Mangrove Lightning

by Randy Wayne White

  “In the book. That’s the line, what she told John Thomas. ‘Use me.’”

  She leaned to his ear and whispered, “You know damn well I’m using you.”

  6

  The next afternoon, Tomlinson heard his phone ping, and told Tootsie, “It’s from Doc. He just landed in West Palm . . . Well, that’s what he claims. I’m supposed to meet him on Sanibel tonight.”

  They were in an old Ford F-150 with rod racks and a Monroe County Guides Association sticker on the window. So far, that’s all the old man wanted to talk about, fishing on the Keys in the early years. Jimmie Albright, Jack Brothers, Chico Fernandez—all contemporaries. But not a mention of yesterday, or of what Tootsie’s father had confessed to in a Bible that had to weigh ten pounds.

  Or of Gracie, the missing teenage niece.

  Although taking a laid-back approach, Tomlinson finally had to ask, “Where we headed?” They were on the Tamami Trail driving west, sawgrass all around but strip malls beginning to show. This meant Everglades National Park was behind them.

  “Marco Island, so you can picture it,” Tootsie said. “Where Deputy Cox and his family caught the ferry that night. I’m not exactly sure where they died, but I’ve got a pretty good idea. Then I’ll show you who killed them. Maybe killed Hannah Smith, too—and the name of that man weren’t Cox,” he said as if dangling bait.

  Tomlinson didn’t expect that but listened while the man continued, “God brings people into our lives for a reason. Ain’t nobody else I’ve shared this with, and I trust in the Lord that’s why you’re here.”

  Maybe so. It was strange, the connection they had. This was the first time they’d been in a truck together since five years ago, Key Largo, at the Mandalay Bar, where the First Call Church held Sunday services and sold beer from a cooler. Tootsie had been going through a rough patch. In the space of a year, his father had died, his wife died after a stroke, and squamous cell skin cancer had forced the famous captain into retirement.

  That was the hardest blow of all. Jim Beam and depression might have finished the job, but a mutual friend had asked Tomlinson to intervene.

  The two were an unlikely pair, a legendary flats guide and a boat bum Buddhist, yet they’d hit it off. Establishing a rock-solid anchor is the first step to surviving emotional chaos. The right anchorage varies from person to person. With Tootsie, it was religion. Two days a week for almost a month, they’d attended services of some type. Tomlinson was a poor role model when it came to alcohol, yet he’d cut back on that, too, until, thank god, a local preacher had befriended the old man.

  With his hand out the window, feeling the air, Tomlinson inquired, “By the way, how’s ol’ Reverend Scott doing?”

  “Wouldn’t know. He didn’t like it when I started drinking again. Liked it even less when I told him maybe God had a hand in what’s happening—like I was blaming the Lord. Truth is, I think the preacher’s scared.”

  “Of what?”

  “After you finish Albert’s confession, maybe you can help me figure it out.”

  There was nothing to do but sit back and let the story unfold. They stopped near the bridge into Marco, with its view of the island’s northern point. On that August night long ago, J. H. Cox, his wife, and two children had been lured onto the ferry that crossed to the Isle of Capri. It was mostly swamp in those years but was now wall-to-wall homes.

  No one would ever see the Cox family again.

  Next stop, a mile north, on Collier Boulevard, where mangroves framed both sides of the road. A few days after the deputy disappeared, locals had reported a terrible odor coming from a pond to the west.

  The pond was dragged; nothing found.

  The first page of Albert Barlow’s confession had included some of these details, but what came next was new info. They backtracked to within a mile of the Barlow cabin and turned onto a dirt road.

  Tomlinson recognized the area. “This is where I hiked to the lake—that path that’s chained off. There’s a bunch of old train cars in there. People lived in them, I think, but I couldn’t figure out who would—”

  “Chinamen,” Tootsie said softly. “Just men at first, then whole families.” His demeanor had changed with the terrain. He’d become aggressive with a quiet edge, like the hunter he’d been all his life. “This is where the man brought them—some anyway—the ones he didn’t kill after taking their money and dumping their bodies at sea. The rest, he rented out as slaves.”

