Cooler Than Blood

by Robert Lane

  “No. I didn’t recog—”

  “I need your help.” Her interruption saved me from a second lie in one day over the same phone number. She turned to me, her dark eyes trapped under her bangs. The one evening we’d spent together flooded over me like a tsunami.

  By the end of our leisurely dinner, my schoolboy heart had been radioactive, and no, it wasn’t just the grapes. We had faced each other in the parking lot on a Florida night so thick you needed a snowplow to walk down the street. Susan was close to a foot shorter than me, but in no manner did that diminish her stature. I had just rejected her invitation to stroll on the beach and look for sea turtles.

  “Has the bar business robbed me of my vanishing youth?” she’d asked.

  “You haven’t been robbed of a thing. Her name is Kathleen, and she makes me the luckiest guy in the world, but it’s a close call with the runner-up.”

  “I’ll take it. Who is he?”

  “Whoever takes that walk on the beach with you.”

  That was after two glasses of wine and a beer. Impressive, right? Call me Mr. Monogamy, but if you don’t know what the hell an anchor is for, you’d better get your ass off the water.

  When I took her home, she’d given me a light kiss on the cheek then left the truck without a word. I had not walked her to the door. Susan Blake wasn’t the type of woman to ask just any guy to take a walk on the beach unless both sides felt that once-in-a-lifetime tug. But there can only be one once-in-a-lifetime tug.

  Sometimes I say that three times in row.

  “Tell me…” I shook off the memory and pivoted on the bench so I could face her. I tensed up, which I thought was totally ridiculous. “What brings you north?”

  She fidgeted with her fingers. “Nice place.” She gave me a quick glance then dropped her eyes. Maybe she felt she was coming on a little strong.

  “It’ll do,” I said.

  She paused as if summoning her strength. “I…I need your help.” She looked right into me. “She’s missing.” It came out fast, like water tumbling over falls.

  “Who’s—”

  “She’s been gone two days. There’s no way she wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Slow down. Take it from the top.”

  Susan blew out her breath and folded her hands tightly on her lap. “My niece. Came down to live with me, and I haven’t seen her since Wednesday. That was a day after the police said she killed some guy on the—”

  “The police think she killed someone?”

  “She did kill him, practically gutted him like a deer…Oh, I shouldn’t say that.” Her speech started to gear down as she apparently realized there was nothing I could do in the next few seconds.

  “Can they prove—?”

  “I just told you. She killed him. Told me. Told the police. That’s not the problem.” She uncrossed her hands and ran her left hand down the top of her thigh then back up again.

  “They got new beach laws down there?” I asked her.

  “Self-defense, and they think she did the world a favor. The guy might have killed a girl up in Georgia and maybe another they’re still investigating.” She placed one hand on each side and nudged herself up. She crossed her legs. I looked away. I didn’t want to look at those legs, those eyes, that body. I felt guilty having her there, but what choice did I have? A yellow cruiser with a tuna tower plowed by, and a dolphin jumped its massive wake. We watched as it passed, and then rows of its swelling wake were soon beneath us. They crashed into the seawall like liquid thunder and rolled down the wall.

  “How well do you know her?” I said, but I was thinking, How well do I know you? Sounded like her niece had hit the road and was on the lam. Maybe Susan was blind to the obvious, but I didn’t want to ride her too hard.

  “She came to live with me less than a week ago. Just graduated from high school.”

  I turned back to her. “She from close by?”

  “Ohio.”

  “How well do you know her?” I asked again.

  “Listen, we’ve spent some time together over the years, but that’s not the point. I know her. I know her very well. She wouldn’t run.”

  “We all misjudge. It’s hard to know people, especially—”

  “How much time did we spend together, Jake?”

  Women.

  They can sucker-punch you with the flutter of their eyes. Do they even know that? Susan and I had dinner and nothing else. But she was right. We connected so fast that it threw the tides. If it’s ever happened to you, you know what I’m talking about. If not, welcome to Thoreau’s desperation club and take your song to your grave.

  “Fair enough,” I said in response to her question.

