Mangrove Lightning

by Randy Wayne White

  “About two hundred pounds north of sixty,” Tomlinson said, and opened the glove box on a hunch. There it was, a receipt from a Shop-N-Go on Marco Boulevard. He did a quick scan, mumbling, “Wonder Bread, chips, Mountain Dew, e-smokes, yada yada yada . . .” Then his expression changed. “Oh Christ. I see what you mean. The woman’s too old to need tampons.”

  “Among other things.”

  “That crazy old witch.” Tomlinson spun around in his seat. “I bet she has Gracie in there. Doc, we’ve got to go back.”

  “Who?”

  “Tootsie’s niece. Man, I told you, no one’s seen her in more than a week.” He grabbed his phone to dial 911, then realized the biologist was right. “Shit. What am I gonna tell them, arrest an old woman for buying Tampax?”

  “You left out some other things—condoms and rolling papers. And who buys two jars of Vaseline at a Shop-N-Go?”

  Tomlinson started to reply but decided against it. Why admit he’d purchased weirder items when it was too late to save a buck at Winn-Dixie? Better to remain silent until the damn truck stopped. When it did, he’d jog back to the house by himself if need be.

  “It’s an odd combination,” Ford said, “but doesn’t mean a thing until you put it together. A handicapped woman who lives alone in the middle of nowhere? If anyone’s being held captive, it’s her. Druggie rednecks like the Zeke twins, plus a girlfriend or two. There’s probably a simple explanation, but, yeah, we should call. What did you say her name is?”

  “Lambeth. Ada, or something similar, according to Tootsie. He only met her once and that was years ago. Her father was a psycho smuggler who killed for fun and profit. Rumor was, he made soup out of his victims.” After a pause to look at the receipt, he added, “On the other hand, e-cigarettes. That’s what synthetic stoners use as a delivery system.”

  “Druggies—that’s what I said. They could be living off her disability checks or whatever she’s inherited. Old people and women in isolation are the world’s easiest targets.”

  “I don’t know, man. I can see her as someone’s half-witted dupe, but a victim? Being scared shitless doesn’t mesh with that hoochie-coochie act of hers. I think we ought to turn around and have a look.”

  “There’s your van,” Ford said. “If one of the Sanibel cops doesn’t know someone local to call, try Hannah. Her best friend’s a deputy sheriff.”

  Tomlinson thought, That’s not going to happen.

  —

  Two deputies driving separate cars met them at Tootsie’s place. The cabin, with its shattered front window, was empty, but they refused to crawl inside and have a look.

  Tomlinson, instead of getting pissed, made himself scarce while the biologist did the talking. The cops circled the yard on foot, then had another parley with the biologist, before they drove off. Finally, it was safe to say what was on his mind.

  “Those clowns. It’s been more than an hour since we left the Lambeth place. Gracie could be dead, or god knows what. Why do they hire guys like that?”

  “Because guys like you wouldn’t make the cut,” Ford replied, and started toward the cabin. “If they did, they’d quit because of the shitty pay, plus it’s dangerous and they’d have to deal with guys like you. Does Tootsie hide a key someplace?”

  “Whoa! No need to bite my head off, man. I was simply making an observation based on—”

  “Based on an assumption, and you’re wrong.” Ford peered in through the broken window. “They’ve already talked to the woman. Ivy Lambeth, that’s her name, not Ada. They spent close to an hour with her because they were concerned about her mental health.”

  “Well . . . I bet they didn’t go inside the place. That would take too much effort.”

  “She invited them in. One of the deputies said it was like walking into a museum. An old blacksmith shop and foundry with all the antique tools. That’s not what took them so long to get here. Did you notice a couple of bad scratches on the woman’s face?”

  “When she came to the door? Absolutely not. How bad? That alone should’ve made them—”

  Ford held up a hand for silence. “Maybe the lighting wasn’t good when she did her dance routine. Or she cut herself after we left. Either way, they got her patched up, took a look around, then apologized for interrupting her day. She has a nephew who works construction and lives with a girlfriend. Twice a week, he drops off groceries to the old gal—and what he buys at a Shop-N-Go is none of our damn business.”

