“We still don’t know for certain that alligators swallow rocks for ballast,” the woman told me, sounding more relaxed and in charge now. “But I can’t think of any other reason they’d bother. In an animal this size, I would expect to find quite a few. They don’t look like much until you clean off the patina. But then some of them can be quite interesting.”
She was right. With the grad student filming, Emily slit the animal’s stomach lining, then held it open as I fished my hands in. At first, I thought there was nothing to find. But then, closer to the intestines, I found several hard, globular objects. I removed one that was about the size of a baseball and handed it to Emily. She appeared pleased.
“This is one of the larger gastroliths I’ve seen,” she told me as she used the knife to scrape part of it clean.
I used a paper towel on my glasses, then knelt beside her to see. I’m not a geologist, but there was no mistaking the crystalline facets of the rock, soon glittering in the morning sunlight. It was a chunk of gypsum.
Marston caught the significance immediately.
“This is very strange finding a stone like this,” she said softly, studying the thing.
“That’s what I was thinking.”
The grad student had zoomed in on the rock. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” the girl said. “It’s pretty-sort of. But what’s so special about a rock?”
Emily asked me, “You found this animal in a pond on San Carlos Island, right? It’s really is quite surprising.”
I told her it was a brackish lake, only a few miles from Fort Myers Beach, before telling the grad student, “In Florida, the only gypsum I know of comes from the highland regions in the north and central parts of the state. Alligators travel, I understand that. But is it possible this thing could have crossed a hundred miles of swamps, then crawled through cities, across highways, this far on its own?”
The woman was thinking about it, lips pursed. She was wearing safety goggles, and I liked the nerdy dissimilarities of her elegant jaw, the sweep of autumn-shaded hair. Only a male biologist is capable of undressing a woman with his eyes and then completing the fantasy by projecting how she would look naked, sprawled on white sheets, all the while kneeling on a tarp beneath buzzing flies, his hands slick with gastric fluids.
That’s exactly what I was doing. But then my conscience intervened by reminding me that this woman had been divorced for only a couple of weeks. No matter how confident Emily Marston appeared, she was vulnerable, probably an easy target for just about any decent-looking, unprincipled jerk who came along. Although I am, admittedly, an occasional jerk, I do embrace the conceit that I am a jerk with at least a few principles.
I listened to the woman say, “If the gastrolith was a lot smaller, and when you consider how old this animal must be, I wouldn’t have a problem with the distance. Over a period of thirty or forty years, yes, it could have traveled a hundred miles on its own. But my guess is, only a large alligator would ingest a rock this size, which suggests to me that someone may have transported the animal-”
The grad student, still filming, interrupted, saying, “Maybe a dump truck hauled a load of gravel to the beach. You know, from around Lake Okeechobee, as fill or something. That would explain a chunk of gypsum being this close to the Gulf of Mexico.”
I smiled at the girl, pleased by her quick reasoning, and I told her exactly that as I fished my hands into the gator’s stomach again.
I removed several more gastroliths. Then I found a chunk of what appeared to be a turtle skull. Then several more bones, bleached white from acid, that were not so easily identified.
Not at first, anyway. It wasn’t until I had placed the bones on the tarp in an orderly fashion that I began to suspect what we had just found. Collectively, they resembled the delicate flange of a primate’s hand-not necessarily a human hand, because feral monkeys are common in Florida
I became more certain they were primate bones when I added a radius bone and pieces of what might have been metacarpal bones.
“My God,” Marston said, voice soft, “I think we need to call the police. This isn’t fresh, obviously. It has to have been in the gator’s stomach for at least a few months, but even so…”
I told the woman, “Wait. There’s something else.”
I had been holding my breath while I felt around in the animal’s stomach and started breathing again as I leaned into the stomach, then placed yet another bone on the tarp.
This one was unmistakable. The grad student stumbled for a moment, almost dropped the camera, but then she leaned to zoom in on what we all could identify.
It was a wedding ring. Cheap and brassy, but set with a minuscule stone that may or may not have been a diamond The ring had been crushed, probably by the gator’s teeth, so that it was crimped into the bone of what had once been a human finger.
“A woman’s hand,” the female biologist said, and had to work hard to keep emotion out of her voice.
“A woman’s ring, anyway,” I replied, holding the bone close to my eyes, seeing what might have been a bit of inscription. “The medical examiner will know.”
At sunset, I was on my back porch, lathering beneath the outdoor shower, when I felt the vibration of unfamiliar footsteps. Tomlinson was in the house, probably guzzling the last of my beer. Plus, the snowshoe slap of his big bare feet is distinctive. It wasn’t him.
The person approaching was decidedly female. Wearing hard-soled shoes, I guessed, possibly high heels.
