Captiva df-4

by Randy Wayne White

  "You feel like it?"

  "Go ahead and change your clothes. Use my house."

  Jackson went loping off to his car and returned with a gym bag. As he disappeared into the house, Janet said, "Thanks. He was starting to irritate me." As she spoke, she never took her eyes off the fish tank.

  I said, "They're interesting animals, aren't they."

  "They're . . . gorgeous. Those big silver scales, the way they seem to change color."

  "They're mirrors," I said. "A tarpon's scales? So they reflect the color of their environment. Brown sand, brown tarpon. Gray bottom, gray tarpon. See? It's an uncomplicated but effective method of disguise."

  "Right. I hadn't even thought of that." One of the tarpon—a red pellet was attached to its tail—drifted to the surface, gracefully breached the water's film of surface tension, then flashed a brilliant silver as it rolled toward the bottom. It was followed by two more fish: yellow and blue.

  Janet took up the clipboard and made careful notes.

  I said, "Janet, I appreciate you helping out. But I'm starting to feel a little guilty about taking up so much of your time—"

  "Don't you dare try to run me off now. I'm just getting to know these fish. That's the—" She lifted the clipboard as if to look, then decided against it. The fish might roll again. "I can't tell you right now, but that's at least the fourth time that Red has been the first to roll. Always followed by one or more of the others. You think that could mean something?"

  I said, "I think it's way too early to tell."

  "Oh, I know that. But I was just thinking—"

  "Never theorize in advance of your data. It can cause you to manipulate your own observations."

  She had a pleasant, gusty laugh. "I know, I know—that's exactly what I used to tell my students. My kids, wouldn't they love it if they could see me making the same mistake? I used to take them on all these crazy field trips, all these mini-research projects I'd set up. That was the first rule: Record first, interpret later."

  I decided the kids at her small high school had been very lucky students indeed.

  Jackson was coming down the steps. He wore black running shorts, no shirt. The man was as hairy as a Kodiak bear. More muscular than I'd suspected too.

  I touched Janet's shoulder. "We won't be gone long."

  She nodded, her attention already back on the tarpon.

  "Nice life," Jackson said to me. "You've got an assistant to do all your work."

  I found the familiarity of that grating. I replied, "Actually, Dr. Mueller is my associate, not my assistant." Which caused Janet to roll her eyes and smile. Then, without waiting for Jackson to follow, I walked down the fifty yards of wobbly dock, then charged off.

  My plan was childish. If Jackson could catch up with me, fine. And if he did catch up, I'd run his stubby little legs off before he could find breath enough to ask a single question. It was his idea to run and talk at the same time. Mix a little business with pleasure, he had said. I wondered just how much pleasure he'd get out of collapsing like a winded bull.

  So I was pushing it. Running at a pace slightly faster than I normally run on my very best day. Trying to put some distance between myself and the pushy detective. When I lost him, when he was so far behind that he had to strain to see me, I would then stop and patiently wait. Let him know that next time—if there had to be a next time—he would be wise to simply question me over the phone.

  Less than a minute had passed when, behind me, I heard a heavy crunch of shell, ka-thump-ka-thump-ka-thump, getting closer, growing louder . . . heard the flesh-slap of swinging arms. Heard the comfortable rhythm of controlled breathing. Then saw the bear shape ofjackson out of the corner of my eye. Heard him say, "Mind if we pick up the pace a little?" as he strode past me.

  I accelerated until I was even with him, then fell into step.

  "Nice day for a little jog," he said.

  "Not too hot, not too cold," I replied, fighting to restrain my breathing; keeping my voice nonchalant.

  "No humidity," Jackson said. "Humidity, that's what kills you."

  "Yeah, humidity's the worst."

  "But now—like Arizona. Great place to run, Sanibel."

  "A day like this," I said, "it's perfect."

  "Good surface, too." He was talking about the bicycle path. We were headed northwest toward Captiva. Coconut palms and oaks; egrets spooking—everything moving past in a blur. He said, "Makes me want to stretch it out a little bit."

  "Stretch it out all you want," I told him, hoping like hell he wouldn't— but he did.

