I thought about lying to her; looked into those eyes and realized that she would know the truth anyway. "Yeah," I said, finally, "I'd pass the information along."
Which, for some reason, made her smile. "Let me think about it. Give me some time. Why don't the two of us just . . . relax a little before we do any more talking?" She had her hands on me, massaging my chest with strong fingers, her breasts hanging pendulously, brushing my face. Heard her say, "Hoo! Looky there—the big guy's finally gone back to the barn!"
. I was about to make some reply to that—tell her no, I wanted to talk now—when the door of the house crashed open. I heard a man's voice yell, "Jesus Christ, what are you doing?" Jumped to my feet to see Raymond Tullock filling the low doorway, his expression grotesque, a combination of outrage and shock. The beam of the flashlight in his hand was brighter than the oil lamp. He shone it on Hannah, then on me. Heard him say, "This guy? You're fucking this guy?"
My voice was surprisingly calm considering how hard my heart was beating. I said, "Get the light out of my eyes, Raymond, or this guy thinks you'll be eating that flashlight." The whole time, I was fishing around for pants, shirt—anything to use as a covering.
Tullock lowered the flashlight, but he still wore the grotesque expression. "Do you realize what you're doing to me, Hannah? Do you have any idea?" As he stared at her, I had the strong impression that he had never seen her naked before . . . that he was feeling both pain and wonder.
Hannah made no effort to cover herself. Said, "Raymond, you've got a special talent for acting like a dumb ass."
"Don't you dare lecture me! Don't you dare!" As he stepped toward her, I moved between them, ready to shove him away. But he stepped back immediately. Seemed to gather himself, and said in a cold, controlled voice, "I've been looking for you all night. Trying to call you on the radio, driving all over the island. There're men out in boats trying to find you."
"You serious, Raymond? You damn well better not be joking—"
"No joke. Arlis is the one who finally told me to check here." Raymond bent down, picked up Hannah's T-shirt, seeming to take perverse delight in what he said next: "That long-haired boyfriend of yours? A couple hours ago, some tourist found him out on the road, beaten nearly to death. Probably is dead by now." He tossed the T-shirt in her face. "They took him to the hospital, in case you're interested."
Chapter 14
To see Tomlinson, I had to look through a wall of Plexiglas. He was lying on a stainless steel table, a sheet over his bare hips, his body a nexus of tubes and wires and monitoring equipment. The most troubling linkage was a fogged green hose—it was segmented like a worm—that arched away from the concrete wall, then snaked through his mouth, down his throat. The hose, the table were all part of the respirator that was now doing his breathing. When the table contracted, Tomlinson's body inflated, then deflated rhythmically, like a metronome. The ventilator machine made a cold, hydraulic keesh-ah-h . . . keesh-ah-h . . . keesh-ah-h whisper, steady as a mechanical heartbeat, and Tomlinson's limp body jolted with each breath like a skinny bellows.
It was after two a.m. Around me, in a tight little group, were all of the regulars from Dinkin's Bay: Mack, Jeth, Rhonda, JoAnn, Harry Burdock and wife Wendy, Big Nick S Clements, Javier Castillo, and some others, plus Janet Mueller as well. Felix and Nels didn't live at the marina, but they had been contacted and were on their way.
Jeth moved up close to me, fighting hard to control his emotions. Said, "Why. . . why would some bastard hurt a sweet guy like . . . like ... He was such a guh-good man. . . ."Then lost it; didn't try to go on anymore. Sniffed loudly . . . covered his mouth and made a coughing noise as he shoved his way toward the back of the little room that the hospital had set up for us in the intensive care unit. Which set off the others... a lot of throat clearing and sniffing and the soft siren sound of restrained sobbing.
Tomlinson had made a lot of friends, touched a lot of people, in his years at Dinkin's Bay.
"Goddamn it," Mack said fiercely, "the buggers went too far this time! I'm going down to the sheriff's department in the morning. Tell them if they can't protect my people, I'll find a way to bloody well do it myself."
Something Tomlinson had once told me—Anger is the concession to fear—floated to mind as I said to Mack, "Now, now—I'm sure the police are doing everything they can." Said it in a tone that seemed to originate from some other person; a tone so cheerfully indifferent that it surprised even me.
