Dark Light df-13

by Randy Wayne White

  The village was captured by the U.S. Third Army commanded by General George Patton, and the door to the mine was blasted open. Inside, troops found 8,198 bars of gold bullion, plus gold coins and silver bars. The total value today would exceed a billion dollars.

  Also, at least nine tons of gold were sent to Oberbayern, including 730 gold bars, thought to be hidden around Lake Walchensee. Some fell into the hands of U.S. GIs.

  Few realize that the United States plundered Germany’s assets as an official strategy of the war effort. Today, several thousand paintings from Germany are stored in a vault at the U.S. Center of Military History. Joseph Goebbels’s 7,000-page diary resides in the Herbert Hoover Library…

  On a smaller scale, many U.S. enlisted men—particularly those in supply and procurement units—figured out that it was easy to box up treasure they plundered and simply mail in back to loved ones via U.S. transport ships. Or carry it with them in their liberty bags. It’s estimated that Nazi gold and artifacts worth many millions left Germany in this way. Little of it has been accounted for…

  “Doc? Do you mind? I’d like to play this for you now. It’s the first song I’ve written in…well, forever, it’s been so many years. It’s only the first verse and refrain, and it still needs work, so don’t expect too much.”

  I closed the book. “I’m an easy audience because I’m already a fan. But can I ask a question before I forget? Did Marlissa have any friends or family who were U.S. servicemen during the war? Men who were close enough they’d trust Marlissa to keep a secret.”

  “Well…I suppose so. I’m not sure. Nearly every able man served in the military.”

  “What about your uncles?” I had seen photos on the walls of men in uniform.

  “Yes. They were all Navy men, except for Uncle Clarence. He was in the Army. That’s why Marlissa lived here alone during the war years. They were all active duty, but I don’t think any of them served overseas. Of course, there were lots of soldiers and airmen stationed at bases around the area. Marlissa did USO volunteer work—she had no shortage of admirers among the troops, I’m sure.”

  I was thinking it through. Even if a GI had mailed Nazi plunder to Florida, what was it doing aboard the boat that night?

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m still trying to account for the diamond insignia we found. Unless Roth or your godmother bought it, how did it get aboard? Gold, though, that might be easier to explain, if it’s there.” I tapped the book. “According to this, small-scale smuggling was common in 1944. If soldiers found something they wanted, they boxed it and shipped it back to the States.”

  “Kiddo, I’m no expert on the war years in this area. The person who’d know more is Arlis Futch. You should ask him.”

  I said, “Yeah, Arlis, he’s quite the talker.” Then added softly, “How do you know him?”

  Chestra laughed and shook her head, scolding me because of my tone. “You silly man—you are so suspicious. You told me about the old guy who ran the boat when you found Dark Light. That’s the name you mentioned, Arlis Futch. Remember? You don’t remember. Doc? Are you having one of your bad headaches again?”

  The night before, I’d asked her for aspirin, and told her why. My head was pounding, but I said, “No, I’m fine.” I was looking at her, still thinking about it. Tonight she was wearing a blue sequined vest over an ankle-length gown of paler blue. Her blond hair was down, framing the symmetry of cheeks and chin. It made her look younger.

  I changed the subject. “Why don’t you play? The first song you’ve written in years? I’d be honored.”

  “All right, I will. It’s not finished, so be gentle.”

  She had made a drink for me, rum and soda, with juice from a whole fresh lime and lots of ice, in a large tumbler. I sat back comfortably, hearing the wind outside. When she began to play and sing, though, I heard only her.

  Sit here next to me

  Tell me what is real

  Part of you I see

  You try to conceal.

  Do you have a secret place

  Too dangerous to touch?

  Still my beating heart

  Loves you so much.

  Through the world we spin

  To come back again

  The seagulls glide

  The endless tide

  And my body’s yours

  Safe and warm

  In my dreams.

  Still my beating heart

  Loves you…

  When she ran out of lyrics, she continued to play for a while before saying, “I finished only the first verse and the refrain. What do you think?”

  I said, “Play it again, would you mind? Please.” I was aware that I’d spoken so softly it was almost a whisper.