With a bar of soap, I attempted to cover what I could cover as I turned to see Emily Marston, although I didn’t recognize her at first. True, I wasn’t wearing my glasses. True, I only got a glimpse before the lady sputtered an apology, then ducked behind the corner of my house. Still, I did not associate the long glossy hair and a white tropical suit with the boot-wearing biologist I had worked with that morning.
When I heard the woman call, “Sorry! I’m really… sorry,” I recognized the voice, though.
My reaction was immediate and adolescent-which is to say, I did what most men would do under the circumstances. I made a quick visual survey of my personal equipment, hoping I had been enhanced, not diminished, by the sun-warmed water in the rain cistern overhead.
First impressions are important. Particularly in the primate world, where proportions are emblematic.
Not bad, I decided. Not bad at all. Yet I attempted to deepen my voice as I called to the lady, “The house is open, go on in. Make yourself at home. There’s a bottle of red wine, maybe some beer-if there’s any left.”
She would discover, soon enough, that I had company.
I reached for a towel, then my clothes, taking my time at first until I remembered that every minute I lingered was another minute that Emily Marston would be alone inside with Tomlinson.
It was a risky combination. A divorcee on the rebound and my randy pal.
Even sober, my boat-bum friend has the sexual discipline of a lovebug. By now, seven p.m., he was already a six-pack and a couple of joints into this balmy March evening. Stoned, there are no depths to which the man will not sink in hope of luring fresh prey to his sailboat and, at the very least, getting the lady’s bra off.
As Tomlinson is fond of saying, “There are few experiences in life more satisfying than unveiling a pair of fresh breasts.”
Speaking of women as if they were festively wrapped presents-a metaphor that, for Tomlinson, made every new day a potential Christmas morning.
As I came into the house, though, Emily was sitting primly at the galley table, looking elegant in a copper blouse and white linen jacket, while Tomlinson talked about the phenomenon we had witnessed the night before-the two dolphins we had seen charging out of the mangroves. That was probably a good thing because he had been obsessing about the Guatemalan girl, who had yet to reappear. He had called me earlier that day to report no luck and that he was coming back. I wasn’t sure what else to do, but we had decided to keep the problem running in the
backs of our heads to see if something came up.
“Sorry to show up uninvited, Doc,” Emily said as I knelt at the refrigerator, looking for a beer. “I should have yelled. Or rang the bell… or something. But I did knock-”
“I had my earbuds in,” Tomlinson explained, motioning to some kind of miniature device that played music. “I was listening to a new download. A four-hertz theta frequency, trying to get my head straight.”
Emily looked at him, interested, as she continued speaking to me, saying, “So I walked around to the back of the house because I could hear someone humming-”
Tomlinson interrupted, “Doc was humming?” as if he didn’t believe her.
I said, “Isn’t that what people do when they shower? Sing, hum. I was showering.”
Emily said, “Yes, you were,” sounding as if she approved, her eyes locking onto my eyes. “I hope you aren’t pissed-and you certainly shouldn’t be embarrassed. I was restless tonight-we had ourselves quite a day, didn’t we?”
Yes, we had. Emily and I had spent all morning together, waiting for the county forensic team to arrive, and then most of the afternoon answering questions, first from the authorities and then from a couple of reporters.
I avoid media types. It’s an old habit. Putting my name or face out for public scrutiny is unwise when you’ve lived the life I have lived. When a guy has determined enemies, he protects his privacy with determination.
The woman, though, didn’t have a problem with it. She had handled the reporters politely and with just the right amount of professional reserve. I was impressed.
“That’s why I had to get out and go roaming tonight,” she was explaining now. “I decided to risk surprising you to see the amazing Dinkin’s Bay”-she smiled-“where bottlenose dolphins walk by moonlight.”
The woman glanced at Tomlinson, and I could tell that she hadn’t expected me to have company-for good reason. I had dropped more than a few hints during our hours together, telling the lady that I lived alone, wasn’t dating anyone special, and that I usually worked late in the lab-if she ever happened to be in the area.
Not that I had anything sexual in mind.
Right.
Now here she was, and her uneasiness was palpable.
Tomlinson has an uncanny ability to read people. He helped the woman relax by making her laugh, saying, “Know what the weird thing is? When I tell people about the dolphins, they don’t believe me. But the moment Doc says it, it’s like gospel. I just don’t get it.” He leaned toward Emily. “From what I’ve heard, you’re an educated woman. Any insights into how some people can be so damn misguided?”
Emily laughed, then asked if we’d take her outside to see the area where the dolphins had come ashore. She was wearing hard-soled shoes, not heels, but I told her it was a bad idea.
“It’s all muck and mangroves,” I explained. “Your clothes would be a mess. Plus, the mosquitoes. It’s no place for a lady at night.”