  “The cops told you that?”

  “No, I’m telling you. Clowns, my ass. On their way here, one of them tracked down a number for Gracie’s mother and he called. It’s not unusual for the girl to take off for a week or two without a word. The other deputy called marinas in Key Largo. Around noon, Captain Barlow was seen having lunch at the Pilot House. Everyone on the island knows the man. It’s one of his regular hangouts.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. He didn’t disappear, bonehead. He probably took off because he was exhausted after two days stuck with you. Why I let you draw me into these idiotic situations . . .” Ford shook his head and walked toward his truck.

  Tomlinson wanted to chuckle but didn’t dare. The biologist was among the most patient and amiable of souls—except for a day or so after returning from some far-flung hellhole, which he always lied about in a snappish way.

  Ford was carrying gloves and a towel when he came back. After a sheepish shrug, he said, “Sorry. You didn’t deserve that. Tootsie doesn’t have a cell phone, and he didn’t bother to leave a note. There’s no way you could’ve known.”

  “Tough trip, huh?”

  Ford ignored that. “He still has his place in the Keys, right? Give him a call on his landline so we can break into this place legally.”

  “Let me re-phrase: how shitty was your trip? This is probably a bad time to ask why you were bopping around the Bahamas with a scion of the Windsor family. I looked her up. Gillian Cobourg. Lady Gillian, officially. She’s a direct descendant of Henry Locock, the illegitimate son of Queen Victoria’s daughter. The scandal sheets loved her until they began hating her. That was about a year ago.”

  Ford had the gloves on, removing glass shards from the window. “I’d appreciate it if you’d forget the texts I sent.”

  Tomlinson said, “Don’t I always? She’s trouble with a capital T. You know that, right? Some think the T stands for ‘traitor.’”

  It wasn’t until the biologist was through the window and opened the door from inside that he responded. “She was being blackmailed—past tense—but that’s between us. Now she’s dead. Officially.”

  —

  Ford got his first look at Chino Hole late that afternoon. So many tarpon rolled on the surface, he shot video snippets to share with a few friends who might delight in the anomaly: saltwater game fish in a landlocked lake that was small enough to qualify as a pond.

  The footage was impressive, but sharing would have to wait. No signal in this part of the Glades. It gave him time to amend his list of selected friends. If he included Hannah, she might thaw enough to engage in conversation. Or, at least, bring back his dog.

  Women, he thought, giving it the same emphasis men always do when they’ve been outclassed or outsmarted and made to look a fool. And not for the first time this week.

  Gillian came into his mind. She had used him. He knew it, and it wouldn’t have mattered if there weren’t bigger issues at stake. Her loss. Or his. He was still unsure. Ford wasn’t a womanizer, not by his narrow definition, but he’d been around enough to know that Gillian was among the rarest of the rare—visually, sensually, physically. Damaged, true, but so what? It’s the inner scars that bind lovers, which can be a privilege or a curse.

  During private moments, it was difficult not to summon details of the bedroom hours they had shared. No, not shared. It was precisely as she’d stated: he had used her, s
he had used him. It was the way the world worked. But, my god, so seldom was the exchange as lush and wet and mindless. Tender, too, at the very end.

  That was something else he didn’t want to think about. He and Gillian weren’t done, nor were certain powerful people who cared about her family.

  It was after six. Cypress trees screened a westwarding sun. Tomlinson, presumably, was still combing the cabin for an antique Bible he’d described, and some old photos he claimed were missing. Because Captain Barlow hadn’t answered his phone to confirm the items were stolen, Ford had left his truck and his pal behind and gone for a run. He hadn’t had a decent workout in days. Never mind the heat and sodden clothes, or the long, wet drive home to Sanibel that awaited. Excuses were for those willing to concede that weakness was their strongest ally.