  “You told me you located stolen boats, right? And when we met, you were looking for a couple of guys.”

  “Correct.” I saw where this was going and thought of how to extract myself.

  “She’s in danger, and I know it. You need to find her. The police say since she’s eighteen, she can go as she pleases.”

  “You tried her cell, her—”

  “She left her cell behind. You know that’s not right. I covered everything. Called my sister…She had to hear from a friend that her daughter had moved in with me. Her friends, her…She didn’t have anybody.”

  “When was the last time—?”

  “Are you going to get into that black beast and come help me or not?”

  What was on my calendar for the next few days? Work out in the mornings until I nearly collapsed—I just loved that part of the day—fish, read, and after my Tinker Bell alarm clock went off at five, drink. The days I puttered around the house, Tinker Bell—I picked her up at a garage sale—kept me honest in the event I felt like opening something too early. I’d follow all that with a simple gourmet meal I’d prepare for Kathleen and whoever else dropped by. Sleep. Repeat.

  My schedule was packed. Might even need to take one of those time management courses.

  “Jake?” Softer now. Pleading, as much as someone like Susan would ever plead, as she sensed my hesitation. What kind of person says no?

  “I’ll leave as—”

  She uncrossed her legs. “I’ll have pictures and arrange for the detective to bring you up to speed.” No gushing thank-you, just straight to the next item. “I need to go.” She stood up. “You remember where I live?”

  “I do. One more thing.”

  “What?”

  “Her name?”

  “Jenny Spencer.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Morgan pulled his scooter into my driveway. He owned a scooter, a Harley, and a forty-two-foot Beneteau sailboat, Moonchild. Most people travel to find the elusive port of peace of mind. For Morgan, travel is the port.

  “Hitting the road?” he asked. I assumed he was returning from the beach. Even though our homes have a two-mile bay view, he sojourned twice a day, late morning and sunset, to the Gulf. I checked my pocket for my phone for the umpteenth time. I had forgotten it a second time after Susan had left, and had just scorched my feet again in retrieving it.

  “Fort Myers Beach for a day or two.” I tossed my army duffel bag into the back of my black beast and hit the “close” button. It chimed. I wondered if I could program the close sound on a vehicle’s tailgate like you can program ringtones. “Care to join me?”

  “Let’s roll.”

  “Need ten?”

  “I’m good.”

  He parked his bike in my garage, hustled over to the passenger-side door, and hopped in. Guess I’d better scramble. I grabbed a couple of waters from the garage refrigerator and climbed behind the wheel.

  “Clothes?” I said.

  “I’ll pick up whatever I need.”

  “House?”

  “Nancy’s cleaning today. She’ll lock up.”

  “Hold on a sec. I forgot to leave food for Hadley.”

  “Hadley the Third.”

  “Right.”

  Hadley III’s my cat. I’m temporarily watching her for a friend who permanen
tly relocated to another island. I’m not fond of cats, and I’m highly suspicious that Hadley III is equally unfond of me. We’d developed a truce. She pounced on my chest our first night just as I had fallen asleep. I was surprised she had survived the impact with the wall. Tough girl. She now stays clear of my bedroom, and in return I feed her and leave water out so she doesn’t have to lean into the toilet. I left her enough food for a year, got into the truck, and twisted the key.

  The engine responded with a throaty growl, and Morgan spat out, “Wait.” He jumped out of the seat—the man had the dexterity and movements of a monkey—and dashed through the door I’d just emerged from.

  Morgan grew up on a sailboat and doesn’t know his age, other than he’s older than his sister, who operates the family charter business in the Caribbean. His parents believed that tracking one’s journeys around the sun only creates unintended expectations and limitations. He meditates every morning at the end of his dock, as he’d been doing earlier when I’d departed for my run. He claims it fills his spiritual tank. My tank has a Florida sinkhole in it. A few minutes later, he emerged from my house with a wine box. He opened the passenger door, placed the box on the floor, and reclaimed his shotgun seat.

  “Ready,” he announced.

  “Supplies?”

  “Essentials.”