  As she began to play and sing once more, I stood, left my drink on the table, and walked to the piano. It was not a conscious movement. Tomlinson was correct. Her music was hypnotic.

  I waited several long breaths after she’d finished before I spoke. I had no idea why I was standing so close to her. “The lyrics. Is there a person…a man? Was there a man you’re writing about—?”

  She turned. Her shoulder brushed my thigh as she looked up into my eyes. Her right hand knew the keys and continued playing only the melody as she half sang, half spoke the words. “Do you have a secret place/Too dangerous to touch?/Still my beating heart/Loves you so much.” The music stopped. Her shoulder was a weighted warmth. “Yes. There is a man. It’s you, Doc. Of course it’s you. You must know that. Are you offended?”

  “No. But the meaning of the lyrics—”

  “It’s what I see in you. It’s what I feel. There’s something in you that’s dangerous. Not mean, not vicious. But dangerous. Am I wrong?”

  I didn’t reply.

  Her hand moved from the keyboard to my lower back. Her cheek made brief contact with my trousers just above the thigh, close enough to feel her breath as she spoke. “You’re not the only one who looks for the truth inside people. You’ve been so busy trying to figure out what’s real, what isn’t, you didn’t realize I was taking a look inside you, too. When a person’s heart is bigger and stronger than most, it’s usually because their secrets require so much space.”

  My hand had found the back of her head; my fingers already seeking, then massaging, her neck. Her fingers moved to the muscles in my lower back, each fingertip alive, intuitive.

  Silence can imply a question; it can also refuse an answer.

  I removed my hand from her neck abruptly, and said, “Chestra, I’ve got to get going. I…I have to see Tomlinson. See Tomlinson about a business matter. I want to hear the rest of your song next visit. Okay? But I’ve got to go now.”

  “I’ve upset you. I hoped you’d be flattered. I’m sorry; forgive me.”

  I was moving away, motioning for her to stay seated. I knew my way to the stairs. “Forgive you? There’s nothing to forgive. Really.”

  There was an undertone of loss, but also resignation, when she replied, “Of course. We’re friends, it’s not necessary.” She tried but failed to be the glib hostess as she added, “I’d forgotten. There are only two sins that women are never forgiven: infidelity, and aging. Anything else, there’s no need to ask.”

  She laughed.

  I hurried to the door.

  38

  I stepped outside into wind and shadows, immersed in salt-dense air as I walked the bicycle toward the road—then stopped. There was a truck parked at the driveway entrance, no lights.

  I stood for a moment, watching beneath a moon that was cloud-shaded. Moonlight flickered as if through a ceiling fan. The pickup truck had oversized tires, and chrome vertical exhaust pipes. Paint, dark. Windshield, tinted. When a car passed behind it, though, I could see a large person sitting at the wheel. Big, block-shaped head. A man.

  I took out the palm-sized tactical light I carry when running or biking at night. It’s a Surefire, military design, special-ops issue. Shine it in someone’s eyes, it’s as blinding as a fl
ashbulb. I was about to point it at the car when the porch light came on behind me. Chestra—being thoughtful.

  Maybe the driver finished his phone call, or maybe he was watching the woman’s house and the light spooked him. Whatever the reason, the truck started and spun away, its engine making a distinctive NASCAR rumble. It was one of the expensive pickup trucks, all the options, I guessed.

  A BMW doing slow drive-bys, then an expensive pickup truck tonight.

  If Chestra’s house was under observation, it wasn’t by petty thieves. It was someone with money.

  It caused me to think about the old promissory notes. She’d kept them in what she called “Marlissa’s trunk,” at her Manhattan apartment. A neighbor had shipped them. They’d arrived today in a box. Chestra had yet to hear from Frederick Roth’s family representative, and mentioned that she had left a message for the attorney letting him know she’d done what he had asked.

  Potentially, the notes were valuable.

  She felt as if she was being watched? Now a vehicle in her drive, sitting in darkness.

  I didn’t like it.

