He was moving from venue to miniature venue, inspecting. Looking into drawers, under piles of wreckage. Doing a thorough search of his own-my read.
“No offense, lady, but why’d he screw around, waste his time on something like this?”
I interrupted. “Whoever made this mess didn’t think it was a waste of time. Why so much damage? They didn’t have to tear the place apart.” I said it tactfully, hoping he’d correctly interpreted the mayhem in this room. It had a frantic quality. Whatever they were after, finding it was important enough to risk prison-even for murder. The object was valuable… or incriminating.
Why else pour syrup into a computer? Break so much valuable equipment?
Heller didn’t seem interested. He continued poking around-a bloodhound sniffing. That was the impression. Or maybe he had that low-key city guy in the sticks style: Sounding dumb was a way to play it smart.
“Look’a there,” he said, pointing at tiny green boats on a miniature lagoon. “I’ve been on that ride. My sister’s kid, it’s her favorite.”
Frieda was staring across the room at something. “That’s the Magic Kingdom. It used to be his favorite; dioramas there, too, so maybe that’s where Jobe got interested. Each diorama represents a different country.”
She began walking away. “Earlier today, I told Doc that my brother hated to travel. I guess he did all his traveling at the Magic Kingdom.”
When she told us the name of the ride, that inane music came back into my head.
What had grabbed Frieda’s attention were dozens of pencil sketches tacked to the wall. Several were rough studies of what, at first, I took to be faceless, noseless sketches of Mickey Mouse viewed from many angles. The sketches had a geometric quality, as if someone had taught a machine to use a pencil.
They were unsigned.
The adjoining wall was papered with computer-generated images. Charts of South Florida, arrows to illustrate water flow vectors. Graphs representing outflow from Lake Okeechobee, month by month. Cross-sectional water tables showing elevations of bedrock or sand. Diagrams on grid paper, labeled, “The Effects of Altered Hydrology on Sugar Retention Areas.”
Incongruously, there were also the likenesses of two easily identified singers, and also a female actress-her brother’s favorite entertainers, Frieda said.
A woman, too. Several of her. Attractive in a feral way, high cheeks, pointed chin. Blond? Couldn’t tell. I wondered if it could be the woman who’d been beating him, but decided it was unlikely. There was warmth in the woman’s expression.
Applebee showing a glimpse of his human side.
Frieda was there, too; a child with a handsome face and pigtails. Beside her was Jobe-a self-portrait created by what looked to be thousands of dot-sized zeros.
Or were they?
Sniffling, trying to hold back tears, the woman said, “When we were kids, he couldn’t color between the lines. It embarrassed the heck out of him. I’m surprised he ever picked up a pencil again.”
She was studying the likeness of a large man, thick glasses atop his head, leaning over a microscope. It took me a moment to realize that it was me.
“This is from a photograph I sent him. Do you remember when I took it? You were visiting the lab in Tallahassee. Jobe always asked how your work was going. I sent him a photo just in case you two ever met.”
I found it more than peculiar. The woman sensed my uneasiness, explaining, “It’s like with the singers and the actress. He was a fan. Plus, who knows, maybe he saw you as a normal version of himself. Two guys obsessed with water, but you were the sociable version. We all live vicariously through others at times, don’t we?”
I told her, yes, most of us do.
I’d been studying the tiny zeros; decided they weren’t zeros after all.
“Take a closer look,” I told her. “What do you see?”
She looked for a moment, then turned. “They’re not dots like I thought. It’s that damn cartoon mouse again. Reduced, then computer-generated thousands of times. Round face, two round ears on top. So childlike.”
Heller said, “Like a kid, yeah. A thing for Disney.” His tone created more distance, saying, Weirdo. “If you find out anything about that missing computer? You call me pronto. Okay?”
I was studying the facsimile of my own face. The pupil of my right eye was darkened by hundreds of the micro-sized symbols. An oval absence of symbols created a glint in my left eye.
Heller was right. Weird.
