Dark Light
( Doc Ford - 13 )
Randy Wayne White
A Category Four hurricane has swept the west coast of Florida, creating havoc, changing lives, and reshaping the ocean bottom. It also uncovers a long-forgotten shipwreck that leads Doc Ford to an old woman in a secluded, worn-down mansion. She tells him the haunting story of a lost love, and of her chance to discover the truth if Ford will salvage the boat-the Dark Light. Intrigued, Ford agrees, and sets in motion a chain of events that will change his life forever. For there are other things in that wreck as well. Things other men want. Things worth killing for. And behind it all is an old woman whose heart remains the greatest mystery of all...
From Publishers Weekly
The 13th installment of bestseller White's aging but still solid series featuring Doc Ford (after 2005's Dead of Night) finds the retired CIA operative picking up in the aftermath of a hurricane that's ravaged the Florida coast. Hired to sift through the old wreck of a pleasure craft, the Dark Light, that's been spotted after the huge storm, Ford and his salvage team discover items inside the boat that stir deadly vengeance—Nazi artifacts. Ford runs into trouble immediately from Bern Heller, a nearby marina owner who claims his company has rights to the wreck site and doesn't hesitate employing violence to get his way. At issue, Ford soon discovers, is more than just old Lugers, war medals and a few gold bars. The real prize lies in the ownership of thousands of acres of Florida beachfront property. While the novel peaks in a typical burst of satisfying action, the plot takes too long to get underway and lacks the overall crispness of the author's best work.
“RANDY WAYNE WHITE CAN WRITE. AND HIS DOC FORD CHARACTER MODELS WHAT IT TAKES TO BE A MAN. THE ENTIRE SERIES IS EXCELLENT.”
—Contra Costa Times
“Exciting…White captures the fear, frustration, and sorrow that settle in after a hurricane as well as the courage, friendship, and spirit that fuel the survivors’ will to keep going…Dark Light excels with boundless energy, a cohesive plot, and richly drawn characters…White’s aplomb with fascinating characters, unique setting, and revolving subplots make Dark Light one of his brightest novels.”
—South Florida Sun-Sentinel
“A compelling, readable tale by one of this country’s premiere crime novelists.”
—Booklist
“A tale that reaches back and forth in time, remarkable for the duplicity of its cast and the diversity of its twisting and turning.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“It’s film noir all the way. If a book can be written and read in black and white, this is it.”
—The Miami Herald
“Evocative writing that combines the sensibility of a traditional noir novel with the unearthly mood of a ghost story.”
—The Associated Press
“The novel peaks in a…burst of satisfying action.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A cataclysmic ending that seems ripped equally from the pages of history books and tomorrow’s newspaper.”
—The Raleigh News & Observer
“[Randy Wayne White] raises the bar of the action thriller.”
—The Miami Herald
PRAISE FOR
DEAD OF NIGHT
“Enthralling and suspenseful.”
—Rocky Mountain News
“Taut. Gripping. Fast-paced. Terrifying. A page-turner. Those words and more describe Dead of Night.”
—Omaha World-Herald
“White has never been afraid of taking chances when it comes to creating push-the-limits plots and loathsome bad guys. But he’s never gone as far on either score as he does in Dead of Night.”
—Sarasota Herald-Tribune
“Frighteningly plausible…Dead of Night is everything you look for in a thriller and more…White’s ability to evoke the feel of South Florida is second to none.”
—The Miami Herald
“Plenty of action and danger…mov[ing] quickly to a violent climax.”
—The Tampa Tribune
“[A] horrific but shockingly realistic thriller plot.”
—Booklist
“Deliciously addictive and nail-bitingly suspenseful.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Edge-of-the-seat suspense…Dead of Night quickly kicks a terrifying plot into gear.”
—Tallahassee Democrat
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF
RANDY WAYNE WHITE
“White’s writing is as muscular as ever.”
—The Tampa Tribune
“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
“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
“White’s Doc Ford series…can always be counted on for an entertaining mix of character interplay and straight-ahead action adventure.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“A series to be savored.”
—The San Diego Union-Tribune
TITLES BY RANDY WAYNE WHITE
Dark Light
Dead of Night
Tampa Burn
Everglades
Twelve Mile Limit
Shark River
Ten Thousand Islands
The Mangrove Coast
North of Havana
Captiva
The Man Who Invented Florida
The Heat Islands
Sanibel Flats
Nonfiction
Tarpon Fishing in Mexico and Florida
(An Introduction)
Last Flight Out
The Sharks of Lake Nicaragua
Batfishing in the Rainforest
DARK LIGHT
Randy Wayne White
FOR WENDY
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This book was begun shortly after the eye of a category 4 hurricane decimated the village where I live on the west coast of Florida. Captiva and Sanibel Island (where I was a fishing guide for many years) were also badly damaged—but not nearly as badly as portrayed in the national media. I am pleased to report that the islands are more beautiful than ever, and back to normal.