  “Chinese immigrants? What a heartless son-uva . . . But it wasn’t your—”

  “No, t’weren’t Albert. There’s a lot he told me before he died; things he should have confessed to God—terrible things. But that’s not who I’m talking about.” He reached down, and the long-barreled revolver was suddenly on the seat between them.

  “God A’mighty, what’s that for?”

  “Watch your language,” Tootsie said. “This here’s a Colt Peacemaker that Albert owned. I don’t travel this area without a gun. He lived back in here a ways—not Albert, the man who did all that killing. His name was Walter Lambeth. You ever hear it? The Chinese called him something else. The Bird Man.”

  “The what?”

  “That’s what they called him, and the name stuck. Doesn’t make much sense, I know. There was nothing birdy about Walter Lambeth. You ever seen old movies of Babe Ruth? He had the same build; same giant head, a nose half as wide as his face. I’ll show you a picture when we get back. A few Chinese still lived in those boxcars when I was a kid. They’d burn incense and ring bells . . . wooden bells. I can still hear them. We’d come back sometimes from the Keys before the war.”

  “Prayer bells.” Tomlinson smiled. “That confirms it. They were Buddhists. I saw what I’m pretty sure are prayer flags—just ribbons now—and a ceremonial area. Did you get to know any of them?”

  “Not with Walter around. He’d beat the fire out of ’em. Or worse.”

  Bird Man. Tomlinson thought about that as they made another turn, Tootsie shifting into four-wheel drive on a trail that weaved through cypress. Ahead in a clearing was a rusted boiler from a steam engine. It stood on end, towering above weeds and a jumble of rusting pipe.

  “A lot of Chinese worked here—the biggest whiskey still in Florida. Thousands of gallons they made, and the train would haul it north in barrels. Albert and the others called it Mangrove Lightning. They used counterfeit labels and sold it as the real McCoy.”

  “Corn liquor?”

  “Sugarcane. That’s a crop that don’t grow natural in Florida, but they planted it thick on every piece of dirt around. I can show you these giant pots where they boiled the juice into slurry. More of a rum than whiskey. Chino Hole’s just through those trees”—the old man motioned, his window down—“close enough to pipe in good water. They did a crackerjack business until Prohibition ended, and Albert moved us to the Keys. Thank the Lord for that.”

  “How long after the cypress was logged out?”

  “Only a few years, then the village went bust, too. We’ve been fighting the feds ever since they took over the railroads, but it’s official now. They own most everything, including the lake. Or soon will. Until then, the bastards got no right to set foot on this land.”

  Tomlinson knew some of the details. “The government’s taking over the end of next week, according to Doc. He’s doing a fish survey, but he can’t start until then. It was in his contract after he won the bid.”

  “Good luck on that,” Tootsie said, more as a warning, then pulled into a drive where iron gates blocked the entrance. “We came the back way, but this is it, the Lambeth place. Used to be an iron foundry with a machine shop. He took it over when the railroad pulled out and the local men—Albert included—were too scared to put up a fuss.”

  A coral block wall framed the boundaries of the property and the building within. It was a massive metal structure, the exterior red with ru
st. Windows—there weren’t many—suggested three floors, none of which invited light.

  “It looks more like a factory.”

  “They serviced train engines here—see those tracks leading in through them big double doors? Had their own foundry to make parts, but it was all shut down by the time I was old enough to remember much. Yeah, Palmetto Station was quite the town before they repealed Prohibition.”

  Spanish moss and oaks dominated the area, yet the place had an industrial feel. Welding torches, molten steel, those visuals sparked through Tomlinson’s head until he noticed movement in a second-floor window.

  “Someone’s up there.”

  “Could be Lambeth’s daughter. I’ve only seen her once and that was years ago. Or a caretaker—I’ve heard different things. That the feds hired someone on the sly or they’re letting her stay ’til she dies.” Amused, Tootsie added, “Same as they’re doing for me. But at least my kin can take possession. Not her; not any of Lambeth’s people.”

  “What’s her name?” Tomlinson asked.

