Tomlinson watched from astern the woman’s bulk as she continued through the weeds toward the boiler. Wind lingered with her passing. He got a whiff of something foul that heavy perfume could not cover.
Gad . . . what a sad, sad beast of a person. Normally, he would have felt empathy—women considered unattractive by Hollywood standards were, to him, unplumbed treasures. Instead, an involuntary gag reflex vetoed all but the basest of fears.
He lay trapped. Pattering rain swept the trees; thunder boomed as the squall plowed closer. Yet the woman went about her business, loosey-goosey and at ease, as if performing a daily chore.
Perhaps she was.
She separated herself from the bamboo, shouldered the poles en masse and leaned them against the boiler. Spooky, the strength this required. There were a dozen or more, some of the damn things fifteen feet tall and thick as his arm.
A shovel appeared. Still humming, she dug a series of holes around the boiler. Now it was pouring rain. No matter. One by one, she planted the poles so they formed a massive circle. Each was anchored to the ground with wire and a single stake.
A giant bamboo cage—that’s what the structure resembled. Housed within was the steam engine boiler.
Bizarre.
When she was done, the woman lumbered toward the gate, indifferent to the storm. Tomlinson cowered as she approached. He heard the clank of a latch, then waited a full minute before risking a breath. When he poked his head up, she was halfway to the house but staring in his direction through a mask of dripping hair.
“Hey . . . Looky there! Ain’t you the handsome one,” she called while battling a cough—no . . . it was her attempt at a girlish giggle.
Tomlinson didn’t want to believe she was speaking to him. He splayed, belly down, hoping to resemble roadkill.
“Aw, playing possum—and flirty, too,” she yelled. “Tell you what. I won’t let loose the dogs if you promise to . . .” The rest was blurred by a lightning sizzle and thunderous sparks that spewed out of the old boiler.
When he looked up, she was galloping toward the house with the fervor of a woman who’d been spurned, or, perhaps, had suffered a sudden polarizing mood swing.
The zigzag pattern was distinctive. He’d seen it often enough in ex-lovers to know.
He grabbed the pry rod, the block of limestone, and hightailed it back through the deluge and darkness—so dark that what he saw as he neared the van stopped him cold.
The dome light was on. The doors, which he’d locked, were both open wide.
He crept closer. He saw nothing to confirm it, but he knew someone—or some thing—lay in wait, hoping he would investigate.
Tomlinson did an about-face, and reminded himself, Don’t run.
7
That afternoon, Ford returned to Sanibel Island during a tropical squall. Not by seaplane. The Maule was on the mainland in a private hangar where his old GMC pickup had been waiting. The timing had been ideal for a man who preferred not to be seen coming or going, or even noticed—particularly after the events in the Bahamas.
For this reason, he didn’t make inquiries when Tomlinson failed to appear as they’d arranged via text earlier in the day. The mystic boat bum, although usually dependable, sometimes ran amok if tempted by sybaritic needs, not unlike a beagle tracking anything in heat.
No worries.
There was plenty to keep the biologist busy. He’d been gone four days from his old house and lab built on stilts in the shallows of Dinkin’s Bay. There was a stack of mail on the table, and several notes tacked to the screen door. In the lab, a dozen glowing aquariums contained fish, crabs, sea horses, and varieties of filtering species that needed tending to. Jeth, a fishing guide, and a young Cuban girl, Sabina, had done a good job of taking care of things, but Ford was fussy—“methodical,” as he preferred to think of it.
The next morning, though, still no Tomlinson. That did worry him. The man didn’t answer his cell, nor was his goofy-looking VW van in the parking lot. The upper deck of Ford’s house was twelve feet above the water. He didn’t need binoculars to confirm his pal wasn’t aboard the sailboat No Más, or that his dinghy was beached in its regular spot when he came ashore.
Ford began to pace while he called Gillian. As they talked, he went through the notes he hadn’t read the night before. One was from Hannah Smith, an ace fishing guide and former lover, who’d been inexplicably chilly for the last several weeks.
He read it again after hanging up: Pete swam out to my boat, so I brought him home. As his “owner,” you should know I was fishing Blind Pass with clients when it happened. This was three days ago. If you find someone willing to provide the care he needs, text me, and I’ll drop him by the marina. No need to call.
