More likely, it was Mr. Bird. Tomlinson hadn’t pressed for details because the girl was hurt and in hysterics, but she had provided a vague description. He was a huge man who wore an ornate robe and a mask she’d described as bizarre. The man had murdered Gracie’s boyfriend and assaulted her many times over the days that followed. Tonight he had used a branding iron. The girl had never seen his face, only glimpses of his body. Definitely male.
Until then, Tomlinson had suspected that Mr. Bird and Ivy Lambeth were the same person. He still wasn’t convinced he was wrong. Only one hulking figure had fled. If Mr. Bird existed, someone was still in the house.
That’s where he went, to the back door, which opened easily. Inside was a dimly lit room with furniture that smelled of decay, the ceiling webbed with strange-looking wind chimes that clattered like glass. Near the stairs lay a broken ashtray—an old floor model on a porcelain stand. It had shattered. On the carpet was a Chinese opium pipe, an expensive one inlaid with brass and ivory. On his knees, he sniffed the bowl but didn’t touch.
A chlorine odor told him it hadn’t been used for opium. Tomlinson wasn’t a poppy devotee, but he had smoked enough to know.
He got up and cocked his head. No sirens. Where were the cops? He got his answer when two silent cars with bouncing blue lights slammed to a stop by the gate.
Damn. Should he split now or risk a few more minutes?
An item on the stair landing lured his attention. He went up, two steps at a time. It was a leather strap with brass studs. A similar strap beckoned from the second-floor landing. Instead, he followed his instincts back down, through a hallway, to a kitchen where there was a woodstove but no fire burning.
His nose took charge after that. It wasn’t just the scent of wood smoke that called him. It was a more disturbing odor; an atavistic warning of what lay ahead. A peek through a barred window confirmed that the squad cars contained a single cop each. One was busy on the radio while the other sidled toward the ambulance in typical cowboy fashion. A sort of swagger to draw attention to his Sam Browne belt.
Tomlinson ran down another hall in such a hurry, he damn near skidded into the foundry room that Gracie had escaped. The sliding doors Ford had forced open were still open, a portion of the ambulance visible. One of the paramedics as well, but only briefly. He pressed himself against the wall and summoned his sensory powers.
Something had called him here. An odor. What was it?
He sniffed while his eyes absorbed details. Suspended from the ceiling was an industrial bellows, antique leather and wood. It resembled a gigantic tick. The metal spout pointed to a furnace, where flames roared within an open hearth. Beyond, on a table, was a weird machine with knobs and a lens. A projector of some type, very old, that cast a frozen image onto a brick wall.
Geezus. A crocodile. A big one.
What the hell?
Certain photographic details nagged at him as if important. It was his nose that finally provided understanding. Coal fires, wood fires, fires of peat and autumn leaves, all carried their unique signature. But none registered with the impact of an ancient, barbaric fuel.
Flames reflected off Tomlinson’s eyes when he zoomed in on a source that could be perceived but was no longer visible: burning hair and flesh and the residue of bone. At the base of the hearth lay a swatch of melted nylon hair from a wig. It was blond.
Ivy Lambeth had gone into the flames—or someone wanted to give that impression.
Nearby was a singed swatch of leather binding and a page from the Book of Genesis. The Barlow family Bible had been burned, too.
Tomlinson did an about-face and returned to the stairs.
—
Ford, sitting in an unmarked car, told the detective, “I understand that asking the same questions over and over is procedure, but I really don’t have anything to add. Later, if something new comes to me, how about I give you a call?”
“Just a few more minutes. See, the problem is, sure, details always vary here and there. Two sides to every story, right? But the guy you’re accusing of assault—rape, too, sounds like—he tells a totally different story.”
The temptation was to respond, Wouldn’t you? That would have been a mistake. Law enforcement types, even veterans, were quick to interpret the mildest of sarcasm as aggression. For a civilian, no matter what country, no matter what language, the first rule of conciliation was this: never, ever piss off a cop.