  He started back to the cabin at a good pace, and opened it up as he neared a chain that blocked this sandy lane from a secondary road—then slowed when he heard a bizarre faraway noise. It was a feminine wail accompanied by what might have been two alternating notes on a tuba. BUM-BUMP, BUM-BUMP, BUM-BUMP. Like that, but more frenzied.

  The mating cry of a bittern, he guessed. It was an uncommon bird, rarely seen because it was so beautifully camouflaged. Its booming vocals had spawned legends of giant swamp creatures, including the Everglades version of Sasquatch.

  Ford was a biologist by profession but a naturalist at heart. He hurried down an embankment into the trees, where boxcars lay abandoned to shadows and vines. Every few yards, he stopped to listen. He heard the noise again as he neared the lake. This time, the wail resembled a distant steam whistle . . . or a woman’s rhythmic cries. The tuba notes might have been a man hammering with a wooden club.

  A more fanciful image came to mind: two giants having sex, the male pounding a bed into the wall while his partner shrieked in sync. Amusing, were it not for an edge of hysteria that sharpened the sound. Ford felt it on the back of his neck.

  The noise stopped. He continued toward what he thought was the source, unconvinced it was a bird. Golden light had settled upon the pond. Waking fish boiled the surface. A hundred yards into a stand of cypress, the foundry and machine shop appeared. The limestone wall was hidden by bushes, but he could see a couple of outbuildings and the old train boiler beyond.

  Dogs, Tomlinson had warned, yet there was no barking or the telltale circles in the yard where dogs had been tied. The only oddity came from the largest of three brick chimneys. Smoke billowed from it as if jettisoned by a fan. Why would anyone need a fire in Florida on a June evening?

  A cooking fire, possibly. One of the deputies had said the building’s interior was more like a museum.

  Ford weighed various explanations until he heard: BUM-BUMP, BUM-BUMP . . . That noise again. He spun around and located the accompanying whine.

  He’d been right from the start. It was a bird. Not one but several bitterns calling from somewhere near the lake.

  When clear of the trees, he settled into an easy jog, still troubled by one detail that was slow to reveal itself: a cooking fire shouldn’t produce black smoke.

  —

  Tomlinson snubbed out a joint in haste when Ford appeared, and got up from the rocker where he’d been enjoying sunset from the porch. “The Bible was stolen, just like I thought. Maybe some pictures and other stuff, too. I just got off the phone with Tootsie. He’s pretty upset but told me not to call the cops. Insisted, in fact.”

  Ford consulted his phone and sent the tarpon video, then went into the cabin. He returned with the towel he’d used earlier and a pitcher of well water. “They knew what they were after, that’s why he doesn’t want the police. What sort of thief steals a Bible?”

  “Exactly, I’m thinking the same thing. He’s afraid one of his relatives did it. Now he wants time to check around before getting the cops involved. The question is, why would a member of the family steal the family Bible?”

  Ford said, “God, it’s hot,” and sat down. He gulped water straight from the pitcher, commented on the sulfur taste, which he liked, then asked, “Has he heard anything from his niece?”

  “Gracie might have robbed the place. She’s the first one I thought of, too, but not a word from her, as far as I know. Tootsie wanted to drive back tonight, but it’s two hours from Key Largo, so I told him I’ll stay here or sleep in the van. He’ll come in the morning. What do you think?”

  “You would’ve stayed anyway,” Ford said, getting up, using the towel.

  Tomlinson was mildly miffed. “All I meant was, you can bunk in the cabin if you want. I’ve got plenty of beer and supplies in the van. I don’t care either way, but I want you to see something first.”

  Inside was a box of old photos and newspapers. Whoever had broken in had left the box open in the center of the room.

  “This is why I think more things might be missing,” Tomlinson said. “They didn’t care about this, and similar stuff. It’s from the Saint Pete Times, August 1925.” He pointed to a headline that read

  MARCO ISLAND WAR

  SHERIFF ENLISTS “NAVY”

  HOMESTEADERS ARMED

  “But this they wanted. I found it outside.” He produced a photograph in a heavy frame: a man who resembled Babe Ruth and was just as big. He wore a straw hat, and a gunbelt over loose, old-time pants held up by suspenders. “They must’ve dropped it. It’s Walter Lambeth. Tootsie showed it to me yesterday when we were talking. Take a look at the crazy bastard’s eyes.”

