ALSO BY RANDY WAYNE WHITE
DOC FORD SERIES
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
Black Widow
Dead Silence
Deep Shadow
Night Vision
Chasing Midnight
Night Moves
Bone Deep
Cuba Straits
HANNAH SMITH SERIES
Gone
Deceived
Haunted
NONFICTION
Randy Wayne White’s Ultimate Tarpon Book
Batfishing in the Rainforest
The Sharks of Lake Nicaragua
Last Flight Out
An American Traveler
Gulf Coast Cookery (and recollections of Sanibel Island)
Tarpon Fishing in Mexico and Florida (An Introduction)
Available exclusively as an e-book:
Doc Ford Country (True Stories That Inspired Doc and Tomlinson)
FICTION AS RANDY STRIKER
Key West Connection
The Deep Six
Cuban Death-Lift
The Deadlier Sex
Assassin’s Shadow
Grand Cayman Slam
Everglades Assault
FICTION AS CARL RAMM
Florida Firefight
L.A. Wars
Chicago Assault
Deadly in New York
Houston Attack
Vegas Vengeance
Detroit Combat
Terror in D.C.
Atlanta Extreme
Denver Strike
Operation Norfolk
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Publishers Since 1838
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street
New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2016 by Randy Wayne White
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
eBook ISBN 978-0-698-18686-6
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, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
To Ms. Emerson Elora White
with love and best wishes for a joyous, productive life well lived
CONTENTS
Also by Randy Wayne White
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Epigraph
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
About the Author
An ocean without its unnamed monsters would be like a completely dreamless sleep.
—JOHN STEINBECK, Sea of Cortez
It is not the strongest of the species that survives, nor the most intelligent that survives. It is the one that is the most adaptable to change.
—CHARLES DARWIN (VIA JIM CUTLER, STAFF SCIENTIST, MOTE MARINE LABORATORY)
Sanibel and Captiva Islands are real places, faithfully described, but used fictitiously in this novel. The same is true of certain businesses, marinas, bars, and other places frequented by Doc Ford, Tomlinson, and pals.
In all other respects, however, this novel is a work of fiction. Names (unless used by permission), 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 unintentional and coincidental.
Contact Mr. White at WWW.DOCFORD.COM.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
In 1989, just for luck, I summoned my sons, Lee and Rogan, into the garage, where I wrote in those days, and asked them to type the last two words, respectively, of the final sentence of the first Doc Ford novel, Sanibel Flats.
They did; banged the words out on my old Underwood typewriter, just like Dad.
Lee was nine; Rogan seven.
Talk about good luck! That was more than thirty books ago, and each book has gained a larger, more devoted audience. My sons have continued to humor me over the last twenty-six years. Every book I’ve written remains unfinished until they have typed (copied and pasted, these days) the final two words of the final sentence.
I shared this bit of family history to explain why the author’s notes always contain some variation of this line: “Finally, I would like to thank my sons for helping me finish another novel.”
Superstition isn’t silly to those of us who fly in small planes and know their way around a baseball dugout—not if it produces results.
Before acknowledging others who contributed their expertise or good humor during the writing of Deep Blue, I want to make it clear that all errors, exaggerations, or misstatements of fact are entirely my fault, not theirs.
Thanks go to Jim Cutler, staff scientist, Mote Marine Laboratory, for his expertise (and an excellent video) on the Captiva Blue Hole. Others who provided technical information were Tom Renn, director of Government Sales for American Technologies Network, Ken Cope (formerly of ASP) for tactical advice, Kenneth Levin of TruGlo Optics, and Christopher Combs of JW Fishers Underwater Search Equipment.
Insights, ideas, and medical advice were provided by Brian Hummel, Judd Miller, my brother Dan White, and my nephew Justin White, Ph.D.
Pals, advisers, and/or teammates are always a help because they know firsthand that writing and writers are a pain in the ass. They are Gary Terwilliger, Ron Iossi, Jerry Rehfuss, Stu Johnson, Victor Candalaria, Gene Lamont, Nick Swartz, Kerry Griner, Mike Shevlin, Jon Warden, Davey Johnson, Barry Rubel, Mike Westhoff, and behavioral guru Don Carman.
Special thanks go to a pair of Iowa high school baseball coaches I much admire: Bill Freese (Davenport Central) and Tom Souchrada (Davenport West). Bill and Helen Wundrum of Davenport have also been guiding forces.
Expertise on bushwhacking via a Maule seaplane was provided by my two fearless python expeditionary brethren, Captain Mark Futch and historian/writer Jeff Carter. (You’ll learn more about our adventures via t
he next Hannah Smith novel, Seduced, which I am working on now.) A special acknowledgment goes to Jeremy D. Carter, a fine man.