Mack gave me an odd, troubled look and moved away.
That Tomlinson was on a respirator was bad enough. But worse was the uneven, broken shape of his head and face. Even through the bandages, I could tell that all the delicate bonework of chin and cheeks had been pounded askew. Also, his face and head had been shaved for the emergency surgery the doctors had already done . . . and for the surgery they had yet to do.
Janet came up and slipped under my arm, hugging herself to me. "He's got a chance," she sniffed. "When the doctor comes, I bet that's what he tells us. Have you talked to anybody?"
"The doctor, you mean? Not yet—she'll be up in a little bit." I patted Janet's shoulder. "It's not as bad as it looks. Tomlinson can't feel anything; doesn't have any pain at all." I pointed through the Plexiglas. "Notice his hands?"
Tomlinson's hands were folded across his stomach. Janet was confused. "What about his hands, Doc?"
"No broken fingers. No swelling. Do you understand the implications of that?" I smiled at her. "No defensive wounds. He made no attempt to defend himself. See? Tomlinson preached passive resistance all his life." The blank expression on Janet's face told me that she still didn't get it. "This is the way he wanted it." I pressed. "Don't you understand? He wanted to end up like a slab of meat on a table. It was his choice! That's why he wouldn't fight back."
Janet had me by both arms, looking up into my face. "Are you okay, Doc? Maybe you need to sit down."
I waved her away. "I'm fine, Janet. You worry too much."
"Doc . . . ?"
"Yes, Janet?"
"I think you need to go home and get some sleep. I'll be over in the morning to take care of the tarpon, okay? I'll feed them, then start the procedure. You just sleep in."
I smiled at Janet and nodded agreeably . . . which, for some reason, caused her to break down in tears.
More people were in the little room now . . . people I had never seen before. Mostly men and a few women. The men wore T-shirts and ball caps; the women wore plain-looking blouses, inexpensive slacks. Couldn't figure out what all these strangers were doing in the room, until I finally recognized one of the men: Tootsie Cribbs, who ran a small fish house in Curlew on Sulphur Wells. Hadn't seen him since high school. Went over and shook hands. Listened to Tootsie tell me that he hoped we didn't mind, but he and his church group had driven over in a caravan to see if they could help. "I only met Tommy a couple days ago," he said, "but he struck me as being . . . well, a nice fella. Different, but nice. Honestly interested in what we are going through with this net ban business, and . . ." Tootsie shrugged. "Truth is, I feel sick about it, Doc. We all do. We've got good people on our island. We work hard, raise our kids the right way. But we also got a few bad ones. Scum, that's all they are . . . anybody who'd—" He glanced through the Plexiglas at Tomlinson. "Anybody who'd beat a person like Tommy so bad, that's what they are. Just scum."
Tootsie, I decided, could be an interesting source of information. I began to ask a few questions. The tourist who had found Tomlinson, Tootsie told me, was on his way back to a Sulphur Wells mobile home park when he saw, in his headlights, what he thought was a big animal crawling along beside the road. The animal turned out to be Tomlinson, who kept right on crawling despite the pleas of the tourist to stop. When an ambulance finally arrived, the EMT's first guess was that Tomlinson had been hit by a car—he was that badly hurt. But then after they cut Tomlinson's clothes off him, sponged off the wounds, they found the word SPY sliced into his forehead.
"Spy?" I said—at least they h
adn't cut his nose off. "I didn't know that, Tootsie. No way to tell with all those bandages on his head." Then I added, in an offhand, disinterested way, "Any idea who did it?"
Tootsie was silent for a time, looking at the floor, before he said, "Everything I know, anyone I suspect, I'll tell the cops. You can be sure of that. Hannah Smith's down talking to the detective now, and when she's done, I'll volunteer everything I've got. After that, my group is gonna hold a prayer meeting in the hospital chapel. You're welcome to come."
"Come on, Tootsie," I said easily, "just for my own information."
Tootsie was shaking his head. "I'm not like the others, Doc. I knew you ... I knew you before you moved away; went off to do whatever it is you did. I'd like to tell you, but I won't." Then he added, "I've seen that look in your eyes before."