Pete was Ford’s dog. Blind Pass was six miles away by water. Half that distance if the dog—a retriever of uncertain lineage—had trotted north on the bike path, then leapt off the bridge. Even so, Hannah’s note was downright icy.
What the hell was her problem? Retrievers liked to swim. So what? The dog could wind-scent a soft touch from miles away—that was obvious. Hannah was all legs and dark eyes within a shield of steel when it came to Ford. But an animal? A wet nose and fur brought out the sappiest of maternal instincts.
That damn dog . . . he was probably bloated on steak bones and sleeping on her bed at this very instant.
Never call a woman while angry, Ford counseled himself.
His resolve lasted all of two minutes. Fortunately, as he dialed, the phone buzzed in his hand.
When he answered, Tomlinson’s voice asked, “Have you ever been chased by cannibals, then tried to hitchhike through the Everglades at night during a lightning storm? Don’t answer. I need a ride.”
“Where are you?”
“Within a stone’s throw of two rednecks who just called me a long-haired dick smoker. This was after they snagged my cash, so, believe me, I’m tempted.”
Ford said carefully, “You don’t really mean—”
“Tempted to throw rocks, Einstein. Goddamn, you’re dumb sometimes. Get your butt down here, we’ve got trouble—if you happen to be somewhere east of Fumbuck-all. I’ll need a twelve-pack at the very least, and there’s a little baggie of weed hidden under your shortwave radio that—”
Ford interrupted, “How stoned are you?”
Click.
Ford was still repeating, “Hello? . . . Hello? . . .” when Tomlinson called back. “I’m sick of that idiotic question. Understand? I’ll punch you right in the mouth if you ever ask me again.”
“What? What did I say?”
“I’m not in the mood, Marion. Pack a bag, kiss the fish or whatever it is your spook protocol demands, then borrow a vehicle with four-wheel drive—preferably a Jeep built within the current century. I need help. As in H-E-L-fucking-P. How soon can you get here?”
“These two guys, they actually robbed you?”
“Extortion, would be more accurate. Picture a couple of hillbilly Uber drivers who nixed their basic dental plans. They were kind enough to stop after chasing me into a ditch. Time’s money, you know. If they don’t get an extra hundred bucks, they’ve threatened to search my mouth for gold. Trust me, they could use an extra tooth or three.”
Ford said, “Listen to me. Take off, running. I mean it. Cross-country. Are they watching?”
“Excellent idea—nothing but swamp and gators in every direction. We’re about seven miles northwest of Palmetto Station, a dirt road called Jane’s Scenic Drive. Scenic, my ass; there hasn’t been a car through here since sunrise.”
“Are they armed?” Ford had left the lab and was in his bedroom, packing some items he’d recently unpacked, a couple of them locked in a floor safe.
“You’ve got to be shitting me. We’re talking the Deliverance twins, Zeke and his brother, Zeke Junior. Hang on a sec.” There was a short muffled exchang
e before he returned. “Now it’s two hundred bucks. I think they’re stockpiling cash to buy something warm and fuzzy—a critter of their very own.”
“How do they know you’re not talking to the cops?”
“After they found a bag of weed on me, and some peyote buttons, we decided the honor system was, you know, the civilized way to handle matters. Jesus Christ, I wish you could hear yourself sometimes . . . You’ll need a map, a good one, to find this place.”
“How far?”
“A little over an hour, depending on bandits and other insane bullshit I prefer not to list.” Tomlinson provided directions, then dropped the sarcasm. “It’s been a hell of a night, man. I got my van stuck—I’ll tell you the rest later, but that’s not the worst of it. First thing I did was hike back to Tootsie’s place. He wasn’t there.”
Ford shouldered a Vertx tactical bag, grabbed his keys, and went out the door. “Keep them talking. If they ask, say your sister . . . No, say a disabled pal of yours is on the way with money. That I’m crippled. It’ll put them at ease.”
“Did you hear what I said? The front window of Tootsie’s cabin’s busted, and he’s gone. His truck, too. I’m worried about the old guy.”
