Mangrove Lightning

by Randy Wayne White

  Ford shouldered his computer bag, and crossed the lobby to the elevators.

  —

  From the eighth floor, Montagu Bay was a turquoise basin encrusted with slums and ox cart traffic on the eastern fringe. Spaced along the waterfront were resort compounds; postcard enclaves that were separated from Nassau’s realities by armed guards and tastefully disguised concertina wire.

  The biologist no longer wondered why tourists came to places like this. People seldom traveled. Not really. Travel was too damn unpredictable. Instead, they contrived daydreams. They chose template fictions that matched, or came close enough to, the vacation they wanted to describe to their friends back home.

  Near the elevator was a house phone. He dialed housekeeping, and told the woman, “I’m a dope. Can you please send someone up with a key to eight-oh-three? I locked myself out.”

  “Your name, sir?”

  “James Lutz.” That was the name the porn dealer was using.

  “When security arrives,” the woman added, “show them your passport, Mr. Lutz.”

  “Have him bring a bucket of ice, too,” the biologist replied.

  He was palming a twenty-euro bill when a kid wearing a name badge appeared, used a passkey, and bowed him into the room. “Hang on, I’ve got something for you.” Inside the closet, as anticipated, was a wall safe, which he fiddled with before giving up. “Damn . . . must have punched in the number wrong. What’s the default code? I need my wallet.”

  The kid opened the safe, and stepped back in deference to this solid-looking American who exuded confidence, but in a friendly way that suggested he was also generous.

  “Thank you, Mr. Lutz,” the kid said, accepting the twenty. No eye contact; he backed out of the room.

  “You’re supposed to see this.” The fake passport earned only a dutiful glance.

  He has no future in the security trade, Ford rationalized when the kid was gone. I did him a favor.

  On the other hand, probably not. Child pornography was a billion-dollar international industry. Nassau was the ancillary stronghold for a Russian network that branched into Haiti, Indonesia, and the Middle East, particularly Muslim regions where daughters were treated as chattel. Children provided a steady income to jihadists who enjoyed beheading infidels. When word got out that a low-level dealer had lost incriminating files while drinking at the pool bar, Jimmy Lutz, or whatever his name was, would beg first for his life, then a painless bullet.

  If he lived that long.

  Wearing gloves and a jeweler’s eyepiece, Ford secured an adhesive keystroke transmitter to Lutz’s laptop. The translucent tape was two inches long and thinner than a human hair. Once mounted on the screen’s black border, it became invisible, which Ford confirmed, before returning the laptop to its case.

  Next, the safe. He photographed the contents: a wallet, two passports, a bundle of cash, and half a dozen ultra-secure biometric thumb drives. Three platinum thumb drives, three stealth black. Ford’s employer, a Swiss agency, had anticipated this, but had provided him with only four stealth versions. He switched out the three black thumb drives, and repositioned each exactly as he’d found it before closing the safe.

  Ford had also anticipated that Jimmy Lutz was in Nassau on a working vacation. On the bed, a Dacor dive bag lay next to a leather suitcase and a valet parking ticket. He unzipped the bag and removed a buoyancy compensator vest attached to a four-hose regulator.

  The gear looked new.

  Using a multi-tool, he popped a pin, removed the regulator’s cover; next, a lubricating seal and the main diaphragm. A stainless valve seat and plunger were cupped within. With a drop of water-soluble glue, he seated an object that would clog the system when it broke free but would dissolve without a trace within twenty minutes. He did the same to the backup regulator, then returned everything to the bag.

  There was no such thing as a zero signature robbery unless the victim wasn’t alive to report the crime. No guarantees when or if it would happen, but a nice touch if the man had booked an afternoon dive.

  When Ford was done, he consulted photos of the room to be sure it was exactly as he’d found it, then cracked the door and eyeballed the hallway.

  Damn it . . . Lumbering toward him was Jimmy Lutz after only twenty minutes at the tiki bar. Maybe he’d left his wallet, or needed cigars. Ford hurried past the bed, pocketed the valet ticket, then exited onto the balcony, closing the curtains and sliding doors.