Bill Lee and his orbiting star, Diana, as always, have guided the author safely into the strange but fun and enlightened world of our mutual friend, the Reverend Sighurdhr M. Tomlinson. Equal thanks go to Donna Terwilliger; Wendy Webb, my wife and trusted friend; Rachael Ketterman; Stephen Grendon, my devoted SOB; the angelic Mrs. Iris Tanner; and my partners and pals, Mark Marinello, Marty and Brenda Harrity.
Much of this novel was written at corner tables before and after hours at Doc Ford’s Rum Bar and Grille, where staff were tolerant beyond the call of duty. Elizabeth, Greg and Bryce Barker, Madonna Donna Butz, Capt. Jeffery Kelley, Chef Rene Ramirez, Amanda Rodriguez, Kim McGonnell, Ashley Rhoeheffer, the Amazing Cindy Porter, Desiree Olsen, Gabby Moschitta, Rachael Okerstrom, Rebecca Harris, Sarah Carnithian, Tyler Wussler, Tall Sean Lamont, Mowtown Rachel Songalewski, Boston Brian Cunningham, and Cardinals fan Justin Harris.
At Doc Ford’s on Fort Myers Beach: Lovely Kandice Salvador, Charity Owen, Johnny Goetz, Brett Vermuel, Dan Howes, Dave Werner, Nora Billheimer, Melissa Alleva, Christa Case, Ali Pereira, Daniel Troxell, Chris James, Molly Brewer, Taylor Recny, Justin Vokuhl, Nick Howes, Eric Hines, Dustin and Meredith Rickards, Tim Riggs, Sandy Rodriguez, Netta Kramb, Mark Hines, Astrid Cobble, Angi Chapman, Kelsey King, Brandon Patton, Stephen Hansman, Kylie Pyrll, Deon Schoeman, Lalo Contreras, Bronson Janey, Ethan Janey, and Reyes Ramon.
At Doc Ford’s on Captiva Island: Big Papa Mario Zanolli, Lovely Julie Grzeszak, Shawn Scott, Joy Schawalder, Adam Traum, Alexandra Llanos, Chris Orr, Erica DeBacker, Heather Walk, Jon Economy, Josie Lombardo, Josh Kerschner, Katie Kovacs, Mary Head, Natalie Ramos, Patti Tesche, Ryan Body, Ryan Cook, Sarah Collins, Shelbi Muske, Scott Hamilton, Tony Foreman, Yamily Fernandez, Cheryl Erickson, Heather Hartford, Stephen Day, Anastasia Moiseyev, Taylor Erickson, Ashley Doyle, and Chelsea Bennett.
Finally, thanks to my sons Lee and Rogan for finishing another book.
—Randy Wayne White
Telegraph Creek Gun Club
Babcock Ranch
Central Florida
Sitting in his lab, Marion D. Ford entered a numerical password and watched a hooded man execute three hostages with a ruby-handled knife. Different victims, different locations, and months apart, but always the same knife, never pausing to sharpen the blade.
How could that be?
The video had been edited by a pro, that’s how.
The knife was of interest. He zoomed in. It had a curved blade like an antique sword, with a single ruby embedded in the hilt. On the pommel was a crowned triangle of silver, the symbol of Persian assassins from the time of the Crusades.
Ford opened a second link, entered a series of codes, and this time watched raw footage of the first two executions. This video wasn’t available to networks or politicos—possibly, not even the White House, but Ford wasn’t sure about that. He concentrated on the man wielding the knife: he was tall with corded forearms, but not muscular, his technique honed by video games and religious fantasies. He was a Muslim convert via Chicago, no name provided.
An egomaniac, Ford thought, who played to the cameras but revealed himself in scenes that would be omitted—one where he used a cleaver. Another: an adolescent yowl when he lofted his trophy, a severed head. Weird, the sound he made. A wild warble produced with a fluttering tongue. Like crows trapped in a cave.
There were two cameras from different angles, video rolling throughout.
The third video was different. The cameras had been paused several times, yet their POV remained unchanged. The scenes were choppy and sometimes blurry, which wasn’t typical of raw footage. That struck Ford as odd. Digital cameras had autofocus. The hostage behaved differently, too. He was an aging Caucasian male, professorial-looking, who had to be dragged to the chopping block, unlike the others who had shown no fear.
Why?
Ford hadn’t been supplied with his name either. That would come later—or wouldn’t. It wasn’t his job to care. He opened a notebook, pocket-sized, and wrote, in ciphered shorthand: “Victims #1 & #2 believed they were participating in a rehearsal.”
He erased and revised: “. . . believed they were participating in another rehearsal,” then paused to reflect before adding, “Victim #3 might not be dead.”
He made more notes while he watched the footage again.
The link was time-sensitive. When the screen went blank, he rebooted his computer—a security precaution—before exiting the room, which contained rows of lighted aquariums, a microscope, shelves of beakers and chemicals, and, on the counter, a cylindrical Plexiglas tank in which a dozen sea jellies pulsed.