Ford asked, “What did he say? Maybe that would help.”
“The guy? That’s not the way this works. I ask the questions, you answer.”
“There’s no need to keep his name a secret. He told me it was Slaten, Slaten Johnson, which I don’t believe. Slaten, maybe, but not Johnson. He claimed he’d been traveling with the Barlow girl, Gracie, when—”
“Okay, here it is.” The detective, whose name was Werner, turned so they were facing. “The guy claims he ran because he was scared. That you beat the shit out of him. No, you taped his hands first, then beat the shit out of him and threatened to leave him on an anthill. How do you respond to that?”
The second rule of conciliation was never, ever lie to a cop—unless you’ve committed a felony.
Ford said, “He’s got quite an imagination. I’m no expert, but wouldn’t there be bruises, or cuts, or marks of some kind, on his face? I didn’t notice any. Oh”—he tried to underplay what came next—“taped his hands? If that’s true, it should be easy to confirm. Wouldn’t tape have left residue of some type on his wrists? Even a Band-Aid leaves that sticky stuff when you pull it off. Did he say what kind of tape?”
It was obvious from the detective’s reaction that he hadn’t checked. “Wait here,” he said, and walked to a second unmarked car. In the mirror, Ford could see another detective questioning Slaten, the guy he’d beaten the shit out of, but only after removing the tape he’d used, then the bandana that had shielded the guy’s wrists from telltale adhesive. Well, he hadn’t actually beaten Slaten—just a carefully placed elbow or knee to keep him talking.
Detective Werner returned and sat without closing the door. On the dash was a mini recorder. He spoke into it, saying the interview was concluded. Date, time, and other particulars were added before he switched it off.
“How about we go for a walk? The guy’s a scumball, we both know it. I don’t care what you did, but I have to make it all fit when I write it up.”
The third rule of conciliation was never, ever confide the truth to a cop after denying guilt regarding a felony.
“I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” the biologist said. “But I’m concerned about my friend, Dr. Tomlinson. Did he leave?”
“Doctor—him?”
“Not a real one. A Ph.D. I didn’t get a chance to talk to him before the ambulance pulled out.”
“So that’s how he managed it.” The detective looked at the gate, which was open, then started walking. “Crap. I figured he was related to the girl and that’s why the EMTs let him ride to the hospital. We still haven’t questioned him, which means he either lied or charmed the hell out of someone.”
Thank god. Tomlinson couldn’t be trusted with a lie or the truth when the police were involved.
When he and the detective had left portable lights and crime scene techs behind, Ford said, “Slaten claimed he and Gracie were traveling together and they stopped here to buy bamboo. Some special variety. That he had nothing to do with hurting the girl because he’d been locked up in a shed the whole time. That’s bullshit.”
“Which one?” They were on the back side of the property, where both sheds were visible beneath stars and an occasional strobe of heat lightning.
“I have no idea,” Ford said. “That’s my point. He was in the house and ran out the back door after we found the girl. You saw the condition she’s in. Not just the third-degree burns where he branded her, but the other injuries. She�
��d been beaten and raped. That’s the way I read it, so I went after him when he ran. Wouldn’t you have done the same?”
Detective Werner, who could pass as a football lineman, chuckled. “I don’t know. He’s a pretty big dude. Ballsy, what you did. Then I look at your ears and think, hey, Dr. Ford did some wrestling, and he’s got the shoulders to go with it. Okay, so you took him down and beat him cross-eyed. Better yet, you did it without leaving any marks that I could see. Great. But tell me something, just between us, confidentially. Which shed was he in when you found him? That would save our guys some time, at least.”
Ford’s mind transitioned to a safe harbor; a cache of lies programmed during five days at an interrogation course at the Navy Remote Training Site somewhere in Maine. He said, “I told you what happened,” and shrugged the way men do when there’s nothing left to say.
“I’m asking for your help, Dr. Ford. There’s more going on here than you realize. Trust me, maybe I can help you.”
