Dark Light df-13

by Randy Wayne White

  The envelope contained yet another passport, plus a letter. They confirmed his grandfather wasn’t a Jew.

  Bern took the passport, and all the papers—screw Augie, screw Jason Goddard. Let the whole family know the truth. Spring it on them at the Appleton reunion and watch their faces. See how many would be surprised.

  Bern’s guess: Zero.

  T he next morning, Sunday, Bern went to church before kicking back to watch the Packers play Cleveland, mostly so Shirley wouldn’t call and have a reason to bitch at him, but also because he decided it wouldn’t hurt to try to change his life by being more positive.

  This run of bad luck was getting scary. He’d awoken in the middle of the night, his heart pounding, feeling as if he was suffocating. His world was collapsing around him, so maybe thinking positive would help.

  His football coaches had often said that: Think positive. Visualize. Surround yourself with positive people.

  There. That was another possible cause for all this trouble. He was surrounded by negative people.

  Moe, being an uneducated redneck, was not a positive thinker, even though he knew it was a role business types were supposed to play. Augie, his own nephew, had been stabbing him in the back all along. His grandfather? Whatever the opposite of positive was (negative wasn’t strong enough), he was that to the umpteenth degree.

  Evil. That came closer.

  Bern went to the Lutheran church in Cape Coral, the one on Chiquita, although he actually wanted to attend Temple Beth Shalom, which was closer, in fact, because it was off Del Prado.

  Wanted to attend Temple despite finding out the truth about his grandfather: He not only wasn’t Jewish, he had been a card-carrying Nazi, one of the elite. A Nazi medical student and research assistant who, in 1944, saved his own skin by catching a Swiss freighter to Miami.

  Finally, something that really did explain why the old man was such a world-class asshole.

  Good to know. But also kind of disappointing.

  The last few days, Bern had gotten into it—the idea of being Jewish. Reading the history, finding out they had some famous athletes—even an all-time great list that he, as a former All Big Ten lineman, might have had a shot at. So he thought, screw it, he’d go to Temple anyway, no one else knew the truth, plus it was yet another way to get back at his grandfather.

  Temple Beth Shalom, however, was closed on Sundays, according to the nice Jewish ladies who were there setting up for a charity bake sale. Quite a surprise, but it made the religion even more attractive, Saturday being a more logical day to worship because Sunday, of course, was when the NFL played.

  It was a positive start to the day.

  All that week, Bern worked at it. Staying positive. Visualizing. He even wrote down a list of goals. The promissory notes—he had to get those. They were his only protection. Jason Goddard and the corporate directors could fire him, dissolve the land company, but it wouldn’t matter if Bern had the loan promissories in his possession.

  Those old loan contracts were all the leverage he needed.

  That meant several trips to Sanibel Island to check out the lady’s residence, Southwind. Which he did, and got his first look at Mildred Engle. Goddamn, she was better looking than he expected. A lot better looking.

  Sanibel—that’s where the Viking was, too. Handy. More positive visualization: him on the Viking, water nice and calm, sailing off to an island where there wasn’t so much pressure he woke up at night, gagging for air, thinking he was having a heart attack.

  Staying positive meant waiting patiently until the Sanibel lady had the papers in her possession—they were being shipped down from New York, according to Jason. It meant visiting Augie in the hospital, acting like he was sorry he’d busted the asshole’s jaw. Which he wasn’t, but it gave Bern an opportunity to inform Augie that if he squealed to Jason, he, Bern, would tell the family about Oswald and the sleeping arrangements at Augie’s condo.

  Staying positive also meant keeping an eye on Moe. Not only was Moe a very negative person, even for a redneck, he was also a very weak person.

  On Monday and Tuesday, cops showed up unexpectedly at the marina, saying they wanted to ask the Hoosier “just a few more questions.” Moe was so scared his hands shook when he tried to light a cigarette.

  Moe left work early those days, Bern noted, probably so he could find a good parking spot at the Sandy Hook and start drinking early.

