Dead of Night df-12

by Randy Wayne White

  “Any word on Tomlinson?”

  “Naw. Doctor said it’d be about an hour. She’s funny. I like her. We had a pretty good talk.”

  “In her business, I guess a sense of humor’s required.”

  I noticed that when the boy grinned, his eyes glittered, familiar as my own. “Know what she told me? She said, ‘When adults tell you that adolescence is the best time of your life, they’re full of shit.’” He lost it for a moment, chest bouncing as he laughed. Hilarious. “Said she didn’t really start feeling comfortable, having fun, until she was in her late twenties. Hated her teens.”

  “A smart woman; she’s right. I was a little older. Early thirties.”

  “No shit?” Lake had been experimenting with profanity. I had to force myself not to smile.

  “I shit you not. Early thirties.”

  There was something else on his mind. A sly look. He was about to share a secret. “Dr. Shepherd told me she’s single, made a point of it. The only reason I can think of, she wants you to know.”

  I said, “Really? I must have missed something.”

  My son said, “I’m the same way with girls. I can’t ever tell, either. She asked me some questions about you, then told me she’d lived alone since doing her residency. I think she’s really pretty for a woman her age.”

  “Very attractive. She’s got character-it’s in her eyes.” A passing observation said without real interest. The conversation with Dewey had congealed as a knot in my chest. I felt it there now; pain that would last.

  The leather-bound log book Lake had given me was on the table next to his backpack-he carried the thing everywhere-and near to the keys to the van.

  I sat, opened the log, noted date and time, as I told my son where I was going and why. I added, “I don’t have a choice,” as I wrote:

  Tomlinson, I’m driving your van to the canal where you found Frieda’s phone. If I’m not back by morning, call a guy named Hal Harrington at the number below. Tell him to have your new pal, Jason Reynolds, questioned. Here are other names he should check…

  “You seem to enjoy that. Keeping a journal.”

  Still writing, I said, “Yeah, my memory’s getting so bad, it helps.”

  “I know better.”

  “The book’s from you. There’s the main reason I like it.”

  That made the kid smile. Nice.

  … there’s a fireproof locker under my bed. You’ll find an envelope addressed to you. It contains information that’ll keep you safe for a long, long time. If I don’t make it back, keep a weather eye on Lake…

  My son asked, “You think there’s a chance you’ll get down to Central America after the holidays? Tomlinson says the surfing on the Pacific Coast of Panama is unbelievable.”

  My turn to smile. “I’ll make a point of it. Lake Nicaragua-you need to see that place. We’ll go together.”

  I tore the page out, folded it. I’d leave it for Tomlinson with the receptionist on the way out. I told Lake, “I called the limo guy. He’s under way. You’ll be back on Sanibel by ten-thirty. Still time to get something to eat, then pack. Jeth’ll take you to the airport tomorrow.”

  I hate good-byes. I saw that my son was no different; both of us not eager to part but eager to get this process over with. He stood facing me, holding the magazine.

  “In the lab, I printed out a couple of sample pages from Dr. Applebee’s documents. Six pages, paper-clipped, next to the computer. Take them to Central America, work on the code. But do not copy the files. And don’t tell anyone you have those pages. Understand?”

  Lake nodded.

  “I’ll talk to the hospital security people. They’ll let you know when the car’s here. I’ll make sure they check out the driver.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Dad. I can take care of myself.”

  “I know. But you’re valuable property.” He stuck out his hand but I pushed it aside. Gave him a hug; my cheek tight against his head. “Crack the code, son, and I’ll buy you something very cool. You’re one of the few people smart enough to figure it out.”

  As I picked up the keys, Lake said, “You don’t have to buy me anything. I’ll do it because it’s what you want me to do.”

  I exited at the front of the hospital, not the ER entrance, which was closer to where I’d left the Magic Bus. I walked through the parking lot to a side street, then began to jog, using tree shadows as cover when I had the chance.

  An adult male walking alone at night, or sprinting, draws attention. But joggers are part of the landscape-local jocks who own the street no matter the time of day or night.

  My fishing shorts and T-shirt weren’t a perfect disguise, but close enough.