Even so, I spent most of the last year homeless, bouncing from place to place, sometimes country to country, trying to work while also juggling the details of rebuilding, and the relentless indifference of the insurance industry, and a few local bureaucrats. Happily, much good came from all the chaos, and I have many people to thank for their kindness and concern. Many dozens offered me help, even their homes. I will forever be in their debt.
Much of this book was written in public libraries, and I have become a great fan of library professionals as a result. I am especially grateful to the staff at Pine Island Public Library and also Sanibel Library. They were superb, and it was at the Sanibel Library where I found most of my information on the little-known hurricane of 1944. Many of the details in this novel, although used fictionally, are true, including Cuban fishermen who washed up on the beach, a man tragically set ablaze at his own moonshine still…and a be
achside estate with its own family cemetery. The library staffs in Holmes Beach, Florida; Key West; Pioneer, Ohio; and Franklin, Tennessee, were also a great help.
Another favorite place to write was Doc Ford’s Sanibel Rum Bar and Grille. I want to thank my friends and associates Marty and Brenda Harrity, Mark and Heidi Marinello, Jean Baer, Greg Nelson, Raynauld Bentley, Marita, Brian, Maria, Liz, Jean, and Big Dan Howes. My pal Matt Asen’s Sanibel Grill at Timber’s Restaurant was another great place to work, as was the Tarpon Lodge on Pine Island.
Others who were generous beyond the expectations of friendship include Ms. Iris Tanner, Gary and Donna Terwilliger, Craig and Renee Johnson, George and Michelle Riggs, Kevin Lollar and Nadine, Moe Mollen, Dr. Amanda Evans, Tony Johnson, David Thompson, Jenny Franks, Bill Wundram, Stu Johnson, Gloria Osburn, Berry Rubel, Capt. Eric Osking, Tom and Sally Petcoff, Capt. Steve Stanley, Dr. Brian and Kristin Hummel, Capt. Craig Skaar, Bill Gutek and his Nokomis pals, the Wells family of Cabbage Key and Pineland, Bill “Spaceman” Lee, Diana, Ginny Amsler, Allan W. Eckert, Jennifer Holloway, and Dr. Corey Malcolm.
This book demanded extensive research in several fields, and I am grateful to the experts who took the time to advise me. Dr. Thaddeus Kostrubala, a brilliant psychopharmacologist, has once again provided behavioral profiles on some truly nasty fictional characters. Dr. James H. Peck, fellow Davenport Central (Iowa) graduate, has compiled exhaustive notes on all the Ford novels, and is due much thanks. Attorneys Tim Bruhl and Mike McHale, an admiralty law expert provide much needed information.
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.
I would especially like to thank Wendy Webb for allowing me to reprint lyrics from her original compositions. Ms. Webb was, in no way, the inspiration for the fictional character Mildred Chestra Engle, but she was the inspiration for Chestra’s haunting voice and lyrics. Ms. Webb, in fact, provided both in her songs, “Morning in New York,” “My Beating Heart,” and “Driving in a Dream.” You may hear Ms. Webb’s music on the Internet at: Wendywebbmusic.com.
Finally, I would like to thank my dear sons and buddies, Lee and Rogan White, for once again helping me finish a book.
The loneliness you get by the sea is personal and alive. It doesn’t subdue you and make you feel abject. It’s stimulating loneliness.
—Anne Morrow Lindbergh
I had a little Sorrow,
Born of a little Sin,
I found a room all damp with gloom
And shut us all within;
And, “Little Sorrow, weep,” said I,
“And, Little Sin, pray God to die,
And I upon the floor will lie
And think how bad I’ve been!”
—Edna St. Vincent Millay
1
Picturing his grandfather’s face the last time he’d seen him alive—six years ago?—Bern Heller sat at a table where he’d spread the contents of a briefcase sent by the executor.
There were yellowed photos of a young man, tall, blond.
His grandfather?
No resemblance, but his name was there in faded ink.
A photo of him standing beside a man identified as Henry Ford. Another of him holding a drink tray, a towel over his arm, while Henry Ford and a younger guy—my God, Charles Lindbergh?—sat in patio chairs, palm trees in the background.
On the back: Fort Myers, Florida, 1940s.
That was the time to buy property in Florida.
His grandfather had.
Miscellaneous personal items—the attorney had mentioned the briefcase a month ago at the funeral. It arrived today, smelling of nesting rodents. His grandfather had been such a vicious son of a bitch that Heller would’ve trashed it if he hadn’t seen the photos. Henry Ford and Lindbergh—valuable.
Some other interesting stuff, too: Bills of sale for acreage the old man had purchased, handwritten. A passport, German, stamped with swastikas in a couple of places. A nautical map so old the paper flaked in his hands—two sets of numbers, also in ink, near Sanibel Island.
Another old photo, this of an unidentified woman. Glamorous, like a film star from the ’40s, a PR shot. The woman in sequins after lighting a cigarette, her eyes staring through smoke into the camera.
