “What is significance of term Tenth Man? Need all interpretations, derivatives, variations. MDF.”
He would assume I was still in New York. Surprise the man. That’s what I wanted to do. How, I hadn’t decided. I didn’t believe Tomlinson was involved with the abduction. The guy was not capable of hurting anyone. But he was also wildly complicated and prone to talking jags when intoxicated, which was often.
Because Tomlinson knew my schedule, he also knew Senator Hayes-Sorrento’s schedule. He would’ve had ample opportunity to talk. He had lectured in Manhattan after spending three days on nearby Long Island, wh
ere there was a Zen master he visited regularly. A little village near the Hamptons that statistically was the wealthiest enclave in America. Billionaire estates. Old money, Internet tycoons. International rock stars and actors.
Sag Harbor, I remembered, was the little village near the Hamptons.
It was possible Tomlinson had been used once again by one or more of his dilettante associates, the trust-fund revolutionaries who flirted with violence like children pulling wings off flies.
Ruthless, arrogant: the very definition of crimes I associated with the name Tinman.
Tomlinson was no dilettante. He didn’t use his spiritual convictions to manipulate or fly his counterculture lifestyle as a flag of contempt. That’s not true of the typical cast of New Age mystics, born-againers, crystal worshipers, alien advocates, astrology goofs, conspiracy saps or thought-Nazi elitists, along with their politically correct mimics.
Tomlinson has a stray-dog purity, without ego or malice. I have never met anyone, anywhere, who didn’t like and trust the guy.
Yet the man was also easily manipulated.
A Tomlinson quote: “I’m prone to exaggerate when I’m sober.”
Accurate. It was also unsettling if he had information that should not be shared.
My home on Dinkin’s Bay is a pair of weathered gray cottages on stilts fifty yards from shore. Tomlinson secures his sailboat, No Mas, on nearby moorings. When his mood is monastic or he’s dodging a jealous husband, Tomlinson anchors far from the marina. Usually, though, No Mas sits just beyond the channel within hailing distance of my porch.
I was looking for the boat’s sun-bleached hull as I made my way through the mangroves, walking quietly on the boardwalk that leads to my home and lab. I’ve installed a gate at the water’s edge to discourage unwelcome visitors. One of the fishing guides made the sign that hangs there: SANIBEL BIOLOGICAL SUPPLY MARINE RESEARCH STATION
The sign is hand-routed teak. Much nicer than the plywood tag some comedian or activist had nailed beneath: KILL IT amp; STUDY IT-THE WHITE MAN’S WAY
I disengaged the alarm system, closed the gate and could soon see Tomlinson’s boat, moored where it was supposed to be.
As I walked toward the house, I thought about the surest way of surprising the man. I could borrow a canoe. Or swim?
No, stealth wasn’t necessary. I wasn’t going to accuse him. My e-mail about Tenth Man might, hopefully, key the retrieval of similar code names from his unconscious, which then would be left to ferment in his short-term memory. I wanted Tomlinson’s unedited reaction, then maybe a brief talk before I collected my gear, got another taxi and headed back to the airport.
As I approached the house, though, a voice called, “Hey, compadre! Didn’t think you’d get here for another hour. Delta added a new direct from Newark?”
I stopped at the stairs. Tomlinson was on the upper deck on a beach chair in the sun using two pie pans as reflectors, holding them near his face.
So much for surprising him.
As I climbed the stairs, I said, “I chartered a private jet,” expecting him to laugh and he did. I stowed my computer and satchel in the lab, then stepped outside. “You were expecting me?”
Tomlinson didn’t open his eyes, but he moved the pie pans enough so I could see his face: stringy bleached hair hanging over one shoulder, bikini underwear, bony toes visible over the rims of his Birkenstocks.
He said, “I was expecting you or the cops. Maybe both. I spent most the night in the lab waiting. Think I ought to get dressed?”
I was thinking, Cops because of the abduction?, but knew better than to rush to assumptions with Tomlinson. I said, “This is possibly a new record. Four seconds and you’ve already confused me.”
“Kidnapping and murder, man. Don’t kid a kidder. Cops still make house calls for that sort of thing… don’t they?”
“I’ve heard the rumor.”
“Good. I neatened up the place just in case.”
I stepped closer. “You’re admitting it?”
“Why shouldn’t I admit it? The house was a mess-well, a little messy after some tourist ladies stopped by last night for refreshments
…”
“Not that,” I said, “the kidnapping. You’re telling me you were involved? The driver was stabbed to death, for godsakes.”
Tomlinson opened his eyes. “Huh?”
“Isn’t that what you’re talking about? Now you’re lying around, soaking up rays, while you wait to be arrested for an abduction that-”
“Arrest me?” He sat up. “Marion Ford, are you high? They’re not gonna arrest me. I keep an emergency stash in the lab over one of the rafters. Just because you never found it doesn’t mean the pigs won’t. Now it’s gone-that’s all I meant.”