“Keep the hillbilly twins laughing,” Ford said. “And one more thing . . . Are you paying attention?”
“Only one of us is, apparently.”
“When I get out of my truck, run. I’ll scratch my chin, or wave, or something, after I’ve had a look at them. Like a sign. And I mean run.”
“Where? I just told you—”
“Doesn’t matter. Here’s the important thing: when you run, don’t look back—and plug your ears.”
—
Tomlinson was trying to convince one of the brothers, Zeke, that the peyote buttons he held were worthless pomegranate seeds, for that’s what the cactus buds resembled, miniature pomegranates.
“Then why’d you hide them with all that good weed?” Zeke asked.
Zeke Jr. echoed, “Yeah, why?”
Talking was better than watching these two plink away at turtles and wading birds with rifles, but not much better. The question was asked in a bullying way that was standard for these scraggly yahoos—skinny bastards with tattoos and boney eye sockets. Maybe both weren’t named Zeke. Hell, maybe they weren’t brothers, but they looked enough alike to be white trash clones; born from similar loins, women immune to stabbings and trailer park fires.
Tomlinson said patiently, “You don’t smoke them, you plant them,” which wasn’t the first lie he’d floated that morning. His most outlandish, yet wisest, offering had been: “If doctors had tested me for AIDS ten years ago, I would’ve spent about a thousand bucks on condoms. Most guys wouldn’t see the humor.”
Oh, the Zeke twins laughed and laughed, but they, by god, kept their distance after that.
Zeke Jr. grabbed one of the peyote buttons, eyed it, and said, “Can’t smoke ’em don’t mean you can’t eat ’em,” and took a bite. “Whew! . . . This some bitter shit!”
Brother Zeke said, “Let me try,” and swallowed the other half.
Tomlinson thought, Let the games begin.
Two peyote buttons later, the brothers were staggering around, retching near the swamp buggy they’d used to chase him down after sunrise. It was a roofless truck on giant knobbed wheels, with vertical gun racks and a stereo system that wasn’t too bad—until they’d switched from country to wigger rap.
Gad, what a grating intrusion into an otherwise miserable, mosquito-hazed morning in the Everglades.
When one hollered, “Turn that shit up!” and climbed aboard to get a rifle, Tomlinson knew the kimchi was about to hit the fan. He began walking backwards, searching for a place to hide.
That’s when Ford’s old GMC pickup appeared. Turquoise with white trim—obviously equipped with four-wheel drive, a detail that had slipped the Zen master’s mind. It fishtailed around a curve, a half mile away on this muddy one-lane trail. Coming fast, sawgrass and water on both sides.
“Hey . . . looky there. Is that your sister? She ain’t got no money, driving a wreck like that.” Zeke Jr. had to study the truck through a rifle scope before remembering, “Oh, your buddy, the crippled guy. I forgot. He better have our two hundred bucks. We earned it, saving your ass out here in gator country.”
That was their gambit—they hadn’t robbed him; they’d rescued another long-haired city boy from his own wandering stupidity. Tomlinson wondered, How many others have they humiliated—or worse?
“Put the guns down,” he told them. “My friend’s a . . . disabled vet. You’ll make him nervous.”
“Vet?” Zeke said. “Hell, I’ve owned about a thousand dogs and a hundred head of cattle, and I ain’t never had need to pay a vet for nothing. If a man can’t take care of his own livestock, he don’t deserve ’em . . . Zeke?”
Zeke Jr. said, “I don’t think he means that kinda vet.”
“Shut up. Throw me down my gun . . . No, dumbass, not the .22. I want my AR.”
Now they both had rifles; sighting down the barrels as the truck slowed for an instant, then accelerated, and kept accelerating, the chrome GMC grillwork laden with intent as if to run them down. Onward the truck came, a hundred yards away . . . fifty yards, moving faster; Ford, wearing wire-rimmed glasses, both big hands visible on the wheel.
“Whoa! . . . Dude’s crazy. Look at him come.” Zeke Jr., from atop the swamp buggy, glanced back as if he might leap for cover.
“Want me to put a round through his tires?”
“Hell? Through the windshield, if he don’t slow down. Shit, dude . . . he’ll stop, just you wait and see.”