  He brought his legs up Indian style, pulled his sandy hair into a ponytail, and stuck in earplugs before I cleared the bridge that led off the island. Ten minutes later, he snatched his plugs from his ears and with the voice of someone who, having music directly injected into his head, assumes the world is much louder than it really is, blurted out, “I forgot shoes. You got some, right?”

  “In the back.” I rarely wear shoes around the house and have a habit of jumping into the truck without them. I keep several pairs of old Sebago boat shoes in the truck.

  “Thought so.” The plugs went back into home position.

  We hit the Sunshine Skyway Bridge, which spanned the entrance to Tampa Bay. The vertical clearance was around 193 feet, and from that view, the water flattened out, and the sky started to drop down on you. It was just high enough that you started to get a sense of your inconsequentiality before you eased back down to earth.

  I put the truck on cruise control at seventy-eight, and she fought the harness. Ninety was her sweet spot, and she didn’t take kindly to others blowing fumes in her grille. We passed crosses along the side of the road that marked where someone’s life had abruptly concluded. What’s the interstate system going to resemble in a hundred years? Talladega cut through a graveyard? Here’s something I know—if I knew where my cross would be, I’d never go there.

  Two hours later, we crested the Matanzas Pass Bridge and descended into the public beach area of Fort Myers Beach. I’d spent a year living and drinking on the southern part of the beach after I left the army and before Colonel Janssen came knocking for my services. I’d needed some time to get in touch with my inner person. I found it as rewarding as rummaging around inside a half-empty garbage can. No need to do that again.

  We pulled into the parking lot of the Point Carlos hotel-condominiums, less than a mile north of Lovers Key. Everything around there was “Carlos.” Big Carlos Pass. Little Carlos Pass. San Carlos Boulevard. Carlos Surf and Suds—the only beachside bar I know that gives you a paddleboard for a half hour at no cost if you’ve had two or more drinks. (The owner, Kurt Lourdes, swears it was his best business decision. “Patrons love—I mean they flat out dig—watching other people fall off those boards.”) All of it was named after Chief Carlos, a Calusa Indian and an enthusiastic practitioner of human sacrifices, as well as the possible killer of Ponce de Leon. Carlos’s brother-in-law, Spaniard explorer Pedro Menéndez (Carlos, in happier times, had passed along his sister to be Menéndez’s bride), had killed Carlos after Carlos himself took a few unsuccessful swipes at Menéndez. Evidently, being a major proponent of human sacrifice doesn’t preclude one from eventually having naming rights to half the damn region.

  I had booked a two-bedroom condo—all the condos have two bedrooms—for two nights, and now that Morgan was with me, I was glad I hadn’t opted for a different location. The place was quiet. It was summer, and the western half of the Eastern Time Zone that swarmed the place in March had long departed. Fine with me. When the crowds leave paradise, paradise, not being fond of crowds, returns.

  “Room for Travis, Jake,” I said to the lady behind the counter. She had tousled rust-colored hair that splayed wildly out of an overmatched scrunchie. A USA Today was on the counter, and its colors already looked liked yesterday’s news. To my right was a corner gift shop with resort towels, hats, T-shirts, and tin-soldier sentinel coffeepots waiting for the morning.

  “I see you’re staying for only two nights,” Rusty said. “Gulf front, midlevel, or higher, south side?” I’m picky about the space I occupy. “If you’d like, we can book you for one more night, and the fourth night will be free.” As she spoke, she stared into her computer screen.

  “I’ll pass. I only need—”

  “We’ll take it,” Morgan chirped in.

  I glanced at him. “I don’t think we’ll be here that long.”

  “Two keys for four nights will be fine,” he said, keeping his eyes on Rusty.

  “Certainly,” she said and glanced up at Morgan. “And how will you be paying for this?”

  Morgan said, “I won’t be.”

  I placed my credit card on the counter then scrawled my name on a sheet of paper she’d slid in front of me. When I lifted my head, she was beaming at Morgan as if I wasn’t even there. The man adored redheads and transmitted that five-bar signal with an uncommon clarity. I picked up my duffel and headed toward the elevator. Morgan followed with the box he’d brought out of my house. I double-punched the button while the elevator moseyed around on a higher floor. A woman who smelled like the beach joined us. She wore a floppy wide-brimmed hat, sunglasses, and a white cover-up. The last item was a real shame, considering what she appeared to be covering up.