  On Thursday, cops arrived at the marina once again, but this time didn’t ask to speak to Moe, who wasn’t around, anyway. Plainclothes cops. Bern watched them stroll around the marina property, pausing an uncomfortably long time near the hill where Bern had seeded grass after burying two fifty-gallon drums containing women who hadn’t been worth the little bit of fun he got out of them.

  Shit.

  Talk about scary.

  On Saturday, Moe called and asked Bern, “Did you hear about the hurricane warning? I’m gonna stay home today and help the girlfriend board up her windows because of the storm. Trailers don’t do good in storms, and she’s nervous. It’s supposed to be here Monday night or Tuesday.”

  Using his friendly voice, showing a smile, Bern had replied, “Your fiancée’s residence? You do whatever it takes to make sure that young lady’s safe. We want our administrative people happy, meaning you, mister.” But thinking that Moe was lying again. It had been storming nonstop for nearly ten days, so what was the big deal?

  They call this place the Sunshine State?

  All it ever did in Florida was rain and blow until about noon, which is when the ground heated up like a sauna bath.

  Bern reminded Moe that commercial fishermen were saying the storm wasn’t going to be bad; that TV stations were full of baloney, telling people to evacuate when there was no reason.

  Moe said he wanted to board windows, anyway—sounding more nervous than his trailer-trash girlfriend could have possibly been.

  The Hoosier was telling the cops stuff, that’s what Bern was afraid of. Maybe the truth about the Cuban. Maybe the truth about what was to be found packed in oil if authorities dug in the right place.

  Bern tried to stay positive, though. Went to church the next day, Sunday, second week in a row.

  On Monday, the last week of September, Bern decided there was yet another positive step he should take. Something that might give him peace of mind. He’d get Moe alone and find out the truth.

  37

  27 September, Monday

  Sunset 7:20 P.M.

  Full Moon +1 rises 7:25 P.M.

  Low tide 6:47 A.M.

  Tropical storm headed our way, but weakening. Maximum winds, 40–50…

  Chestra told me, “For the last week, I’ve had the feeling I’m being watched. Have you ever had that feeling, Doc?”

  I said, “Yeah. When someone’s watching me.”

  She laughed, sitting at the piano, and continued to play. We were settling into caricatured roles, as new friends do, our differences providing safe avenues of familiarity. I was the intractable realist, she was the urbane dame, expert at the social arts, but also an artist.

  “I’m serious. It’s that eerie sort of feeling, like there are eyes floating around behind you in the darkness. I went for a walk on the beach last night and I would’ve sworn someone was watching me from the trees.” She was making light of it but serious. One of the maxims of recognizing danger is that, when instinct tells us something about a person or situation feels wrong, it is.

  Maybe something was wrong. The night before, I’d noticed a big BMW sedan pass her drive slowly once, then again. I hadn’t mentioned it.

  Now this.

  “If you want, I can go out and have a look. Any idea why someone would be watching you?”

  “Ten years ago, sure. These days, though…” She shrugged, still having fun with it but troubled.

  “I’ll start keeping an eye on your house. Most nights, I go for a run, anyway, or ride the bike. I won’t bother you; no need for me to stop. If it’ll
make you feel better, that’s what I’ll do. Oh—and start locking your doors when you go out. As a precaution.”

  I was already making nightly visits to the dock where the Viking was moored—Jeth believed someone had snuck aboard, went through ships papers, and possibly stole some things. The boat was nearby, close to the lighthouse. Adding Chestra’s house to the list was no trouble.

  The woman said, “Knowing that you’re keeping watch. Yes. Yes, I would feel safer,” not smiling now. “But, Doc? You are welcome to stop. Any night. Or every night.” There was a candelabra on the piano, six flickering candles. Her eyes locked onto mine briefly, gazing through the light with a smoldering focus. It had been happening more often during the last week—an abdominal sexual awareness, even though, intellectually, I knew it was absurd.