Tomlinson found himself drawn to the middle of the road to screen his pal from bullets, but the truck did stop—when the emergency brake was jammed to the floor. Wheels locked; the truck spun, bed first, and came to rest a respectful distance away.
“That there’s some fancy-ass driving,” Zeke Jr. hooted. He was buzzed enough on peyote to appreciate NASCAR artistry, and lowered the rifle.
His brother did not. “What an asshole. Ought to put a round through the bastard’s belly,” he said, scared enough to do it.
When Ford got out and straightened his glasses, Tomlinson thought, Uh-oh. The biologist had zilch for acting skills. No one in their right mind would believe the man was disabled.
“How’s that bum leg of yours?” Tomlinson hollered as a reminder. “All these guys want is their money. Right, guys?”
Ford ignored him and started toward the big-wheeled swamp buggy despite the guns. He wore black gloves, and earbuds on a lanyard around his neck.
Earbuds? This was strange for a man who professed to dislike rock music. Equally strange, in his right hand was what might have been a large can of bug spray except for its brass, bell-shaped cap.
Zeke, tracking him through a scope, hollered, “Show us the money before you take another damn step.”
The biologist stopped, rubbed his chin for effect, then continued toward the Deliverance twins.
Rubbed his chin . . . ? Christ—only then did Tomlinson remember what he was supposed to do. He pivoted and jogged away but couldn’t help watching over his shoulder as Ford raised the metal can, and yelled, “Get on your bellies. I’m not going to tell you again.”
Zeke found that funny. “You’re a big talker, for a man carrying deodorant. Bring it on, big ’un, while I shoot you in the—”
That’s all Tomlinson heard before a dazzling light pierced his head. No . . . it was a high-frequency sound with a razor’s edge. The pain—excruciating. He stumbled, fell. When he looked up, his eyeballs vibrated. The sky appeared to melt in vibrato sync with a terrible lancing whine.
Unbearable. He plugged his ears and nearly vomited. Pain ceased . . . or he’d been struck deaf. No matter. He came close to vomiting again before pulling a finger free as an experime
nt.
Yes, thank god. He was stone deaf.
He got to his feet and wobbled toward Ford. The Deliverance twins were writhing on the ground while the biologist calmly went through their billfolds. He glanced up. “How much cash did they take?”
Every word was clear, as if nothing had happened. “I can hear!” Tomlinson grinned. “Say something else—I want to be sure.”
Ford, glaring, said, “It doesn’t mean much if you don’t listen. Get in the truck while I go through their stuff.”
They were on Route 29, headed for the Barlow cabin, before Ford revisited the issue. “The next time I tell you to plug your ears—”
“No shit, Sherlock,” Tomlinson said. “You don’t have to tell me twice. Where do you get these vicious toys of yours? No—don’t tell me.”
He was reading the back of the “aerosol can” that warned FOR EXPERIMENTAL USE ONLY. IF FOUND, CONTACT DIVISION OF SONIC WEAPONRY, TAOS, N.M., UNDER PENALTY OF LAW.
Ford continued, “I left the marijuana and your other drugs in their swamp buggy. Hid it all in a wheel well for cops to find. Hopefully, they will.” He glanced over, pleased by the stricken look on Tomlinson’s face.
“Man, that’s just . . . cruel. My peyote buttons, too?”
“Especially your damn peyote.”
The Zen master sulked for a while, then looked up in alarm when the biologist found the main entrance to the Lambeth property and turned in. “Man, this isn’t the way to Tootsie’s place. I wanted to stop there first.”
“I know how to read a map” was the reply. Ford slowed when the boiler came into view, pulled over by the iron gate.
“Shit a’fire, keep going. My van’s another quarter mile, and Tootsie’s cabin, you’ve got to come in from the other way.”
“Where’s the lake?”
“Through those trees. Seriously, the woman who lives here could snap your neck like a pretzel. You don’t even want to think about what might happen if she gets you on the ground.”
Ford stepped out and stretched. “Any woman who scares you, I want to meet. I’ll be working here in a week, so might as well get it over with. You said yourself this is the easiest access.”
Mangrove Lightning Page 7