  I circled the hospital, crossing the street to avoid the brighter lights of a strip mall, then crossed again to a sidewalk that fronted low-income ranch houses in a subdivision that was once middle class. Ficus and oak trees, probably planted in the fifties, had outgrown their domino lots. They hung dense over concrete that was in slow upheaval because of the roots beneath.

  There was an ambulance sitting at the ER entrance, lighted sign above-EMERGENCY ONLY-and I began to slow in the gloom of trees, scanning the parking lot. I spotted a wedge of the Magic Bus beneath security lights. Could see its camper top, plus surfboards, above nearby cars. Could see its VW logo on the blunt front end, a peace sign painted there; white paint that became strawberry in the sodium haze.

  The parking lot was half full, but felt deserted because of the absence of activity. There were EMTs in their blue coverall uniforms busy at the back of the ambulance, floodlights there, three people in scrubs watching, but no other movement. No security people in gold carts, which was unexpected.

  I stopped, keys to the VW in my hand. I stood alert to anomalies-a car parked on a nearby side street, an inhabited vehicle, people waiting in shadows. Maybe Reynolds’s Tropicane truck, but that was unlikely. If this was a setup, he wouldn’t be that obvious. Or stupid.

  A block away, a car turned the corner, lights panning. I knelt to tie my shoes, hiding my face until it’d passed.

  A white sedan with black antenna, dorsal-like, on the trunk.

  An unmarked squad car? It had that look.

  I waited, feeling the quarter moon brighten, then sail behind clouds. Waited until the car turned in the distance, and I began to jog again.

  I made one more lap around the block. Stopped briefly near the hospital’s front entrance and watched two security guards escort my son to a black Lincoln Town Car. I felt an uncharacteristic surge of emotion as one of the guards held the rear door open for Lake. The other chatted with the driver while also inspecting what I assumed to be his chauffeur’s license.

  Good men. It explained the absence of security in the rear parking lot.

  My son was getting his ride in a limo. A small surprise from his father. A parting gift.

  At a faster pace, I jogged past the strip mall a final time, cut through the parking lot, and approached the Magic Bus from behind. Curtains covered the side windows of the VW, so I peeked in the rear. It was impossible to be certain, but it looked empty.

  I touched fingertips to metal, sensitive to any slight movement, a shifting of weight.

  Nothing.

  Nearby cars also looked empty. I decided that if this was a setup, the X spot-where they’d hit me-would be somewhere on the dirt road that led to the canal.

  More likely, though, I’d overanalyzed Reynolds’s phone message. I’d probably find the cops still searching for the cell phone, suspicious of my motives, just like he’d said.

  I unlocked the driver’s-side door, then started to slide in behind the wheel when I realized the dome light had not come on.

  Uh-oh.

  In the same instant, I heard a car start a few spaces to my left, and was simultaneously aware of someone running-light-footed, on asphalt-before the car’s engine grew louder, audibly thumping into gear.

  Trouble.

  I turned to see the silhouette of a
woman closing on me, as a pale-colored car appeared, lights off. It was timed to let the woman pass before the car pulled in tight behind the Volkswagen, shielding my view of the EMTs at the ER entrance, and also any chance of anyone seeing what was happening to me.

  Professionals…

  It was the Russian woman charging me. The one who’d taken such pleasure in torturing Jobe Applebee. I got a flickering look at the short blond hair, the feral eyes, her skin glazed orange with industrial light. She had something in her hand. An aluminum flashlight?

  It made no sense. Even if it were a gun, she couldn’t be planning to take me down all by herself.

  Where’s her partner?

  The driver’s-side window of the blocker car was tinted; I could see a vague male shape at the wheel as the woman stopped abruptly a couple of yards away. As she lifted her hand toward me-maybe it’s a weapon-I reached for my cell phone, feeling for the keypad, hoping to hit the redial button, any number would do. I wanted there to be some record of what was happening here.