  “It’s because Walter didn’t homestead the property,” the old guide replied. “He was a squatter . . . and maybe because she’s not right in the head, or so I’ve heard. Oh, her name? Let me see . . .”

  “You know for a fact she’s mentally handicapped?”

  “Ada, or something simple,” Tootsie said. “I couldn’t say one way or the other about how she is. The woman was always what you’d call a shut-in. I think she had a relative of some type, too. A son or nephew, I don’t know, who stops by every now and again to look after her, and a couple damn big dogs.”

  “Lambeth’s daughter? Then she must be about your age.”

  “Granddaughter, maybe. No one knows or cares what Walter and his family did. He was an outlaw. You got to understand that. He had a passel of kids. Didn’t bother to send them to school, or even church to get baptized, and there was rumors about him knocking up his own girls. Or Walter’s sons doing it. I heard his boys grew up even bigger than the old man. Meaner, too, which I can’t say ’cause I never seen them.”

  “A shut-in, huh? That’s a hell of a way to live.”

  “Maybe it’s not her. The only vehicle I’ve seen around here is one of those big bucket trucks the power companies use. Keep in mind, I didn’t move back ’til January. I’ve still got my double-wide across from Sharky’s Bar; spend about half my time driving back and forth to Key Largo.”

  “When you were a kid, you ever speak to any of them?”

  “Me speak to a Lambeth?” The question was obviously absurd. “You’ll know why when you read the rest of Albert’s confession. There, that’s what I wanted you to see.” He gestured to the rock wall. “You ever try to build a wall patched with concrete?”

  Tomlinson, still focused on the upstairs window, saw a pumpkin-sized face appear, then it was gone. “Down syndrome,” he said softly. “Is that what people say about her?”

  Tootsie was becoming impatient. “Hell, I don’t know. Some of Lambeth’s kids had that look, but I’m trying to tell you something here. What Albert said before he died.”

  Again, he indicated the wall. “You need rebar to stack rocks that high or the cement won’t hold. But not Walter Lambeth. Know why? I’ll tell you. ’Cause he used bones for bracing.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “Human bones. That’s what they say. Just you wait ’til the feds tear down that wall. Can you imagine all the legal bullshit they’ll have to go through? Some said he boiled off the flesh. Maybe ate it himself or fed it to the workers. Lambeth had different ways of making bodies disappear.” The old fishing guide focused in. “Understand what I want you to understand?”

  “Yeah. The bastard was a psycho killer.” Tomlinson sat back, looked into the man’s face, and realized he was serious. “Lambeth actually ate his victims?”

  Tootsie, shaking his head, said, “What I’m saying is, this is a bad place. You and Marion need to know that before you go messing about that lake. Even as a kid, we didn’t swim in Chino Hole. Fished there, sure. Every spring, tarpon would show up, then disappear come winter. It wasn’t ’til I started guiding that I wondered how that was possible.”

  He put the truck in reverse and continued talking while he turned around. “The Chinese, I remember one saying there were lakes like that in the Bahamas. Tunnels that went too deep for any man. There was a monster he claimed lived down there, kind of an octopus with a lizard head. I don’t believe that. But you know what I do believe?”

  Tomlinson wasn’t listening. He’d drifted off to a zone where veils parted into an unfamiliar corridor.

  “If a seven-foot tarpon can find Chino Hole from the open sea, then guess what?” Tootsie shifted into drive. “Any animal that swims can find it, too.”

  —

  Around seven, Tomlinson said good-bye to the guide and left for Sanibel, intending to enjoy the easy hour’s drive. Instead, he found himself drawn to the same wire barricade where he’d parked earlier before hiking to the lake.

  Weird, the attraction he felt for the place. He tried calling Ford as a heads-up he might be late. No answer. After leaving a message, he re-lit the joint he’d rolled to facilitate cognition. He was a sailor, for god’s sake, not a swamp stomper, so why was he sitting here trying to summon the nerve to do another spooky recon?

  Twenty minutes, at least, he’d wasted. Christ . . . No, it had been an hour, if the clock in his VW van was to be trusted.