But, an hour later, as Frieda and I sat over lunch at a Kissimmee restaurant, I interrupted myself in midsentence. Snapped my fingers, saying, “Hey… wait a minute. Those idiotic Mickey sketches. I just realized something. We’re wrong. They’re not images. They’re symbols.”
I asked the waitress for pencil and paper, then slid into Frieda’s side of the booth.
“I feel like a dope not thinking of this,” as I drew a large circle in the middle of the paper. Atop the circle, I drew two smaller circles, like ears.
She looked at it for a moment. “Sorry, pal. Maybe I’m too upset for my brain to work. What I see is that cartoon mouse again.”
“Nope. You told me your brother had a love-hate relationship with Disney. Which is why I don’t think it’s the mouse. Watch.”
On the largest circle, I wrote: “O-2”
On each of the smaller circles, I wrote: “H+1.”
I touched the pencil to each. “Pretend you’re looking through some futuristic electron microscope. The mouse’s face is a single, large-charged oxygen atom. Its ears are positively charged hydrogen atoms, each tilted at an angle. The degree of the angle is a little over a hundred degrees. I remember that from high school biology.
“It’s this shape-the cartoon shape-that causes one end of the molecule to be negative, the other positive. If the atoms were arranged to look like anything but Mickey Mouse, the molecule couldn’t adhere to its fellow molecules. Which means it couldn’t take fluid form. If the atoms weren’t arranged precisely as they are, there’d be no life on Earth.”
The woman was puzzled for a moment, but then a smile came to her face. “I can see it now. Water. It’s the atomic model for water.”
“I should’ve realized it right off.”
“Yes! That’s why Jobe used it over and over. It’s not that damn mouse, it’s a water molecule. Should we call Heller and tell him?”
I wasn’t impressed by the man. Nor was she. On the drive into town, Frieda had told me there was something about the guy that made her uneasy.
“No, don’t call him. I met the county medical investigator. I’ll let her know.”
Frieda said it again, grinning. “Water.”
I felt good. Pleased because the Mickey Mouse fascination had seemed inane.
I liked Applebee again.
“You called it his refuge. That’s what he was sketching: a mathematically correct likeness of water. With me, it’s bull sharks and tarpon. I do the same thing. If I sit down and doodle, they’re what I draw.”
The woman was pleased, reflective, as she said, “He was such a dear, private person, my brother. What kind of people would hurt someone like him?”
The image of the Russian woman, belt in hand, came into my head. I heard the belt snap against flesh. Heard the quality of her voice: She liked it, causing pain.
I shrugged. “No telling.”
But I was thinking: People who are abnormal. Someone dangerous.
11
Serpiente
The nineteen-year-old Cuban followed the woman into the tobacco barn, and his abdomen fluttered when he heard the door shut. He’d been trying to think of ways to please her, rehearsing the words he’d say.
Solaris said them now. “I have a present for you. It’s in the village. Very rare-the carving of a monkey in jade. Small.” Solaris touched thumb to his index finger to give her an idea, smiling to show they shared a secret. “I found the jade as a boy. It’s my present to you.”
Dasha was unbuttoning
her blouse and said nothing.
He noticed that there was a bruise on her cheek and a knot on her forehead. Recent injuries. “Someone has hurt you, beautiful lady. Tell me who and I will kill him with my hands. I’ll do anything you ask!”
That got her attention. “A boat fell out of the sky and almost crushed me. I guess you’re as dumb as a boat, so maybe you could find a way to kill one.”
“A flying boat from the sky?”
“Don’t ask.”
Mother Mary, what did he have to do to impress this woman? He continued with the speech he’d practiced.
“I’ve been thinking about something… Dasha. Our business-the Chinaman’s business?-we’ve been doing very well. You are my favorite client, but not our only client. I’m a young man, but I am thinking of using my money to buy property. It’s legal in Cuba now. And taking a wife… of marrying. I have to be honest-I miss you when you are away from our valley. You are always in my mind.”