  That's the way it went for the next three miles or so. Ran way too far, way too fast, each of us pushing the other. We didn't talk. I didn't have air enough to speak, and my throat was too dry had I tried. I had the strong impression that it was equally painful for Jackson, but the stubborn little bastard wouldn't quit. And just when I was beginning to wonder which would fail first, my lungs or my courage, Jackson said in a raspy wheezing voice, "So it's kind'a like the tree-falling-in-a-forest deal. If we both keep this up, will anyone be around to hear our hearts explode?"

  I broke stride, laughing. Began to walk in a slow circle, hands clasped and overhead, sucking in air. Jackson was doing the same. After a minute or two, when I was able, I said, "Uncle. You win."

  He grinned. "Bullshit. I can't even remember the last quarter-mile or so. I died way back there."

  "Nope. That was a stupid kid's stunt I pulled. You gave me exactly what I deserved."

  "You?" He seemed honestly perplexed. "It was me. I was trying to run you into the ground. Soften you up a little so we could talk. I mean, no offense, but you don't exactly look like a runner. I figured you for a nine-minute-mile guy. The way you're built. One of those 'Oooh, look at the birds' or 'Oooh, aren't those flowers pretty?' types."

  I said wryly, "And you're such a wispy little bit of a thing. Lucky for me I'm not the kind to judge people by their body types."

  Jackson was nonplussed, wearing an expression that read, Damn. He said, "Three years playing defensive back at Maryland, four years in the Marines, and very few people ever stuck me like you just stuck me, Ford." He placed hands on hips, bent deeply at the waist, sucked in a little more air before extending his right hand. "So call me Ron from now on."

  "Okay . . . Ron." I took his hand. "But tell me one thing: Why soften me up before talking? What's the point? I've told you everything I know."

  "I don't doubt it. But I've got a problem." He had begun to walk along the bike path, back toward Dinkin's Bay. "The problem is, I drove up to Sulphur Wells yesterday. About my sixth time just for this case, trying to talk to people, make a few contacts. What do I find? I find your buddy Tomlinson. The guy never called me for an interview, by the way. So I spent half an hour or so talking to him there. He's kind of an . . . unusual person."

  "Unusual" wasn't strong enough—Tomlinson, the dope fiend, had just spent ten minutes with me on the phone, pondering everything but the air quality on Sulphur Wells, but he couldn't take the time to tell me he had been questioned by the police?

  "I have to admit," Jackson said, "the connection kind of surprised me. Jimmy Darroux's widow, your buddy. Knock on the door and there they are. Less than a week after the husband gets fried at your marina. Mrs. Darroux is a real looker, your buddy's there smiling at me. But kind of nervous. Both of them living there under the same roof."

  I stopped. "All cops make Tomlinson nervous. I think he took one too many shots to the head back in the sixties. He was the draft card-burning, protester type. So if you're still thinking that I or Tomlinson had anything to do with the explosion last Thursday—"

  He made an impatient hushing motion with his hand. "Relax. Don't be so damn touchy. If I thought either one of you had anything to do with it, you wouldn't see me until I had the cuffs ready. No—it's kind'a strange, you can't argue that. That's all I'm saying. Your buddy and the widow. If I hadn't already checked both of you out pretty closely, I might come to a different conclu
sion. But I did, so that's not the problem. It's something else. I figure, maybe you can help me with it, maybe you can't."

  I began to walk with him again. Said, "So tell me about your problem, Ron."

  Ron Jackson's problem was that residents on Sulphur Wells wouldn't talk to him. Weren't being very helpful at all. Not just the people of Gumbo Limbo, either. Same was true of the island's other small settlements: Barrancas, Key Lime, Rancho, and Curlew.

  The Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco, and Firearms was assisting in the investigation, Jackson told me. Which meant the A.T.F. would do the lab work, all the intricate, complicated tracing of evidence, while he and one other detective did the local legwork. But after half a dozen trips to the island, Jackson had yet to assemble much more than was already in Jimmy Darroux's police file.

  "It's getting embarrassing," he said. Judging from the rueful tone of his voice, he meant it.

  One of the reasons the job was so tough, he said, was that his department didn't have a single cop who had roots on the island. There were a couple who lived on Sulphur Wells, yes. One had grown up there. But none were from the commercial fishing community. Because of that, he said, the normal sources for gathering information weren't there to cultivate.