Stash. Even after all the years I’ve known the man, my brain took a moment to translate. Drugs. Marijuana for sure, and God knows what else.
He said, “Not that there was much left after the tourist ladies visited. But what there was, I took and put in a nice safe place. So the cops won’t pin it on you when they show up with a search warrant.” He looked at the sky, recalculating the sun’s angle, then moved the beach lounger a few inches, his dreamy expression telling me the women tourists were a lot of fun, I should’ve been there.
“Search warrant,” I said, trying to be patient. “We’re not all telepathic, Tomlinson. A lot of people might expect, you know, some sort of explanation. The reason you think the police are coming to search my place.”
He lay back in the chair, looking at me. “You know what I’m talking about.
You’re the one they’re gonna arrest, not me. Marion, the kimchee is about to hit the fan. You don’t think I know who killed that mutant?”
Mutant -Tomlinson’s nickname for Bern Heller.
I thought, Uh-oh.
He said, “That’s why I came to get rid of evidence. A murder charge will cause some gossip, no doubt. But Doc Ford taking a fall for drug possession? Your whole image would be screwed. Next stop, Freaksville. Once again, marijuana will get a bum wrap for being a gateway drug.”
The man made a weary sound, getting serious. “You used to claim Tucker Gatrell was the twisted seed in your family. But this thing you’ve got for killing bad guys-whew, Doc, it’s risky karma all around. I’m starting to feel like the loyal sidekick, a Caucasoid Joe Egret. Not as noble, but much hipper of course.”
“Oh, for sure,” I agreed.
He was referring to an Everglades legend, also a friend. Joseph Egret had been devoted to my crazed uncle and had a strong influence on me when I was a kid. Both men were dead now. The state had given special permission to bury Joe in a Calusa Indian mound in the ’Glades. The mounds had been built by contemporaries of the Maya, a tribe that predated the Seminoles by several thousand years.
“Joseph Egret,” Tomlinson added, “that’s exactly who came into my mind as I neatened up after the recent homicide. I’ll stick by you, Doctor, but, man, you’ve got a demon in that noggin of yours that psychotropics just might help. Seriously.”
Never rush to assumptions with Tomlinson. Abso-damn-lutely right. Staying quiet was the way to deal with this.
If I didn’t play it right, instead of looking for the kid I’d end up like him: a prisoner, or worse.
10
When the black Chrysler skidded into the driveway, Will Chaser gave up pounding on the farmer’s door and sprinted toward the barn. Tried to anyway. The broken rib was like a razor in his chest.
Headlights swept across him. He heard a door open and the Cuban with the freaky horn hollered, “Stop, you little goat turd!” But the smaller man, the one with metallic eyes, was smart. He yelled in pretty good English, “Your parents are worried! We want to help you.”
Already explaining why they were chasing him in case someone in the house was listening.
Adults could say anything. Tell another adult that a kid was a runaway or the cops wanted him for stealing a horse or selling pot, they would believe it. Didn’
t matter a goddamn what a kid said, adults listened to adults. Will had lived it.
Fact was, he was screwed either way. If the Cubans didn’t catch him, cops could jail him after contacting Minneapolis. Police there had a couple of reasons to lock him up, particularly if they’d discovered why his ninth-grade English teacher, Mrs. Thinglestadt, had written the award-winning essay that got him into this mess to begin with.
“You’re blackmailing me!” she had complained to Will.
“Laws about buying weed and screwing students got nothing to do with asking a little favor,” he’d replied.
What if the good-looking older woman had squealed?
Will popped the barn-door latch, stepped into the warm odor of hay, leather, horses, and then banged the dead bolt solid. Security lights outside were bright enough for him to know he was in the fanciest stable he’d ever seen. A dozen stalls, polished hardwood everywhere, doors with brass bars and carved name placards for each horse. Bricks on the floor were soft, like rubber. Glass chandeliers were suspended from a beam that ran the length of the barn. Like a whorehouse for purebreds.
Nothing like this in Oklahoma. Where the hell am I?
In a shitpot full of trouble is exactly where he was. In the distance, he heard someone knocking politely on the farmhouse door, while someone else-the buffalo-headed Cuban probably-rattled the dead bolt, trying to get into the barn.
Convinced the doors were locked, the man put his lips to the crack and said, “My little friend, I have frightened you. I have come to apologize, my new little friend.”
Buffalo-head.
Will had never met anyone so goddamn dumb. He raised his voice to be heard. “We’re friends? Are you serious?”
“Yes!”
“I don’t believe you.”
“My head has stopped bleeding. It is nothing. Look for yourself.”
“Then say it. Say you promise.”
“Open this door, you little-” The Cuban caught himself. “Yes, I promise!”
“Okay. If you mean it, I’ll come out. But I have to use the bathroom. Just a couple of minutes, to take a crap. Please.”
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