  I tensed, expecting to hear a gunshot. Instead, a laser-bright light blinded me momentarily. From behind, two huge, hairy hands grabbed me from inside the van, one of them locked around my windpipe. I didn’t have a chance to bury my chin against my chest but managed to wedge a couple of fingers between my Adam’s apple and the man’s hand, hearing the woman whisper something harsh in Russian.

  An instant later, my back muscles spasmed as if voltage charged when I felt a sickening, hypodermic pain-a needle had been driven deep into the side of my throat. I felt the gagging pain for several long seconds before the needle was removed.

  More whispered Russian as I coughed and heaved reflexively, feeling woozy-headed, eyes blurring… I was aware of a flooding weariness as my brain struggled to translate the grotesque images that gradually appeared before me.

  The Russian woman, with her feral eyes, now had the skeletal face of a screaming death’s-head. Her partner appeared briefly, walking upright, then was liquefied and reassembled as an animal from a cartoon vision. He dropped to all fours, his body as thick and hairy as a lion, but with the leering, hairy head of a jackal.

  “Walk, you clumsy idiot. If you make us carry you, we’ll let you die here.”

  The screaming death’s-head spoke a whispered English, heavily accented.

  I then stood for a moment, teetering on the edge of an expanding abyss-the trunk of a car was opening next to me, I realized. A third figure was now involved. A man with a plaid jacket, a Bronx accent, eyes smoldering with the stink of cigars.

  I tried to say his name-Jimmy Heller-but the words exited my numb face as the blubbering sound of an invalid weeping.

  “Tough guy,” I heard the squatty little detective say. “The way he handles himself-like his shit doesn’t stink. Listen to ’im now, crying like a baby.”

  I watched, beginning to tilt earthward, as the checkered jacket became an animal’s spotted pelt, and smoldering eyes centered themselves on Heller’s pointed, yellow face-the face of a hyena. Then I was falling… falling toward a dark concavity that had been the trunk of a car but was now a spinning coffin.

  Felt the air go out of me. Felt an acidic welling that signals the need to vomit as the coffin lid slammed shut…

  30

  Serpiente

  Marion D. Ford-if the man really is an operator, what’s the best way to take him down…?

  Dasha had been thinking about it Friday morning when she’d found the address of Sanibel Biological Supply on the Internet, and used MapQuest to print directions. She was still excited; couldn’t wait to meet the man face-to-face.

  She’d also printed Ford’s photograph. Those eyes… thinking of the way he’d used a boat as a weapon added to the anticipation.

  She had Broz drop them at Orlando International, where she used a counterfeit credit card to get another rental, a green Pontiac midsize, nondescript.

  Aleski was with her, of course. Aleski, whose right eye was now swollen closed, ear blood-clotted beneath antibiotic salve.

  Irritating. She’d have much preferred to make the trip alone, she and Ford, two operators meeting-that’s the way she pictured it-but there was no escaping Aleski. Like a dog, the way he followed her around. Lately, though, it was more like a guard dog.

  Four hours later, they were driving over a causeway bridge onto Sanibel Island, mica-bright water beneath, the molten fire of a western sky familiar in a misplaced way.

  An image formed in Dasha’s mind: the Foundry furnaces of Volstak blazing, doors wide, ghost men swinging shovels…

  One of them probably my idiot father.

  Her mother had worked the factories at lunchtime. To Dasha, the heat from the furnaces felt like heaven. Her mother said they were doors that opened to hell.

  “This is a pretty island. I like the way coconut trees look at sunset.”

  Aleski’s first combination of sentences since they’d left Orlando. He sat there, his face looking as if he’d been beaten with a hammer, now suddenly the insightful romantic.

  The images of furnaces and ghost men lingered. “Shut your stupid mouth. Concentrate on the job. I told you-this man, Ford, isn’t some typical American amateur. You can’t even defend yourself from a woman. And you’re wasting your time thinking about fruit trees?”

  “Sorry, Dasha.” Aleski sniffed, obviously irritated, but still not done with it. Finally, he asked, “Coconuts are fruit?”

  “Oh God…”

  “I didn’t know that. But, if they are a fruit, why are they called ‘nuts’?”

  “Enough!”

  “I’m tired of you speaking to me as if I’m stupid! Fruit is soft on the outside. Nuts are hard.”