  We were still walking along the bike path. I did most of the listening; he was doing most of the talking, explaining how it was. "I told you I once worked in D.C.? You go into one of the projects there, one of the housing slums, it was like that. Code of silence. Never tell the cops anything. In a way, I didn't blame them. They're practically living under siege. Nothing much good had ever come from the outside, so why help? I'm starting to think it's the same sort of thing on Sulphur Wells."

  I was thinking: Is he telling me this for a reason? But I said, "Could be some similarities. The fishermen have spent the last couple of years under attack. The attacks have come from some sophisticated sources; sources they were never equipped to deal with. The state government, newspapers, regional publications. Probably people who live on their own island. Not everyone's a commercial fisherman up there. They've got a few retirees, a few businesspeople. People who probably see themselves as sportfishermen. They got it from all sides. That would make anyone defensive."

  "See?" Jackson said. "Already you're helping me get things clearer in my own mind."

  I thought: Quid pro quo; you'd better give me an explanation in trade. But I said, "There's an additional element you wouldn't find in the projects. A reason they probably don't want to talk to you. The commercial fishing community can't afford any more bad publicity. One of their outlaws torched some boats and was killed in the process. There's a good reason they want it to stop right there." I explained to him about the injunction the commercial fishermen had filed, and about the economic relief they were soliciting from the state. Then I said, "The point of your investigation is to find out who helped Jimmy Darroux build a bomb, right? So you can add some more commercial fishermen to the list. More bad publicity. Or else you wouldn't be talking to me."

  Jackson became noncommittal. Evasion is always couched as innocence. "I'm just trying to collect what I can, see where it takes me. Hell, I don't know much more than you do, Ford."

  I was tempted to start running again, make him suffer just for lying to me. If my legs hadn't been so noodle-weak, I might have. Instead, I said, "So maybe we ought to drop the subject. Usually—what I do when I run?—I take time out to enjoy the birds."

  He said, "What?"

  "Birds. When I run, I like to look at the birds."

  He made a groaning noise. "Jesus."

  "Have you noticed all the pretty flowers we have on Sanibel? Too much talking ruins the scenery."

  He said, "Okay, okay. Enough."

  I said, "It can't be all give and no take."

  "I see that. So I tried, okay?"

  "I doubt I can help you anyway."

  "What'll it take for you to give it a try?"

  "Simple. Tell me what I'm getting into. And why. That's all. You tell me that, we'll talk. You can't tell me . . ."I shrugged, letting the sentence trail off.

  We walked along while he mulled it over. Finally, he said, "Where I grew up, up on the Chesapeake, my grandfather and his grandfather were oyster-men. My dad, he got seasick, so he went into the state troopers. So it was my job to help Grandpa. I'm telling you why I'm interested. Understand?"

  I said, "The Chesapeake. Nice area."

  "We did a little striped bass fishing, but mostly oysters. I saw what happened to our fishery—hell, they nearly netted it clean—but I still had mixed feelings about the regulations, and then the bans, because I was one of them. One of the fishermen, see? It was like, who the hell are these outsiders coming in telling us what we can and can't do? So I can understand that a little bit. It was pretty nasty. Seeing it happen, you know? What happened to the people."

  I said, "Oysterman, huh?"

  He held out his arms and smiled. "I didn't get these forearms in a weight room. Tonging oysters; a forty-five-pound rake. My grandfather'd drop a galvanized chain off the stern of the boat. He could tell when we were on oysters by holding the chain, feeling the vibrations. Made a pretty fair living, too. I bought myself my first car with tonging money. But it wasn't the environmentalists who finally put us out ofbusiness. It was the way the water quality went to hell when all the new people started flooding in."

  I said, "So you do know a little bit about it."

  He was nodding. "About the kind of people involved. I imagine they're about the same. Most of them are pretty good people. Solid. Don't ask for anything, stay out of trouble. In D.C., the kids couldn't wait until they were old enough to qualify for welfare. First of the month, some of the lines were four blocks long. On the Chesapeake, a lot of those men and women, the government couldn't force them to take it. Welfare? Not them—they had too much self-respect. Personally, Ford, I admire that. I don't know much about the situation here. Maybe it was smart to ban the nets, maybe it's all a bunch of crap. I do know it's a shitty situation. And I know . . . well, there was this thing that happened when I was a kid." He made an effort to continue, then: "Ah, hell—"

  I tried to goad him along. "You mean with the commercial fishermen."