  It was true the woman looked taut and fit. It was true, as Tomlinson said, she seemed younger as I got to know her. When the light was right, the age difference was more than manageable—she was lovely. But I had done some reading about the aging process. One of the papers was titled “Multi-disciplinary Approach to Perceptions of Beauty and Facial Aging.” It was written by a plastic surgeon, and it presented a mathematical graph model for aging. The shapes and sizes of our faces change, but some facial elements do not. I was confident I could guess Chestra’s age within three or four years.

  No. The age difference was not manageable even if she were interested—a signal that, if sent, was too subtle for me to be certain.

  Still…there were times the woman exuded sensuality that was as tangible as a low, vibratory tone. Especially when she was at the piano. Years ago, she’d been offered a Spanish villa in exchange for the intimacy of her body? I didn’t doubt it. I knew I had to maintain a distance or risk doing something impulsive that would embarrass us both.

  It surprised me that, at times, it took a conscious effort.

  D o you mind waiting just a few more minutes? I’ve got one little chord difficulty I’ve got to iron out, then I’ll sing the first verse for you, if you like.”

  I was sitting at a desk opposite the balcony, reading while she worked on a new song. From the Sanibel Library, I’d gotten a book on military war medals, and also a couple of books about Nazi Germany, 1944, and the federal bank, or Reichsbank, in Berlin. I told Chestra I had seen something golden in the bowels of the wreck and asked if there was any mention in Marlissa’s diary about valuables carried aboard Dark Light.

  There wasn’t, but Chestra offered to help with research. She was also helping with the legalities of salvaging the boat. Her family owned the vessel, according to maritime law, but there were still papers to file and an insurance company to contact. That’s why we’d been spending evenings together—six of the last eight nights. It also gave me a chance to update her on items we’d recovered from the wreck, which she enjoyed.

  The electrolytic cleaning process was slow, but it was working. The gun-shaped object I’d found was in terrible condition, but enough remained to identify it as a German Luger.

  The initials on the cigarette lighter looked like MC, followed by a letter that would possibly never be readable. Even so, Chestra was visibly moved when I brought the lighter for her to see, carrying it in a Plexiglas container of sodium hydroxide.

  She was convinced it had been Marlissa Dorn’s.

  Because I didn’t want to risk disappointing her, I hadn’t yet told Chestra that the flask-sized object Jeth found was silver. It appeared to be an ornate cigarette case, similar in size to the one Marlissa held in the photograph. Much of it was still covered by a sulfide patina. However, there was already a design visible on the case, and a portion of an engraved initial, too. I had Tomlinson take a look, and he said the design resembled a medieval cross.

  That didn’t sound like something an aspiring actress would carry. But the initial might be an M—I would soon know.

  “The lyrics aren’t quite right yet, and it may sound a little rough in parts. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  Glancing up from my book, I told Chestra, “Sure. I’d like to hear anything you’ve written. Take your time.”

  She brightened, began to play louder. I continued reading. We had followed the same routine for the last several nights.

  Pleasant. A relief, too, because of a growing tension at Dinkin’s Bay, and other marinas in the area.

  It had been six days since Javier Castillo’s funeral.

  J avier’s funeral had been a miserable day of rain and weighted gray inferences. The sound of a storm wind is not dissimilar to the sound of fatherless children weeping.

  The hurricane that had caused thousands to evacuate the area had stalled for days over Cuba, sopping the Pinar del Río region. It’d waited until most of the evacuees returned home before rolling down the middle of the Gulf of Mexico, sweeping the Sanibel area with heavy winds and more rain.

  On the day of the funeral, we learned there was yet another tropical cyclone gathering strength off the Yucatán. The news added a sense of foreboding to an already dismal day. The relentless storms had come to feel like retribution.

  They also made it impossible to make our second dive on Dark Light.

  At the cemetery, there was a big turnout, close to a hundred people. The rage Mack had mentioned was in attendance, too. Javier had been one of fewer than two dozen full-time fishing guides on the islands, employed by a half-dozen marinas. Unlike some areas of Florida, the guides here are a brotherhood, ready to help when one of their members is in need. The same was true when it came time to bury a colleague.