  “You forgot to grab shoes,” I said as I stared at the floor. Morgan’s second toe was longer than his big toe.

  “Oops.”

  I looked up at him. “I assume you’ll be in late tonight.”

  “If at all.”

  “What makes you think we need another two nights, even if it’s just the price of one?”

  “I’ll walk to the grocery at midisland and pick up food. We’ll need provisions for breakfast.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.” I hit the elevator button for the third time. I’m sure that helped. “And how can you sit at peace in a truck for two hours without asking why we’re coming here?” He’d done that before—hopped into my truck or boat without voicing curiosity as to the destination or the reason.

  “Remember,” he said, “I grew up on a sailboat. I need a reason to be stationary, not to travel. As for you, you’re as nervous as I’ve ever seen you.”

  “The heck you talking about?”

  “You. Your anxiety level is—”

  “Skip it.”

  He paused a beat then changed tack. “It’s an amazing beach. You do know James Jones pounded out some of his war memories a mile or so up the sand.”

  “King’s Cottage, I believe.” I hit the button again. “But what does that have to do with—”

  “We could’ve driven from here to eternity, and your hands never would have left ten and two.” Morgan rarely interrupted people but had done so twice in a few minutes. “You fought the wheel like I do at the helm of a fifty-footer battling a summer squall.”

  I started to serve up my retort but pulled up as I realized he had lapped me. Again. My aching left shoulder, courtesy of shrapnel from the Battle of Chora in Afghanistan, complemented with a bullet I’d taken to the same shoulder the night Impulse took one in a speaker, confirmed Morgan’s observation. Hard to believe ten and two for two hours, but my mind had raced so far ahead of the truck that I barely remembered
the drive. As for the Jones reference, it didn’t surprise me. He’d told me the James Jones war trilogy was among his favorites. Mine as well. Kathleen had presented me with first editions for my birthday, and Morgan had borrowed them, as he planned to reread them.

  “And”—guess he wasn’t done—“whatever is eating you is unlikely to be resolved in a day or two, or else you would have told me why we’re here.”

  “You had your plugs in.” It was a weak defensive remark. I should have just taken the Fifth.

  The elevator arrived—four stabs at the button, for future reference, is the magic number—and we stepped in after the lady. She exited two floors before us. The beach went with her. We both observed until the doors, like metal stage curtains, sliced our vision shut. When a woman leaves an elevator and a man is left behind, it’s impossible for the man not to watch as she walks away. Above all, trust me on this.

  “And you never would have left without the essentials,” Morgan said.

  I peered into the box he hugged against his chest: 1800 Reposado tequila, Grant Marnier, limes, a partially eaten block of Welsh cheddar, bread, wine, and tapenade. And speakers. The man is a connoisseur of what goes in his ears. He thinks Edison’s gift—music from air—to be the greatest invention of all.

  We entered our unit, and Morgan took the back room with double beds and left me the Gulf-front bedroom with the king. He announced he was going for a walk and would meet me at Fish Head. The door slammed shut, and I said, “Okay.” I gazed down at the Gulf from nine floors up.

  Jenny Spencer.

  Susan had called when I was in the truck. She instructed me when to meet at her house and provided more details. The police considered Jenny’s actions on the beach to be self-defense, yet she had run. Maybe she just needed some time alone. Maybe she was sitting in a dark booth, spilling it all to a priest. Maybe she’d do evolution a favor and go for the priest too. Hard to say. Dead bodies collect more than fleas. They collect interest, stories, guilt, and often revenge.

  But those things had nothing to do with why my hands had been glued to ten and two.

  I had called Kathleen before we’d left and informed her I was going to Fort Myers Beach for a day or so. I told her an old friend called and was worried because her niece had run away. I gave their names but omitted that the “old friend” was a hot woman I didn’t trust myself to be around. Think that makes a difference? At worst, I’d get a ticket for being disingenuous.