  Jackson thought for a moment, not sure he wanted to go into it. Finally, he said, "Let's just say I saw what can happen when people are pushed into a corner. I was like, seventeen, and this kid I knew got burned really bad. For what? Some idiotic demonstration. Trying to get even because his dad had to sell out, look for new work. It's not a nice thing to see."

  "No, I imagine not," I said.

  "Five thousand people get laid ofFby General Motors, it's no big deal, right? But somehow, it's different when it happens to people who . . . just do what they do, on their own. No unions to back them up, just them, just people. Know what I mean? So what I'm saying is, I'd like to get in there, if I can, and stop some of it before it starts. Yeah, I'd love to nail the whole Jimmy Darroux business shut. But I'd also like to get the right people under my thumb before anyone else gets hurt." He looked at me. "To do that, to stop anything, I need information."

  Which I had already guessed. I said, "You think because Tomlinson is involved with Hannah Darroux, I can pry information out of him, then feed it to you."

  "Maybe. She's an important woman on that island. People wouldn't tell me much, but I learned that. She's an insider, and I'd be willing to bet she knows a hell of a lot more than she told me or the A.T.F. guys. But no—" He was making his gesture of impatience again. Apparently, we were getting off track. "Where you could help is, the people I talked to on Sulphur Wells, the people I've talked to around here. Your name kept popping up."

  "Oh?"

  "Yeah. That surprise you?" Jackson had a crafty, troublemaker's smile. "Maybe you were with the National Security Agency so long you're not used to that. Where you were a ... a paper shuffler, right?"

  Who the hell had he been talking to? "What I am," I said, "is a biologist."

  His expressi
on said: Sure, buddy, sure. He shrugged. "Okay. We leave it at that. What I'm saying is, you're the only guy who seems to be accepted by both communities. The sportfishing guys are your buddies, right?"

  "I know quite a few of them, yeah."

  "This guy on Sulphur Wells—Tootsie Cribbs?—he told me you were about the only so-called sportfishing guy who came down on the side of the netters. He said you spoke for them a couple times at meetings."

  I'd known Tootsie since high school. He ran a little fish wholesale place in Curlew. "I did that. Yeah."

  "People on both sides of the line know you, they respect you. That's the way I read it. Couple of people on Sulphur Wells mentioned you. Said you come over there sometimes and buy fish and stuff for your lab. Know what they said?" He looked very smug—I was the guy he'd lured into a schoolyard footrace. "What they said was, they think you're fair."

  I said, "Spare me the flattery."

  "No, I'm serious. Fair. That's the word."

  "They think that? Good. But what you're saying is, you think I can act as an intermediary. My question is: What's left to mediate?"

  "For one thing, I know some of the sportfishing guys are going around with guns. That's bullshit. They catch someone stealing their outboard, what they gonna do, blow them away? Kill somebody over a motor? You can start there. Talk it around among your friends. Reason with them. They ever shoot anybody before? They have any idea what it's like?"

  I got the impression that Ron Jackson had . . . and did.

  "And on Sulphur Wells . . . some of the other commercial places, too. I've heard—not from a very good source—but I've heard they have some real nasty stuff planned. Most of it's probably talk. People, you get them loaded up on whiskey . . . hell, you know the type. They like to talk big, but very few are actually stupid enough to do the big deed. That report about somebody stretching a cable across some markers—" He gave me a nudge: See? Your name again! "That report tells me we've got a couple of legitimate bandits. Sure, if you can get some information out of Hannah Darroux . . . love to have it. Through your buddy Tomlinson, I don't care how. Go over there and buy some more fish, ask around. Don't get the wrong idea. I'm not deputizing you or anything. If I thought you were the type to go out and strut around, bang your chest, we wouldn't be having this conversation. This isn't official. I'm asking a favor. Keep it low-key, nothing obvious." The crafty, troublemaker smile again. "But there I go telling you your business."