Ford wondered what that meant but didn’t bite. “I’ve got a ninety-minute drive home. Like I said, if I think of something, I’ll call.”
He started toward the pond but the detective blocked his way. “One more thing. You were right about the tape residue. Not even a smidgen. So the asshole either made up one doozy of a tale”—the man edged closer—“or you’re really good at this shit. Which is it?”
Ford said, “I just realized what the problem is. Gracie must’ve backed the guy’s story. Is that it? In her condition, you don’t really believe—”
“His name isn’t Slaten Johnson. You’re right about that, too. We ran his prints. He’s Slaten Lambeth. Does that mean anything to you?”
“Nothing other than he probably has a right to be here. You’re not suggesting I was trespassing when—”
“Don’t worry about that. In North Florida, the DLE is working on a string of assaults, robberies—a bunch of shit—and you might have got the guy. The tattoo rapist. You don’t read the papers?”
“Was he already a suspect?”
“Along with about a dozen others. Lambeth, or whoever the psycho is, is a pro when it comes to cleaning up a crime scene. So far, it fits pretty good. The guy doesn’t live here. He lives out of his van and only comes by when he needs a place to flop. That’s what he claims anyway. There’s something else. We think he might have put his aunt in the furnace before he tried to get away. Clean, you know? A commercial furnace—old, yeah, but still hot enough to melt pig iron, so you can imagine what it would do to a body.”
It took Ford a moment to process what he’d just heard. “Not thirty minutes ago, I saw her. I told you that. She ran off carrying a knife after—”
“All I know is, the deputies found what they found. A female, or what’s left of her. That all has to be checked out.”
Werner backed a bit to encourage conversation. “Doc—can I call you Doc?—I don’t give a damn what you did to Lambeth. Hell, I’m envious. All we can do is try to put him away for a long, long time. To make that happen? I need the truth—including the real evidence I’m sure you did a damn good job of hiding.”
12
When news got out that two islanders had saved a girl’s life and helped capture a homicidal rapist, business picked up at Dinkin’s Bay Marina. It got better when stories about the suspected Tattoo Killer revealed the girl was the niece of a venerated fishing guide. Fox News shot a remote from the parking lot. CBS came to Sanibel, too, but chose the bird sanctuary as a backdrop.
That was fine with business owners. There was always a lull in tourism around mid-June.
No one was happier than Mack, who ran the marina. T-shirt sales tripled the day after the story broke. He did a booming business—in hats, bait, fuel, and fish sandwiches—as well.
“People have to eat,” he told JoAnn, who was helping out as fry cook. “If we run low on grouper, thaw out some mullet. What do reporters know?”
He might have surfed the financial boon through the rest of the month if the two heroes had been willing to cooperate. They had not. Now, after three days of refusing interviews, even a profitable week was in doubt. It was Thursday. Tomorrow, the marina’s traditional Friday night party was key. Beer sales alone would make the monthly nut, if those yahoos made an appearance. So what the hell was their problem?
That was the question Mack posed, more or less, when he finally cornered Tomlinson. “Are you crazy? Think of the women you’ve disappointed, for god’s sake. They’d flock here in droves if they saw you on the evening news.”
That, at least, got the hipster’s attention. They were near the maintenance shed, screened from the parking lot by a fence. This provided time and privacy to think. Finally, Tomlinson replied, “Tempting, man, but I can’t.”
“Why? The cops told you not to talk? Screw them. What’s a cop ever done for you?” Mack knew his audience. He let that fester, before adding, “I suppose they ordered you not to come to the party tomorrow night.”
Tomlinson puffed up a little. “Ordered me? Man, you know that wouldn’t sail. Screw them, absolutely. If I want to be there, I’ll—” He paused. “I would be there, too . . . But I don’t know, man. What about reporters? You know how chatty I get after a few beers.”
“Who cares?” Mack said. “It’s not like you have to talk to them. A pushy lot, the whole bunch—especially that blonde from Fox News.”
“The blonde?”