The doctor's name was Maria Corales. I found her name heartening because I know how smart and tough Hispanic-American professionals tend to be. She used phrases such as "bad head injury" and "lung problems" until I demonstrated enough familiarity with human physiology to force her into specifics.
She said, "Okay, Mr. Ford, it's like this. The ER people did a good job-with him. They got enough Ringer's lactate into him, fed him enough antibiotics empirically, enough Ancef to get him stabilized. But he was still having respiratory problems, and the routine blood tests showed his electrolytes were way down. He was comatose by that time—obviously had a severe concussion—so they got him prepped for a CAT scan and had him all ready by the time I arrived."
Dr. Corales paused—she had the bedrock steadiness but slightly distracted, haunted look I have come to associate with neurosurgeons. Said, "Are you still with me?"
"What did the CAT scan show?" I asked.
"It wasn't good. Intraabdominal injuries, some signs of hemopneu-mothorax—bleeding in the chest cavity because of a broken rib—and some obvious swelling of the brain. I decided we had to go right in and have a look. I found a severe subdural hematoma. Again, not good. I did what I could, but I want my full team with me before I go back in and try to do any more. Also, we're still having trouble getting his electrolytes stabilized. For now, we're hyperventilating him, trying to lower the C02; get the brain swelling down. A general surgeon will be in to look after the internal injuries—they're all manageable. Actually, they're rather minor in comparison. The head injury is the real problem. I want to keep him under close observation. But if things don't improve very quickly, we'll have to go back in. Before the weekend, probably."
"The prognosis?" I asked.
Dr. Corales hesitated before answering. "Are you related to Mr. Tomlinson?"
"A close friend," I said. "A very old, close friend."
"Do you know if Mr. Tomlinson has family living in the area?"
"No, he doesn't. He has a daughter in Boston, but she's very young. The girl's mother is a friend of Tomlinson's—I can notify her. Tomlinson's mother passed away many years ago, but he still stays in touch with his father . . . and a brother, too."
"Was he ever married to the mother of his daughter?"
"No."
"Would you know how we can contact either the father or the brother?"
I didn't like the sound of that. I said, "The father is a paleontologist. I think he's doing fieldwork somewhere in Bolivia. But he's way back in; been living in the bush for years. He and Tomlinson stayed in touch through the mail. But only occasionally. Like once or twice a year."
"Do you have an address?"
"I can try to find one. The brother, he'll be difficult to contact as well. He lives in Burma. In Rangoon, I believe. I'm sure I can find an address, but it's my understanding that he's ... a heroin addict."
Dr. Corales's expression remained bland. Physicians have to work hard at being nonjudgmental. I said, "You were about to tell me the prognosis, Doctor."
The woman looked at the clipboard in her hand, looked at me, then hunched her shoulders into a long, weary sigh. "I'm afraid I just did, Mr. Ford. But we'll do what we can."
I was looking for Hannah—had been given directions to a downstairs conference room—and was striding down the hallway, glancing at numbers on doors as I hurried along, when Hannah and Detective Ron Jackson stepped out into the hall. They were still talking; didn't notice me until I was only a few yards away. Hannah glanced up, focused, seemed to refocus, then held her arms out so that I could take her into mine. Into my ear, she whispered, "I'm so sorry. Please believe me, if I'd known anything about it, I'da stopped it."
I held her away from me. Said, "I'm sure of that, Hannah," as Jackson cleared his throat and said, "I take it you two know each other."
I manufactured a weary but congenial smile. "They got you up early for this one, Ron."
"Early? I never got to bed. As I was telling Mrs. Darroux, I've been assigned to this . . . particular community problem." He made an open-palmed so-here-I-am gesture.
"Any idea who did it?"
"Not a lot to go on, I'm afraid. Still trying to assemble what I can, and we'll take it from there." I could tell he didn't want to talk about it in front of Hannah. He asked, "How's your buddy?"