Christ, the look she gave him-like he was a bug, but an entertaining bug.
“You missed me. Charming.”
As a child, Solaris had fallen off one of the local rock towers, ten meters or so to the ground. The way the woman was reacting, it was the same helpless sensation: no way to stop the momentum of his fall, everything happening in slow motion.
“You are not so old that we can’t have children. Can you imagine the babies we’d produce if you’d allow me?”
Her expression said, Are you insane?
The Cuban managed to laugh despite the chill he felt. “We could grow old and rich together. Make children who would take care of us, and we’d sneak back to this barn to make love and remember old times. I would make a very good life for you here. The village grows the best vegetables in Cuba, and the sea is nearby for fish.”
The woman spoke to herself in English. “Us have children together? Me and a Cuban mongrel. What are you, part Portuguese, Spanish, some Pole? A little African and Czech in there, too? Bits and pieces of trash left over from the Cold War. I look in your eyes, I see wood fires and an outhouse. I’d rather mate with an animal.”
Solaris stared at her blankly. “I don’t understand English.”
Her eyes became amused. “I’m so flattered by your offer. The two of us married, living in a hut with bawling children. I can stand in the river and scrub clothes with the other fat women while you get drunk in town on pine rum with your worthless comrades. Then you’ll stumble home and make another baby in me.”
The man held his hands out to her, palms up, choked by emotion. “Yes. We will do all that. It will be wonderful.”
His chest began to heave, as he thought, Have I ever been so happy? when he heard POP-POP-POP, three muted percussions outside, like a hammer denting tin. He and the woman both turned to look.
“A car backfiring,” she snapped, her tone telling him, Ignore it.
Moments later, the barn door swung open, light swinging across their faces. She hadn’t bolted the door-a first.
“Dasha?”
“Da! ”
The hairy Russian stood silhouetted in the doorway, blue sky and mountains behind, hillsides frosted with white coffee blooms. Solaris used his hands to cover himself as the man and woman exchanged guttural words. Dasha was asking questions, he was answering.
Before he left, though, the big man pointed a finger at Solaris, and yelled something that sounded like, “Nu vse, tebe pizda!” then slammed the door behind him.
“What did he say?”
The woman was hunting around in her bag.
“Aleski? Oh… he’s probably a little jealous. He told me to go ahead and have fun anyway.”
Solaris felt certain that’s not what the man had said.
The Cuban watched Dasha take ajar from her bag, and unscrew the lid-maybe there was an oil inside. But, no. He watched as, very carefully, she removed a plantain-shaped balloon like the one she’d shown him before.
“Remember this? I think it’s time. After all, if we’re to marry. ..” Her tone was teasing.
“Really? You want me to-? Of course!” Solaris rushed to take the condom before she changed her mind. Took it in both hands, rolling it down over himself.
“I’ve never used one of these. It feels so strange.”
“Does it?” She was smiling.
Solaris was touching the end of the condom-something was inside the elongated tip; something moving. “What is this thing I feel-?”
The blonde watched intensely, using her tongue to wet her lips. She leaned and retrieved a second container as she saw the man’s eyes widen in confusion… then fear. Watched his hands slap at the condom as his face contorted with unexpected pain.
“AHHHH! It’s biting me!”
She jumped back as he tore off the condom and threw it. Stood and looked at the latex undulating on the dirt floor like a worm in a casing until a miniature scorpion charged out, purple-black, pincers up, tail ready to strike again. Aggressive, even though it was only a week old.
“A scorpion? Did you put it in there?” The way he asked it, Solaris was begging her to say that she didn’t.
“Of course not.” She was opening a sealed Tupperware container. Inside was a leather pouch. She slid the container next to Solaris. “There’s salve inside the bag. It’s something I always carry. It’ll make the pain go away.”
He grabbed the leather pouch, hurrying. Inserted his fingers to force the drawstring open, then screamed again, hurling the bag away. “Jesus Christ, what are you doing to me?”