  “You . . . bastard . . . get your hands off me,” a woman said from nearby. British accent. She sounded more startled than mad. A neighboring balcony was empty, but billowing curtains suggested the woman was in the adjoining suite. Ford’s attention wavered until a slamming door told him Lutz was in the room. Lights came on within, then heavy feet flip-flopped toward him, as the woman, voice louder, threatened, “I’ll call the police, by god, if you don’t get out of here right now.”

  Lutz heard her; curtains parted. Ford hugged the wall while the man peered out, his face inches away through the glass. Satisfied the woman wasn’t on his balcony, Lutz engaged the dead bolt and swept the curtains closed.

  Ford was trapped. He waited, hearing a mix of sounds from the adjoining suite: a clatter of furniture; the woman gasping, “Damn you . . . that hurts,” and other indecipherable noises that signaled a struggle. Or was it a kinky twosome enjoying rough love?

  Inside Lutz’s room, a toilet flushed. A door suctioned curtains, then banged closed.

  The porn dealer was gone.

  Ford grabbed his tactical bag before testing the sliding doors. Yes, they were locked. He swung a leg over the railing, ignored the dizzying distance to the beach below, and made the long step to the next balcony, which was screened by landscape foliage. A potted plant crashed to the tile when he pushed his bag through, then followed. Beyond billowing curtains, through open doors, the room went silent.

  Standing, looking in, he was prepared to apologize to the couple until he accessed the scene. A fit man wearing medical whites and a name badge glared back—a massage therapist whose table had collapsed on the floor during a struggle. Askew on the table, still battling to cover her body with a sheet, was the brunette he’d seen by the pool.

  “Didn’t know you was there, sir,” the man glowered. “She want to call the constables, fine, but what you think they’ll say? She’s the one requested MY services.”

  In Nassau, even extortion threats sounded as melodic as a woodwind flute.

  “Are you hurt?” Ford asked the woman. He pushed the curtains aside and stepped in.

  She was confused, and mad enough to sputter, “I want this bastard fired. If you work for the hotel, I want to file a—”

  “That man don’t work here,” the therapist said. Until then, he’d been backing toward the door. Now, looking from Ford to the broken pottery outside, he figured out the situation. “Yeah, what the police gonna say? This guest hire me, take her clothes off, her own free accord. I already know who they gonna believe.”

  “You cheeky son of a bitch.” The woman tried to scoot away; the sheet fell. She folded her arms to cover herself until Ford yanked the sheet free and tossed it over her. He wore a baggy white guayabera shirt, tails out to cover the waistband of his khaki slacks. Again he asked the woman if she was hurt.

  “Who are you?” she demanded. “For Christ’s sake, call the manager . . . or do something. This man tried to rape me.”

  “Naw, come on,” the therapist said in a soothing way. “That ain’t true. You want to know the real problem? This fella come here to rob you, that’s what they’ll figure out. Why else he climb over that balcony? You being such a wealthy lady, they’ll know a poor boy like me wouldn’t do nothing so stupid.”

  “Bastard,” the woman said, while the man grinned.

  “Ain’t you the spicy one,” he countered. “I’m not the type to make trouble, so tell you what
. Mister, I’m willing to leave polite-like—but I want compensation for all the fun I missed, plus the coin you lost me. Sound fair?”

  “Very fair,” Ford said. He reached back as if for a billfold but came up with a 9mm pistol and leveled the sights at the man’s nose.

  “Where do you want it?” he asked.

  The massage therapist, no longer smiling, said, “Shit, man. What the . . . Don’t make me take that away from you, ’cause you won’t like what happens next.”

  Staring over the sights, Ford cocked the pistol, and spoke to the woman: “Get some clothes on and call the police, if that’s what you want. But not from here. There’s a house phone near the elevators.”

  The therapist turned to her. “See there, Miz Cobourg! He plans to shoot me ’cause he don’t want witnesses,” while the woman asked Ford, “Is it true? The constables won’t believe me?”

  “Not a chance,” Ford said. “You made the appointment through the concierge?”