God, the face, those full lips. Her body…
The thought of it, a woman like this with the old man, was disgusting.
An hour later, Bern checked his watch—time to meet with the redneck Hoosier he’d hired to run the marina. He stood and looked through his condo window, seeing more palm trees, a bay and mangrove islands beyond.
M oe was telling his boss, Bern Heller, “The guy said he’d be back with a gun. I think he means it. No”—Moe ducked his head into the straw cowboy hat he was holding—“I know he means it. It’s one of the fishing guides. The spook.”
“Spook?”
Moe said, “You know, a colored guy. You don’t call them that in Wisconsin?”
Heller gave him a look.
Moe kept going. “You’ve seen him. Javier Castillo. The black guy with the Spanish accent. He’s around here most mornings, getting ice, waiting for his clients.”
“Okay…the skinny one who goes barefoot. He doesn’t look Mexican.”
“No, he’s Cuban. In Florida, that’s what most Mexicans are. Javier owns that boat sitting by the fuel docks. The Pursuit, with twin Yamaha outboards, and the radar. A beauty.”
“The greenish-looking one?”
“Yeah. The open fisherman. Blue-green.” Moe turned sideways and pointed so his boss could sight down his arm.
Heller ignored him.
Heller was CEO of a company that had built three marina communities on Florida’s Gulf coast, most of it on land acquired by his grandfather. This was the newest, Indian Harbor Marina and Resort. Two weeks ago, the eye of a hurricane had spun ashore near Sanibel Island, twenty miles south. Bern had been making rounds since, taking notes, directing cleanup, not saying much.
Their properties hadn’t done badly. A couple of condos had lost roofs. Pool screens, ornamental trees, that sort of thing. The worst was right here in front of him, a boat storage barn that had collapsed. Got hit by a tornado, maybe—which is what he was pushing the insurance people to believe.
Heller watched a crane lift a girder from the wreckage as he asked Moe, “What do you think it’s worth?”
“The Cuban guy’s boat?”
“That’s what we’re talking about. I’m trying to make a point here.”
Moe gave it a few seconds before he named a figure, then added, “It’s a well-known brand, less than a year old. We had it on a rack outside the barn. It didn’t get a scratch.”
Surprised by the value, Heller said, “That’s as much I paid for my BMW. How’d a Cuban get that kind of money?”
“The guy’s a worker. He came over on a raft and hustled his ass off. He’s not a bullshitter, either. That’s why we should call the cops now. Javier’s gonna pull a gun if we don’t let him take his boat. The cops should be here waiting.”
Heller had his grandfather’s smile. He was smiling now because Moe couldn’t keep his voice from catching. The man was scared, even though he acted hard-assed, with that cowboy hat, the redneck nose and chin, the face a triangle of stubble because that’s the way movie stars wore their beards. Moe: a hick from French Lick.
“You like that boat?”
“Sure, of course. But—”
“Do you want it?”
“Who wouldn’t, but—”
Bern cut him off. “Then we don’t want the cops here when the Cuban shows. They’d scare him away. Let him pull the gun and wave it around. That’s when we want the cops. Let them take him to jail…or shoot him.” Heller shrugged.
“Either way,” Heller said, “the boat’s ours.”
I n fact, all the boats were theirs. They belonged to the salvage company contracted to clear th
e wreckage. And the salvage company belonged to Heller. But he wasn’t going to trust this idiot with that little detail.
For more than two weeks, Moe had had to deal with several hundred pissed-off boat owners who paid storage at the marina but hadn’t been allowed on the property since the hurricane. Every morning, they gathered at the gate, getting madder and madder—Javier Castillo among them.
As soon as the storm had blown through, Heller had asked the state to declare the marina a hazardous area because of storm damage, so the boat owners hadn’t been allowed to step foot on the place. They couldn’t move their boats, inspect them, or recover personal items, nothing.
Then, days later, Heller’s attorney had sent a letter, registered mail, to the state attorney. It declared that, because the owners had failed to secure their vessels against future storms, the marina considered the boats to be derelict. As derelict vessels, they could be claimed as salvage by a licensed company. Legally, it was edgy—but no one had challenged it so far.
For the Hoosier, Heller summarized, instead. “If these boats go floating off in another storm, we’re responsible for damages. A tornado grabs one and drops it in a crowded building? It’s our nuts in the wringer. That’s why the salvage company has to assume ownership.”
When Moe asked, “Yeah, but how can we expect owners to secure their boats when we won’t let them on the property?” Heller stared at him until Moe got so nervous he started laughing. “I was joking, Bern.”
Yeah, Heller was right not to trust this goof with the details.
“It doesn’t matter whether a boat is damaged or not,” Heller told him. “The salvage company deserves a fair profit for cleaning up the mess. Take me around and tell me what all this crap’s worth.”
N ow the two men were in a golf cart, Moe at the wheel. He would drive a few yards, stop, and tell his boss the resale value of this or that. He’d drive a little ways more, then stop again.
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