  Dasha couldn’t wait to park the car, get away from Aleski. Find a private room, take a long, sudsy shower. The stink of Mr. Earl seemed to cling-it had to be her imagination. But work came first.

  The woman drove straight to Dinkin’s Bay because that was the professional thing to do. Check out the place; fix landmarks in her mind.

  The first of several disappointments that night.

  Following the map, Dasha turned right onto Tarpon Bay Road. Narrow shell lane, mangroves. Rounded a slow curve… then braked to a stop when they were confronted unexpectedly by a man in the process of locking the marina gate.

  “Sorry, folks! Friday nights, we always close at sunset. Unless you got an invitation.”

  A wide-bodied older man, white plantation hat, smoking a cigar.

  Dasha had been so worried he’d get a close look at their faces, she had nearly skidded into the swamp in her rush to get away.

  “It must be a very exclusive marina if customers are required to have invitations,” Aleski said as tires spun, shells flying. “Have you ever been on such a wealthy island?”

  Fool. “Shut up!”

  Dasha didn’t get her shower, or a hotel. On west Gulf Drive, they’d stopped at Tradewinds, then Island Inn. Both desk clerks said the same: It was December 17, a week before Christmas, and every room on the island was booked.

  Fuming, the woman parked the rental a few blocks from Dinkin’s Bay at a little shopping center-Bailey’s General Store, Island Cinema. Then she and Aleski walked to the marina gate, as if they were a couple out for an evening stroll.

  All she wanted to do was eyeball Marion Ford’s home and lab; have a plan. Maybe get a look at the man himself. Decide if it was plausible to break in later, stick him with 10 ccs of Versed, and snatch him.

  The Mossad profile was alluring in itself, but the photo had really hooked her.

  A carnivore surprised in tall grass.

  Yes. Exactly the same. But had the photo lied? Photos often did.

  There was a secret place within her where she hoped the photo was accurate.

  Now, though, there was loud music playing beyond the marina gate, people dancing on docks silhouetted by holiday lights. Big party going on.

  Dasha and Aleski returned an hour later. Then three hours later. Then at mi
dnight.

  Music was still booming.

  Impossible.

  Finally, nearly 3:00 A.M., Sanibel traffic had thinned enough for them to attempt to wrestle their way through the mangrove swamp that bypassed the fence and gate. Mosquitoes screamed in their ears; muck sucked at their shoes. The bay stank of rotting eggs. Awful.

  “Duck! Stay down.”

  Off to the right, there was an abrupt detonation of light. It transformed the mangrove leaves overhead from black to beige, erased stars. Blinding.

  Dasha tensed as the light became a focused yellow conduit that panned along the mangrove fringe. It nearly found them once, swept away, but then returned quickly and found them again.

  “Don’t move.”

  The light came from a house previously unseen, a structure built on stilts over water. The bright conduit swept back and forth, the timing unpredictable. It went off for seconds, sometimes minutes, before the blazing column began to probe again.

  A lone figure up there on the porch, wide-shouldered, who knew how a search was done.

  The unpredictable rhythm kept the Russians pinned for more than half an hour while mosquitoes drank their blood in the sulfur stink, and dropping December chill.

  Back in the car, Aleski said, “I feel like I’m going to be sick. My eye’s infected, my ear’s infected. I don’t mind that rotten egg odor so much. But something in this car smells worse. What’s that terrible perfume old women wear? Lavender.”

  “Shut up! You fool. Shut your filthy mouth!”

  Late the next morning, though, their luck changed. One of Dr. Stokes’s stooges tipped off Mr. Earl.

  It was Hartman, the stooge, vice president in charge of environmental oversight.

  Dr. Marion Ford was on his way to Kissimmee. He had called for an appointment; was returning to ask questions about Frieda Matthews’s death. It sounded like he planned to retrace the woman’s steps, Hartman said, and he claimed he had Applebee’s computer files.

  “An interesting opportunity to introduce yourself to the man you were supposed to interview last night,” Mr. Earl told her, his contempt undisguised. “If you can manage to get back in time.”