  “Of course,” she said, then understood the implications. “Oh hell. Yes, it was a damn fool thing to do, I suppose.” She got to her feet with the sheet around her, no longer afraid, just angry and undecided.

  “It happens a lot in places like this. If you’re worried about headlines, I’d pack your things now and not look back. Or just forget it.”

  “Who are you?” she asked again.

  “In my bag, there’s a roll of duct tape,” Ford replied. Then, to the therapist, said, “Get on the floor or I’ll shoot you in the knee.”

  The woman, kneeling over the tan tactical bag, said, “I shouldn’t have come. I didn’t think I’d be recognized here.”

  —

  He waited for the elevator doors to close before dialing valet parking. “This is Mr. Lutz, room eight-oh-three, would you bring my car around? A lady friend will be there in a minute. Please load her bags.”

  When Ford stepped out into the salt-dense heat, the brunette, wearing sunglasses and a scarf, was in the left-side passenger seat of a raven blue Range Rover. He folded a twenty-euro note around the valet ticket, and confided to the attendant, “If a man shows up claiming to be me, it’s the lady’s husband. Understand?”

  “A jealous one . . . Yes, sir,” the attendant agreed.

  Ford added another bill. “Can you blame him? I’ll double this if you give us time for a quiet dinner.”

  The woman didn’t speak until they were heading north on East Bay Road. “Did you shoot him?”

  Puzzling, the cool way she was handling this, both now and in the room. Instead of hysterics and pointed questions about why he was armed, she remained subdued; no . . . distracted, as if she had more important matters on her mind.

  “I taped his mouth, that’s all. I can drop you at another hotel, but that might not be smart. Depends on how the police deal with it.”

  “Then what was that noise as I was walking to the elevator? I heard something, a sharp bang or thud. It came from my room. For god’s sake, please tell me you didn’t.”

  Ford pretended to concentrate on the road. “If there’s no reason to stay in Nassau, there are daily flights to Cuba. It’s a lot more scenic—and safer.”

  She lowered her window, saying, “Dear Jesus, you did. You shot him.”

  “You wouldn’t have gotten in the car if you believed that.” He looked over at her profile, the wind tangling her hair. “Or maybe you would’ve.”

  “I was unaware I had a choice. A man with a gun comes over my balcony, I assume you’ve been paid to shadow me. A security agent of some sort—who else carries a roll of tape and three passports in his bag?”

  For a moment, she made eye contact; an up-down sweep, then was done with him. “I’ll admit you don’t look the part. More like a math prof I fancied at university. The type you surprise in the stacks at a library, who spills soup on his tie.” She touched a button and lounged back. Her window slid into place, sealing out the monoxide din of traffic. “Aren’t those always the ones who fool you?”

  Ford braked left-footed, swung around a pedicab, and turned abruptly onto Baillou Hill Road, before consulting his mirror. It was four miles to the south side of the island. He drove for a while. “Cobourg—I’m not familiar with the name. What should I call you?”

  “I’d prefer you didn’t.”

  “For now, at least. He said you’re wealthy. Are you an heiress or an actress?”

  Cynical laughter was the response. “Come off it, please. You know precisely who I am. Who hired you?”

  He’d been wrong. Her aloofness didn’t signal distraction, nor was she subdued. It signaled indifference. A woman who didn’t care what happened. It suggested she was very rich, or had powerful connections . . . or was teetering on an emotional ledge.

  Ford’s eyes darted from the mirror to his phone. He touched redial and handed it to her. “A friend of mine should answer. When he does, tell him to book two seats for us to Lauderdale and two seats to Havana. The earliest possible flights; doesn’t matter which airlines. He’s got my name and Amex number. You can text him the rest of your information. He’s not the type to carry a notebook.”

  “Just like that, huh? Four seats, only two people. Are we traveling separately?”

  “Stay in Nassau, if you want. Keep in mind police don’t report sexual assaults here—not if a tourist is involved. It’s bad for the local economy.”

  Her window scrolled halfway down, then up again. “Filthy little island, isn’t it? I was shocked when that clod recognized me. I certainly didn’t register under my real name.” She paused. “The boy at the valet called you Mr. Lutz. I assume that’s not your name. You nicked some poor fool’s rental car, didn’t you?”