Dasha kept track of where the pouch landed. Had to. She watched a yellow-and-red-banded snake emerge, longer than her index finger, and as round.
It was a day-old Australian death adder. That morning, a gravid female had dropped seventeen young. They’d been importing the things for more than a year, and Dasha had come to admire the way these snakes, even newly hatched, behaved as if they were old. It was the way they moved: slow, deliberate-animals that interpreted the behavior of other animals before acting.
She’d slid into her sandals. Took two steps and crushed the scorpion. More carefully, she approached the tiny snake from the rear, then stepped on its head, twisting her foot as if it were a cigarette butt. Solaris was telling her, “Something’s happening to me, Dasha. I feel very sick. You did this to me.”
“No. It was accidental.”
He was trying to get to his feet, but he was off balance and easy to push back to the ground. “You’ll be fine. It’s nothing serious. Relax, you idiot.”
A lie. Death adders and Calcutta scorpions were poisonous from birth. On their first trip to West Australia, she’d seen a professional snake handler die from a death adder’s bite. They were in the bush, too far to go for help. The man had sat in the shade of a tree, resigned, and told them what was going to happen before it happened.
Without antivenin, even healthy adults die.
Seeing how the snake handler’s body had reacted is what had given Dasha the idea. Put the fantasy in her mind, where she played it over and over until she knew she had to find a way to live it. Coincidentally, she read about what happens to a man if he’s stung in a certain place by a Calcutta scorpion. Now here it was, happening. No one around to disapprove.
Aleski would be outside dealing with the Chinaman’s body.
Three shots to the head. POP-POP-POP.
They were done doing business in Cuba. Maybe would soon even have to flee the Bahamas, all because of Jobe Applebee.
“Are you really my friend?” the strange little biologist had once asked her.
“Yes! I’ll become more than your friend if you do the things I tell you to do.”
Somehow, though, the weird bastard had figured out what was going on.
Idiot!
Ruined everything. Maybe.
For now, though, Dasha would enjoy the moment, by God.
Solaris was moaning. “My eyes-everything’s getting blurry. I feel so odd. Like I’m floating. Why do I hurt so bad? Was there gl
ass in the balloon?”
“Yes. An accident. There was glass, and it cut you.”
He’d already forgotten about the scorpion.
She was kneeling over her canvas purse, searching for another condom as she continued to check off the symptoms: Mental confusion. Slurred speech. Paralysis of all muscles-she could see his biceps and abdominals twitching-as his eyes turned a glassy blue.
“But him-he’s still hard and strong!” Solaris was gasping, but managed a final little joke.
As she pulled his hands away to look, Dasha felt a charge she’d never experienced. Had never felt so eager, her body ready.
Total control-a feeling like that.
She placed the condom on him, like a cap, then unrolled it, stroking him, as she said, “Yes. And he will be alive and standing long after you’re dead.”
By the time she’d lowered herself onto him, Solaris was.
12
Sanibel and Captiva are exclusive, amiably reclusive islands with shops, shaded neighborhoods, and seaside mansions, but they’re also a favorite vacation destination. Publicity about a recent hurricane had frightened off one variety of vacationer while attracting more adventurous types who were more interesting, and a lot more fun.
It’d been a busy year. Especially now. This was Christmas, near peak tourist season, so traffic was heavy even on this Monday evening as I approached the Sanibel Causeway. I crawled across the bridge in my old pickup, ignoring the tailgating BMWs, Mustangs, and eager rental cars, peeved because I’d missed yet another sunset cocktail hour with the live-aboards, fishing guides, and other locals who make up the peculiar family of Dinkin’s Bay Marina.
There are reasons I don’t like being away from home at sunset, some personal, most social. On the islands, sunset is ceremonial. It’s the convivial, kicked-back, communal time when even strangers become a little friendlier, and the world shifts collective gears, slowing its orbit in the growing, slow dusk.
Dead of Night df-12 Page 9