  I considered going back and telling her about the truck. Decided it would only scare the lady. And, frankly, I didn’t trust myself. The axiom that it’s painful for men to go without sex is an adolescent gambit. I hadn’t dated for several months, but that wasn’t the reason. I didn’t trust myself because the pheromone wave I’d just experienced was unsettling. The woman’s voice was mesmerizing, true, but how could someone her age have that effect on me?

  No, I wasn’t going to risk it.

  Instead, I pulled the bicycle into the shadows and waited. Maybe the truck would return. Or do a drive-by. The big moon was behind clouds, so it took me a moment to realize that I was in the family cemetery. I had leaned the bike against a crypt. The leading edge of the Yucatán storm was miles behind me, the faint flare of lightning too dim for reading.

  I waited for nearly ten minutes for the vehicle to return before using my little flashlight.

  The crypt on which I’d rested the bicycle was inscribed:

  NELLIE KAY DORN

  CAME INTO THIS WORLD JUNE 9, 1868

  WENT TO HER LORD JUNE 7, 1935

  A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN AND RIGHTEOUS

  I lingered as I studied the vault next to it. Placed my hand on the cold marble and leaned with the flashlight:

  MARLISSA ARKHAM DORN

  BORN FEBRUARY 7, 1923, VARGUS, AUSTRIA

  DIED OCTOBER 19, 1944, SANIBEL ISLAND,

  FLORIDA

  WHOM THE SEA GIVES UP, GOD EMBRACES

  I’d seen photos of these women when they were young, stunning, full of life. Strange to be standing so near yet eternally removed. I remembered Chestra saying, “No woman can live up to the expectations of Marlissa’s kind of beauty.”

  It was a touching observation; also, a telling insight. Beauty is a genetic device: trickery that instigates competition. All illusions are temporal, and death is as indifferent as life. What Chestra said was indisputable.

  Someone had placed fresh flowers at the feet of both vaults. The man in the truck?

  More likely, it was Chessie.

  I was restless, my head was pounding, streets were empty because so many islanders had evacuated, and even the University Grille was closed.

  Ten o’clock on an autumn Monday, full moon glowing, and Sanibel was like a ghost ship—moored, but felt as if it might break anchor in the wind.

  I wasn’t ready to go home to the lab, and I wasn’t ready for bed. The Shop’n Go on the corner was an inviting fluorescence, but the idea of stopping at a convenience store because I wanted companionship was deflating. Instead, I pedaled hard along the bike path, Tarpon Bay Road behind me, the flower power beach bike creaking beneath my weight. I headed toward Captiva, mangroves to my right, then passed the dump created to burn storm debris, smoke and ash swirling. The wind freshened. I rode through pockets of sulfur-heated air, beneath trees; spooked a mother raccoon, a line of hunch-backed babies trailing.

  Tomlinson’s Dinkin’s Bay Rum Bar and Grille was a mile ahead, on the left, at the intersection of Rabbit Road. A big tiki-shaped stucco building, the outside painted with tropic foliage, a parking area of brick pavers. There were lights on, silhouettes of people inside.

  Normally, I’m happy to be alone. Tonight, I was elated to see a fellow human being. No luck, though. It was Big Dan, Raynauld, and Greg just closing the place, in a hurry to get to their homes so they could finish boarding windows.

  Tomlinson had left an hour ago, they told me. They hadn’t exactly asked him to leave, but they were glad he had. He’d been going from table to crowded table, wearing his weird goggles, and prescribing various drinks depending on the customer’s aura. Sounded like Tomlinson was having a restless night, too.

  I rode on. Over a wooden bridge, then passed the elementary school, its playground and ball diamond more silent because of the implicit laughter of children. I stopped for a moment to look at the moon through clouds. Blue light in the moonlight.

  I turned, and returned to Dinkin’s Bay. No one stirring at the marina, either. The approaching storm had chased most of the residents to the mainland. Boats with dark windows creaked on their lines; bait tanks hissed; halyards tapped in the wind. The bay was black but for the twin yellow eyes of lighted portholes on an old Morgan sailboat.

  No Mas.

  Tomlinson was awake.

  I rode home, got a six-pack of beer, and started my skiff.