  Tomlinson’s phone was ringing. Ford heard it while he studied the mirror, where a beat-up white van had joined a black Nissan.

  Before putting the phone to her ear, she asked, “Why don’t you speak to him? He’s your friend.”

  “I need both hands to drive.” He downshifted and accelerated; made a sharp turn onto Cowpen Road, then swung abruptly onto a sand trail that ribboned downward through a landslide of shacks, the Caribbean Sea beyond.

  “We’re being followed,” he said. “Keep your head down while you talk. One of them has a gun.”

  2

  Tomlinson had hoped to get his first look at the lake, Chino Hole, and Tootsie Barlow’s cabin by now. Unfortunately, Tomlinson, the Zen master, was lost. Alone, too; east of Naples, off a stretch of lonely asphalt, State Route 29, that fishtailed north through sawgrass to Immokalee, then Labelle sixty miles away.

  Break down out here, he thought, something with scales will eat you.

  After a mile of cabbage palms, the sand road was blocked by a rusty chain. No room to turn around because a canal ran along one side, a deep ditch on the other.

  He got out and pissed into the ditch, where a stack of railroad ties lay among poison ivy. Beyond, through the mossy gloom, several old boxcars had been abandoned. Entangled by vines, the cars resembled huge rock formations.

  An old train trestle, he realized. Beyond the chain, the road burrowed arrow-straight, but no wider than a cart path, through the trees.

  Except for the chain, the area matched Tootsie’s description of the road that led to his cabin. In the 1920s, Barlow’s family had settled near a train outpost that had prospered until all the big timber was logged out. Then Prohibition ended. With no whiskey or cypress to haul, the Seaboard Line had gone tits-up. In this part of Florida anyway. Until then, the Barlows had been railroad gypsies. So they’d migrated south to Key Largo, learned fishing as a trade, but still owned sixty swampy acres north of Carnestown and Jerome.

  Continue driving or explore on foot? Tomlinson was deciding when “Wild Thing” erupted from his phone. Ford’s name flashed on the screen.

  “How’d your talk go, Doc? If you gave a talk.”

  To
his confusion, a woman with a silky British accent said, “Your friend would like some . . . would like . . . he’d like airline seats booked, if you please. Do you have a pen . . . a pen and paper . . . handy?” It sounded as if she were on a roller coaster, the way her voice jumped tracks. Lots of bouncy, banging background noise as if a car were careening down a hill.

  He sighed. Welcome to Marion Ford’s world.

  “Sure,” Tomlinson said. “Let me speak to Doc.”

  “Who? Oh.” She muffled the phone, then returned. “He’s rather busy at the moment—learning to drive, I’m afraid. I’ll try to make this as brief as . . . For god’s sake, do slow down.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Sorry, sorry. Not you. The roads here are rubbish. Tell me something. Is your friend crooked or is he mad?”

  “If you’re not sure, trust me, he isn’t mad. Usually, he’s just . . . well, dull. Why the airline reservations? I’m not his secretary, you know.”

  “Has he ever killed anyone? Intentionally, I mean. Oh, brilliant . . . this should be interesting. To the left, for god’s sake . . . Stay to the left!”

  Tomlinson replied, “I like your style. Who are you?”

  “Never mind that,” she said. “He wants reservations out of Nassau.” Then Ford came on the phone, saying, “This is important. She’ll text you the rest. We’re flying out as soon as possible.”

  He hung up.

  Tomlinson stood there, thinking, What the hell?

  The woman’s voice was something he could fall in love with. Understated irony; an amused calm that hinted of lacy lingerie beneath a starched blouse veneer. He pictured her: black high heels and a glimpse of cleavage served with high tea.

  Why the hell was she with Ford? The biologist was no barrel of laughs—well, except for the time he’d accidently eaten magic mushrooms on a piece of baked fish. Psilocybin had unleashed three hours of snappy insights and repartee from a man who’d never limboed in his life. Clearly, the two were in trouble of some type. Nothing new there, which was okay. Trouble was well within Ford’s wheelhouse. He was a steady, resourceful man.