  During the service, the guides gravitated into a tight little group, Jeth and Nels among them, sun-hardened men, their dark faces hollow-eyed in the rain. They were out of work. Out of money; some still homeless. The storm had exposed institutions they’d trusted—insurance agencies, FEMA, banks—as cold-blooded adversaries, indifferent to what was equitable. Now one of their favorite members had been killed trying to claim what was his, a symbol of their trade, a workman’s boat.

  Rage was in them. It radiated from a casket epicenter.

  The man who’d shot Javier had not been arrested. In fact, he was being congratulated in local letters to the editor. The marina that had stolen Javier’s boat still had his boat, plus a couple hundred others. Law enforcement did nothing. Government did nothing.

  Arlis was at the funeral, and I heard him mutter, “Forty years ago, that marina would of burnt to the ground, accidental-like. A man who murdered a fisherman trying to make a living? He’d have burnt up with it. Who’s the law when there ain’t no law? Some damn storm? And we got another hurricane coming!”

  Tomlinson and I had exchanged looks. Burn the guilty, sacrifice the unfaithful. It was a subject we’d been discussing. More than a month before, he’d described an epic storm as cleansing. Like celestial light. On recent nights, over beer, we’d debated his claim’s validity or silliness. There was so much conflicting stuff in the news. Some religious groups said the relentless weather was Florida’s punishment for attracting fun-loving sinners. Political groups blamed the storms on the indifference of their political opposition. There were academics who believed we’ve screwed up the biosphere so badly we were finally paying the price. Radio talk show hosts said the weather had nothing to do with global warming, and, in fact, proved there was no such phenomenon.

  When destructive events occur in series, instinct demands that we assign blame, and the standard is always human based. After a season of famine or storms, mountain gorillas and dolphins do not instinctively make blood sacrifices to mitigate fear or guilt. We do.

  I told Tomlinson that we blame ourselves because we’re terrified of the truth: Life is random. There is cause, but there is no design.

  Tomlinson stood fast. “There’s always a reason. By assigning blame, we actually accept blame.” It was a form of sacrifice, he said.

  Usually, that’s about as close as we come to agreeing.

  I was reading about Nazi gold as Chestra worked on her new song. Sh
e would play a few slow chords, humming softly, then stop, make a notation on a yellow legal pad, then return to the keys. It gave the impression that creating music was a combination of architecture and artistry.

  The music was backdropped by wind gusts and surf. The moon was full, and through balcony windows I could see trees wild in the wind, branches writhing.

  Another bright and stormy night.

  The tropical depression that had formed off Yucatán had drifted northwest, vacillating between a category 1 hurricane and a tropical storm. In the Caribbean Basin, a far more dangerous cyclone—the twelfth of the season—was already hurricane strength, with a well-formed eye. It probably wouldn’t be a threat, but we wouldn’t know for a week or two.

  The tropical storm, though, was headed right for us, but it hadn’t rallied mass or intensity. Now only a day or two away, maximum winds were fifty m.p.h., and the system was weakening. Even so, people were evacuating, lining up to buy gas they didn’t need and canned foods they’d probably never eat. The reverse was also true: There were people who would do nothing no matter how much warning they were given and no matter how violent the storm.

  Chestra, as usual, was unconcerned. She left her shutters open, as if inviting the storm inside. My home and lab were still boarded up from the previous hurricane, my generator fueled and ready. I was content to sit and read.

  …as German troops stormed Europe they looted bank reserves and took the gold to Berlin. Victims of the Holocaust were robbed of gold jewelry, even gold tooth fillings. All gold was melted, then recast into bars imprinted with the mark of the German central bank: an eagle clutching a swastika in its talons, and the words Deutsche Reichsbank.

  By 1944, high-ranking Germans realized the war was lost. The president of the Reichsbank ordered the country’s massive gold reserves to be secreted to the village of Merkers, south of Berlin, and concealed underground in a potassium mine. The mine was also used to store art treasures looted from conquered nations.