  A board his boat, without an audience, Tomlinson is Tomlinson, not the ever-happy hipster people have come to expect. Tonight, he was more staid than usual, sitting at the settee berth, brass oil lamps and patchouli sticks burning, reading a book on the history of Islam.

  I suspected it was the book that put him in a restrained, thoughtful mood, although he told me, “I was at the rum bar tonight and got weirded out, man, because I realized that just being who I am weirds out a lot more people than it used to. No matter how straight I get, the world manages to stay a little straighter.”

  “Maybe you’re so far ahead, it just seems like you’re behind,” I offered.

  “Um-huh. Wouldn’t we all like to think that.”

  I ducked going down the three companionway steps, put the beer atop the icebox, starboard side, and told him, “I have a mystic-mental image of you going from table to table, wearing your Kilner goggles, telling customers to drink rum if they have green auras but stick to beer if they’re red. A kind of vision. It just came to me.”

  He smiled and played along. “Very perceptive. Accurate, too. You’re definitely into a whole new sensitivity trip. Soon, you’ll be feeling actual emotions, Doc. Human emotions. The real test? That classic film, Old Yeller. I predict it’ll get a sniffle out of you yet.”

  I was wearing my foul-weather jacket. It had begun to sprinkle while I was in my skiff. Light rain in a gusting wind. I hung the jacket near the aft quarter bunk, then adjusted the cockpit door, kerosene lamps fluttering, as I replied, “Nope. I always pull for the wolf. The one that’s got rabies and wants to bite the nice-looking kids.”

  “You stopped by the bar?”

  “Yeah. Dan and Raynauld told me about you prescribing drinks. Sounded like a good idea to me.”

  “Yeah, well…I think it scared some people, and everyone’s already nervous because of the weather. I was surprised the restaurant was busy, so many people have split.”

  He sighed, irritated.

  Occasionally, irrational behavior troubles the man. He was troubled now.

  “Folks are packing their cars and running. Why? We’ll get thunderstorms tonight. Wind’s supposed to be fifty knots tops. Tuesday, it’ll be a little worse, but so what? That’s no reason to leave homes, shut down businesses. I put out a couple of extra hooks and laid in some emergency bags of weed. That’s preparation, man. Everything else is just hysteria.”

  The news media had gone hurricane insane, he added, intentionally exaggerating information. I took a seat
as he talked about it, finishing, “Fear sells. Every news story is a variation on journalism’s favorite cliché: the apocalypse. But they’re screwing up the economies of whole cities, and I’m not even a capitalist, man. They’re screwing with people’s lives!”

  Was that tea he was drinking?

  Yes. Green tea in a ship’s mug. Something else added, possibly, but maybe not. He was uncharacteristically cogent for this time of evening. Yes, getting straighter and straighter while I, as he claimed, was becoming more in tune with…something. I have learned not to ask.

  Tonight, though, I did not feel like the reasonable, rational man I attempt to portray. So maybe he had a point.

  Tomlinson stood, took a can of beer and offered it to me. “No. Tea’s fine. Or nothing.”

  “Your head’s killing you, man. I can tell. Your eyes get glassy. A CAT scan is what you need, amigo.”

  “Do you have one aboard? If not, please drop it.”

  “No. But I can get you something that’ll help.”

  I said, “I’ll take it.” I thought he meant aspirin. Instead, he shrugged—Okay, if that’s what the man wants—and removed the teak cover from the icebox.

  I watched him stick a bony arm into the icebox, and retrieve a plastic bag bulging with what looked like oregano but wasn’t. I’d seen this ceremony many times. When he lit up, I would go outside. Or we both would.

  I never smoke. Not even cigars.

  As he took out rolling papers, I said, “I’ve always honored the unspoken agreement you and I have about women we date. We don’t risk embarrassing them by sharing details.”

  “We have an agreement about that? I thought we were both just being sly.”

  “It’s a small island.”

  “That’s true,” Tomlinson said. “The only drawback of living on an island is that resources are limited. Particularly around bar-closing time. Men’s paths are bound to cross. That’s the crass version, anyway.” He had separated two papers, now somehow joined into one. “The way we honor the ladyfriend deal, yeah. It’s very cool.”

  “I’m talking about Chestra.”