It was a moonless night on Sanibel Island, Florida, and breezy on this first eve in December. A good place to stand on the deck of a house built on stilts and piss over the railing into the water—a glittering stream that connected him, briefly, with the bay ten feet below.
Back at his desk, he sent an encrypted message that read When?
• • •
For the next several days, Ford began each morning with a long sunrise swim and sprint intervals on a butt-kicking machine called a VersaClimber. Pull-ups usually came next, but he’d broken a hand and torn his rotator cuff on a recent trip to Cuba. Only a partial tear, but he couldn’t do the job he’d been assigned if it got much worse.
Still no word on Wednesday, so he tended to business, which included signing documents that made him half owner of a small seaplane, a Maule M-5 with a four-cylinder turbo. The fuselage was blue on white; leather seats and Plexiglas doors. The co-owner was an old friend, and, to celebrate, they flew to Shark River in the Everglades and caught snook.
There was another good low tide on Thursday. He was wading the flats with a fly rod when he finally received an encrypted reply to his question via satellite phone.
That night, on his bed, while his dog watched, he laid out two passports, an olive drab travel kit, a bug jacket, a hammock, $15,000 in cash, and some other things, including a knife, a laser pointer, and a small pistol, a Sig Sauer P938.
He’d returned from Cuba with that, too.
There were other weapons in a safe built into the floor—esoteric items, but better to travel light.
Ford was cleaning the pistol when a knock at the door shifted his reality from the covert life he had led for many years to the realities of a small marina, on a small island, where oddities (such as the odor of Hoppe’s gun solvent) became an eager topic of gossip. So he stashed the pistol kit and offered his friend Mack, who owned Dinkin’s Bay Marina, a chair and a cold bottle of beer.
Mack had some gossip of his own to share: a story that, under different circumstances, might have earned Ford’s full attention.
“Our mystery Santa struck again,” Mack said. He held the bottle to the light, then took a drink. “This time, he left five hundred bucks under the console of Eddie’s boat. No idea who did it.”
“Our Eddie?” Ford was dubious. Eddie DeAntoni, from New Jersey, was called Fast Eddie for a reason.
“I’d think it was gambling winnings, too, or somehow illegal, if it wasn’t for the money Marta’s little girl found on their houseboat. Same thing: a red candy cane sort of box filled with old bills. Stacks of hundreds; all of them stiff, like they’d been soaked in water, then bleached. Nothing written on a card, just money. It’s no accident, Doc. Sort of an early Christmas present, that’s what Eddie thinks.”
Everyone at the marina, and all of his friends, called Marion D. Ford “Doc.”
The story about Marta Estéban and her daughters was true. Ford had helped the family escape from Cuba, which was why, two days ago, he’d been their unanimous choice to arbitrate on what ten-year-old Sabina had discovered in an anchor well and claimed as her own: $1,000 in cash. A big boost for a family in a strange country, not that their adop
tive marina family wouldn’t have looked after them anyway.
“He didn’t make up a story just to con the IRS,” Mack added. “There’s a lot of eccentric rich folks on these islands. That’s why I always tell our guys, ‘Be nice even to the assholes, ’cause you never know who they’ll mention in their will.’”
“Bleached bills left in the sun,” Ford mused. “Or hidden underwater. Someplace shallow. I figured Sabina found a stash of old drug money.”
“Bloody well possible,” Mack, who was from New Zealand, said. “It couldn’t have come at a better time for Fast Eddie. The fool gave away most all his lottery winnings, and his dive business has gone to hell ’cause of Hello, Dolly! Another few weeks with no charters and a cracked power head, he’d be bugger all.”
Ford touched the stem of his glasses. “Dolly who?”
“Are you kidding? They quoted you in a newspaper story about her last week. Dolly, the shark. Some are calling her Hello, Dolly! like you’re in the water, look around, and there she is. What are you gonna say? It’s all anybody talks about.”
“Why people need to give animals names—” Ford shook his head, mystified. “It’s no different from some poor dog wearing a hat or scarf or sunglasses. I probably blocked the stupid name on purpose.”
Dolly was a twenty-five-hundred-pound great white shark who’d been named by the biologists at Ocean Search who had tagged her. Ocean Search had tagged dozens of great whites with satellite chips that could be tracked via the Internet. Three weeks ago, the shark had surfaced off Sanibel Island, and might still be in the area, but sightings had not been confirmed. National headlines about her presence had affected tourism, and all but put local dive operators out of business.
Normally, Ford would have been happy to spend a beery evening with Mack discussing the subject. The marina’s day-to-day problems—even when they included a great white shark—seemed sunny and manageable when compared to the cutthroat realities of the outside world.
He had a lot to do, though, so dropped a hint, saying, “I’m leaving for a conference in the morning or I’d offer you another beer.”
Deep Blue Page 1