  He sat back and did the math. The clock was right. Had to be. He’d paid extra for the Deluxe Swiss Alps Touring package—a fridge and an automatic pop-top, plus a folding bed—so all the chronometric options were no doubt first-rate.

  The fact was, he was seriously stoned. Okay, then he’d have to walk it off. He got out of the van and slammed the door, determined to look this madness in the eye.

  The recon did not go well.

  Within the shadows of cypress swamp, abandoned railcars taunted him. The deathless howls of the undead assembled into a single voice; a warning neither male nor female.

  The voice whispered, If you run, he will catch you.

  “Yeah? I’ll stick a bumper up his ass,” Tomlinson replied aloud. “Catch this,” and flipped a bird to the shadows.

  He started the van intending to flee via the main road, Route 29, but made a series of ill-advised turns. The trail somehow led into the same swampy area where Tootsie had shifted into four-wheel drive. Of the many features included in the Deluxe Swiss Alps Package, this option was not available.

  The van began to fishtail. Tomlinson accelerated, careful not to over-steer. A brace of cypress trees jumped in front of him—a close call that required a braking technique he’d learned as a delinquent. Once stopped, he again called upon the accelerator for deliverance.

  Tires spun; mud flew.

  Come on . . . Come on, damn you.

  Back and forth he rocked the vehicle, until he knew it would bury itself to the axles if he persisted.

  He got out and slammed the door, yelling, “Only a rube would tour the Alps without four-wheel drive. Lying Kraut bastards.”

  Well . . . it wasn’t too bad. What he needed was leverage and something under the tires for traction. Scattered metal waste came to mind. A couple of slabs of limestone would be useful, too. Only a few hundred yards ahead, both could be found at the abandoned foundry, Walter Lambeth’s place—if he wasn’t attacked by two giant dogs that maybe still lived there.

  Was there another option?

  Nope.

  He dreaded the hike, yet, on the bright side, Tootsie had claimed this was the back way to the place. Supposedly, the main entrance was just off Route 29. Once free of the mud, his limp-dicked van could fly him out of harm’s way to freedom.

  So be it.

  He grabbed a few necessities and set off, wondering, What other hellish tests awa
it?

  A gust of wind and the odor of rain. That’s what awaited. Thunder, at least, cloaked his mutterings when the rust-black building came into view. To the right, the steam boiler appeared tiny by comparison. He crept to the gate, looked in, then trotted on tiptoe past the house to pilfer what he needed.

  Every few seconds, his eyes panned along the upstairs windows. No movement; no sounds coming from inside. Hard to be certain because the squall pushed a boiling wind. Visibility was suspect, too. Clouds had drained color from the sunset sky.

  Tomlinson felt no bolder but hurried anyway. A chunk of two-by-four went under his arm. This was abandoned in favor of a length of rusted steel. He used it to pry loose a couple of limestone blocks near the base of the wall—then jumped back.

  Shit-oh-dear.

  Among the rubble was a partial jawbone. A single canine tooth snarled up at him. Panicking, he grabbed one of the blocks but dropped the pry bar. He knelt to retrieve it . . . then froze because of what he saw through the gate.

  A woman had exited the house . . . No, she’d come from behind the machine shop attached to the foundry. A huge woman, shapeless in a baggy sack dress, or misshapen by age and girth. No doubt female. Glossy blond hair, cut short with curls, was as incongruous as the gloves and clodhopper boots she wore.

  Tomlinson, on hands and knees, retreated into the bushes to watch.

  The woman was dragging something attached to a rope. An ox towing a sled—her struggles were similar. When she was closer, he saw what it was: a bundle of large bamboo poles, all the branches trimmed. By then, she was almost to the gate.

  Too late to flee.

  He hunkered lower and soon heard, “Hey, hey, good-lookin’, what’cha got dah-dah. How ’bout cookin’ up dah-dah-dah-dah-dee . . .”

  Singing as she worked; a familiar Hank Williams tune. The wheezing lyrics would have been child-like were it not for her gravelly baritone.

  The gate clanked open. She struggled past, only a few yards away from him.

  “Hey, hey, sweet dah-dee . . . Don’t ya’ think maybe . . .”