“Yep.”
“The one with the—”
“That’s her. She was here an hour ago with her crew. Said she’d be back tonight.” Mack, who claimed to be from New Zealand, shared a Down Under wink. “Have you ever been alone with a newscaster aboard that boat of yours?”
Tomlinson, loosening up, replied, “Sure, but never a Republican newscaster,” then laughed because he knew what Mack was doing. “This is a slow time of year, I get it, but there’re bigger issues at stake. I just got back from visiting Gracie. She wouldn’t mind if I told my story, but—”
“Tootsie Barlow’s niece?”
“Gracie, yeah. She’d understand, but people would think I’m nuts to put her personal safety at risk. Doc especially.”
Mack said carefully, “What people think bothers you?”
“Don’t be silly. I’m worried about her. The guy they arrested for assaulting her isn’t the—” He stopped, backtracked. “I don’t want to advertise the fact she’s still alive; worse, where she is. Let me ask you something, Graeme.”
Graeme MacKinley was the marina owner’s full name.
“Fire away.”
“The cops might be sure they got the right guy, but I’m not. Or even if it was a guy who did all that terrible crap to her.”
“I don’t understand. You think a woman’s capable of—”
“Not necessarily. Could’ve been a monster, neither male or female. A leviathan of some sort, so, yeah, the TV newscasters would love to hear what I have to say. I get it, man. You really think I should take my story public?”
The marina owner cleared his throat and backed away a step. “Only if you want to be fitted for a straitjacket. What the hell’s a leviathan?”
“The names vary. My personal suspicion? We’re dealing with a demon savage, a manifestation of evil from the past that inhabits whatever corporeal form fits the bill. It’s hard to explain. I drew a sketch of it today. If you’re interested, I can run back to my van and—”
“Don’t bother, it can wait,” Mack said in a rush. He rolled his eyes, patted a pocket, and pulled out the stub of a cigar. “You know, maybe it is smart to keep that story to yourself.”
“Think so? I don’t know . . . I was just warming to the idea. Wouldn’t mind meeting that blonde. She’s the one with attitude and the killer B’s?”
“All in the eye of the beholder, but why sink to her level? Doc, on the other hand, doesn’t give a damn about journalism o
r politics. He’s the one the reporters should talk to. I’d ask him myself, but he’s been holed up like a hermit ever since you got back.”
Ford hadn’t been holed up. He’d been on the move, staying at different places, only returning to his lab when there was work to do.
“There’s your answer,” Tomlinson said. “I’ll bounce it off Doc first thing. You know, subtly; let him broach the subject, then put the possibility out there. Manifestations of energy are mutable. That’s a fact of physics.”
“You do that,” Mack said, and left a smoke trail as he walked away.
—
Ford’s lab was an old house on pilings in the shallows of Dinkin’s Bay, just down from the marina where, on this hot Thursday eve, people who lived aboard were buttoned in with AC, and TV screens that brightened the boat cabins along A Dock.
“Air-conditioning will be the death of natural selection,” Tomlinson remarked. He lounged in a hammock strung beneath fans on a porch, the lab’s screen door closed but the inner door wide to stars and a southerly breeze. “Canned air, canned heat, canned lifestyles. Gad. Pre-death chambers, man. We sprint from canister to canister like lizards diving into holes.” Across miles of dark water, beyond the entrance to Dinkin’s Bay, condo lights stained the horizon with a milky glaze. That’s what he was referring to.
Ford, from inside, said, “Have you ever read the Nassau Guardian? It’s all tourist bureau crap. Good luck finding any real news. Wait . . . here’s something.”
“Exactly, man. Insulated from death by life, and from life by thermostats. You ever wonder how much mold and shit we breathe in from random encounters with AC? There are enough demons in the world without manufacturing our own.” A moment later, he said it again: “Demons. They’re real, man.”
The biologist replied, “When you get up for another beer, close the fridge this time.” He had found a story beneath a small headline:
Mangrove Lightning Page 11