I told them both what the doctor told me, but I tried to make it sound better than it was. I'm not sure why. Tomlinson was the one who believed in the power of positive thought waves, not me. Tomlinson, I said, would remain in intensive care under observation, and if need be, he would go back into surgery in a day or so. The doctors had high hopes. Judging from the way Hannah was looking at me, she knew I was lying. Maybe Jackson knew it too, but he played along. When I had the chance, I said to Hannah, "Would you excuse us just for a minute?" She stood there, obviously confused, as I took Jackson by the arm and walked with him a little way down the hall. When we were far enough, I said in a hoarse whisper, "They tried to kill him, Ron. Did you talk to the doctor? They did everything but run over him with a truck."
Jackson had already considered that; was shaking his head. "No ... if they wanted to kill him, they would have used the knife to cut his throat instead of cutting letters into his head. I don't think they cared if he died. I think what happened was, somehow they got the idea your buddy was spying on them, and they beat the living shit out of him because of it. Left him out along the roadside, like: Don't come over here and screw with us."
I glanced back at Hannah. I hadn't seen her since I'd jumped into my boat and blasted full speed back to Dinkin's Bay to alert the locals and then drive to the hospital. She had her hair tied back in a blue and white kerchief. She had changed into jeans and a black turtleneck sweater. It was the first time I'd ever seen her in shoes. Brown leather deck shoes. She gave me a troubled, quizzical look—Don't you trust me?
To Jackson, I said, "Maybe that's what happened. Maybe some outlaw netters thought Tomlinson was spying on them, but it could also be just a ruse. Somebody smart enough to lay a false trail."
He said, "What? What are you talking about, Ford?"
"There's a guy I want you to check out. A guy named Raymond Tullock."
"Never heard of him. He's one of the commercial guys?"
I told Jackson what I knew about Tullock's background. I didn't know where the man lived, but his business number could be found in the yellow pages. I asked him not to mention Tullock's name to Hannah—why risk tipping him off? Jackson said, "You have some solid reason to believe that he's involved?"
"Nope. Nothing solid. But I think the guy's a flake. I saw him in action tonight. I think he's obsessive-compulsive when it comes to Mrs. Darroux. First Jimmy Darroux gets blown up. Now the guy who's living with her— Tomlinson—ends up comatose in a hospital. Maybe there's a connection, maybe there isn't. I don't know if Tullock had the opportunity, and I don't know if he's twisted enough to do it. But the motive is there."
Jackson thought that over. "Mrs. Darroux, the way she looks . . . she packs a wallop. Funny thing is, I didn't notice it at first. But just now, when we were alone in the room . . . whew. Yeah, I can see it." He glanced up at me. "That's all you've got?
A hunch?"
Tomlinson would have found that amusing—me functioning on instinct rather than reason. "That's all," I said. "A hunch."
"I don't know. That other name you gave me is looking pretty good. Kemper Waits? The guy's been in and out of prison. Cocaine trafficking, assault and battery. He was up on a manslaughter charge, but it was dropped. I went to work on it this afternoon after talking to you. But it's all computer stuff. I need more before I try to nail him."
I said, "How about if I drive up to Sulphur Wells tomorrow, do some poking around? See if I can come up with some information on Waits and Raymond Tullock."
"I don't know. . . ."Jackson was studying me, a severe cop-expression on his face. "I think it might be getting too personal for you, Ford. I don't like the tone in your voice. It's a little too light and breezy. You know what they say: Don't try to bullshit a bullshitter."
"I'm just trying to help, Ron—"
"You've already helped. You gave me a good lead." He was still staring at me. "Yeah, I think that's how we'll leave it. You get some rest; go home and have a beer. Let me and my partner work on things. We'll find whoever did it, and I'll let you know. If you want, maybe even let you tag along on the bust."
I smiled amiably. "Geez, Ron. That would be nice."
I was walking with Hannah. Had my left arm over her shoulder. She had her fingers knotted into my left hand. Ahead of us, far down the hall, Detective Jackson stood impatiently at the elevator. I wanted to time it right so that he would have to take the elevator without us. When the doors opened, he looked at us, glanced at his watch. I called, "Go ahead, Ron. We'll catch the next one." He stepped aboard; the elevator doors closed.
Ahead of us, down the hall, was an open, darkened room. When Hannah and I were abreast of the doorway, I swung her into the room. Held her there, my face inches from hers, and said, "Who did it? You know, and you're going to tell me: Who jumped Tomlinson?"
"Hey . . . Ford! You're hurting me!"
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