  Ford did, then was done with it. “You planned to sneak back and spy on that poor old woman anyway. Admit it.”

  “Yeah, and look for Tootsie’s Bible. You make it sound like a dumb idea.”

  “It is,” Ford said. “That’s why you’re not going alone.”

  10

  Nights before feeding time, Mr. Bird liked to set up the Kinetoscope and watch a movie in the very room where Walter had killed many males and at least two females. One of them a deputy’s wife, the other a girl child not old enough to speak her first words.

  It put him in the mood.

  The movie, which wasn’t actually a movie, helped, too. The Kinetoscope had been invented by Mr. Edison, who, during the same period, had a winter home sixty miles north in Fort Myers. You loaded a stack of photos in the machine and it projected them on the wall so rapidly, it gave the illusion of motion. Events frozen in time came alive again.

  Mr. Bird loved the Kinetoscope. He lived in the past. He visited the present only to enjoy what the past could not provide.

  The past would always be home.

  Walter hadn’t known Mr. Edison, but he had met an excellent photographer. This was back when Walter was brewing lightning whiskey and guiding Yankees new to the Everglades.

  The photographer, whose name was Julian Dimock, had come with his father from New York. They wanted to fish and hunt and capture Florida’s rarities on film. The duo soon tired of Walter’s bullying, but not before Julian had taken lots of photos. Some would be published and considered classics. Others would be mailed back to Florida as presents to their guides. How the Barlow family had ended up with so many shots of Walter, Mr. Bird didn’t care.

  He hated the family as much as Walter did.

  Tonight was special. Loaded into the Kinetoscope was a fresh stack of images stolen from the Barlow cabin. He blew out the lamp and clicked a switch. The room blossomed with light, then strobed like a discotheque, while he lounged back and lit a pipe. It was long, delicate, made of ornate brass and ivory, with a vaporizing chamber. A Chinese opium pipe, but the bowl contained a synthetic resin. The drug was called flakka on the street, or khat in North Africa, where it originated.

  Opium was tough to obtain in the present world. This was another reason Mr. Bird was always eager to return home.

  The Kinetoscope whirred and flickered. On the wall stood Walter Lambeth. He sneered, posing with a drawn revolver, and walked in a
humorous Charlie Chaplin way toward a gathering of males and females. They were Chinese immigrants, all shirtless. They waited with heads bowed as if showing off their pigtails and glossy black hair, or waiting to be beheaded.

  He froze the frame and pulled the same gun from the back of his pants—a .38 caliber Webley service revolver—and attempted to imitate the pose: a hunter with his trophies before they’d been skinned and mounted on a wall.

  God . . . such a beautiful image. All it lacked was impossible detail. The females: was their odor fresh? Had they been branded or tattooed?

  Next, an alligator hunt. Reptiles with teeth, slashing tails. Mostly small; a couple that were man-sized. And then a true giant. It resembled a floating tree, both ends sharpened like spears. Wait . . . it wasn’t a gator. The shape was wrong. It had to be a crocodile.

  Mr. Bird jumped up, froze the image, and lumbered to the wall for a closer look. He admired anything that achieved massive size. Yes, a saltwater croc. The pointed snout, the teeth, were distinctive. During Walter’s era, they had been common in Florida. Fewer now, no doubt. It wasn’t just the animal’s size that interested him. Details in the background caught his eye: a building with only a portion of the roof visible. There were two . . . no, three blurry chimneys from which smoke boiled.

  The lens was adjustable. Varied angles helped. When he was certain, his nostrils flared to express pleasure. The photo was taken at the pond, Chino Hole, back when the metal foundry was fully operational.

  Did I know you? he wondered. You were a fool to die.

  Overhead were rusted pulleys. Leather straps hung broken, adorned with cobwebs. That was okay. Walter had gotten along fine with just the furnace and the few tools required to vaporize flesh and bone.