That earned me a smile and another potent look. “Thanks for noticing. After the way I was dressed this morning, I went out of my way to look like a woman tonight.”
For an instant, I wondered if the woman wasn’t being a little too obvious, then decided it was okay. I liked her, she liked me and was letting me know it. Nothing wrong with that. “You succeeded,” I told her.
“Then I’ve already had a good night,” she replied. She held my gaze for a moment, then turned to Tomlinson. “Doc told me that you found pieces of crabs’ legs and carapace when you checked the area. But, to him, that wasn’t enough proof the dolphins were feeding. What do you think?”
Tomlinson had been doing some staring of his own, and I was relieved to hear him say, “I always defer to Doc in matters that require a brain but not much heart. But what I really think is, I need to get going. It’s sushi night at the Stone Crab. And Rachel told me they just got in some fresh conch from Key West.”
“But wait,” Emily said as she watched him get to his feet. “You mentioned something I wanted to ask about. Were you practicing deep theta-wave meditation? I wanted to hear more.”
Now she definitely had Tomlinson’s attention. “It sounds like you know something about the subject.”
“At home, I’ve got a few four-hertz theta tracks. But I prefer the higher frequencies.” She included me in the conversation with a look. “The higher frequencies are associated with brighter colors, feelings of well-being. After what we found in that gator’s stomach, I went straight home, showered and put the headsets on.”
Tomlinson was smiling, and I could sense that his determination to exit courteously had been replaced by a growing interest in Emily.
“Biofeedback and brain harmony,” he said. “We are chemical-electric beings, grounded only by spirituality. Kindness and passion in most of us. Lust in a few cases, too. Quite a few, from what I’ve seen in this part of the world.”
I said, “Lust?” aware that Tomlinson was an expert at planting subliminal suggestions into the heads of unsuspecting females.
Emily was laughing, a smart lady who apparently had pretty good antennae of her own because she took control of the conversation, saying, “I’ll discuss the subjects of passion and lust with Doc- if he’s interested. But not in mixed company, thanks. The thing I wanted to ask about is, if you were listening to a theta track, I’m guessing you’re upset about something. Doc told me a little bit about what happened last night. The gator attack and the girl disappearing. Not everything, of course. He’s a hard one to get to open up. He mentioned he had a best friend. That’s you, I take it.”
Tomlinson grinned, and said, “It requires someone who’s forgiving. And not easily bored.”
“Then it is you. How do you get him to talk?”
Tomlinson came close to winking at me as he replied, “I fed him psychedelic mushrooms once-by accident, of course. And once I got him stoned on some very fine weed-same thing, by accident. At best, even when high I would describe him as vaguely chatty. But in a very careful way.”
Emily was having fun with this, but I felt like they were teaming up when she asked, “You don’t smoke, Doc? Or is he kidding?”
I had opened a Diet Coke because all my beer was gone. Compliments of Tomlinson, of course. I shook my head slowly, no, took a sip and listened to Emily talk.
“I guess I’m surprised-that’s not a judgment, by the way. Personally, I can’t believe it hasn’t been legalized. It makes me feel all loose and relaxed. I laugh a lot. And act stupid. I think it’s good for people like us to act stupid sometimes. Don’t you… Doc?”
Now the expression on Tomlinson’s face was telling the world I’m in love, which is why I spoke up, saying, “You mentioned sushi night at the Stone Crab? They close at nine, don’t they? You’ve only got two hours.”
The restaurant was only five minutes away on a bike. He knew exactly what I was telling him.
Tomlinson countered, “We could all go. I could tell Emily about Tula. Maybe later we can even drive across the bridge to Red Citrus and have another look around. I like this woman, Doc. What’s your last name?”
“Marston,” Emily said, watching my friend’s face. “Emily Marston. Or Milly. Or Em. Or whatever you want.”
Tomlinson let that settle, retreating into his brain to think about it. “Marston, that’s not very tribal-specific. You have olive eyes… no, gray-green. Polish, maybe, which tells me Chicago, or maybe Detroit. A bit of Irish, too, plus some German? Doc,” he said to me, “this person is intuitive. She has a gift. I think she can help us find the girl-after I fill her in.”
Once again, the woman took charge, making me her ally by saying, “Nice try, but Marston isn’t my maiden name. Another night, maybe. Until then, Doc can fill me in just fine. We have a lot to talk about.”
“ Well… all righty, then,” Tomlinson said, aware that he’d just been dismissed. His inflection, though, suggested a truce but not capitulation.
“Doc could use some downtime,” Tomlinson offered, getti
ng to his feet. “The dude has been pretty restless himselflately. He doesn’t have to say anything. Everyone at the marina can tell. He spends time looking at maps and listening to foreign news on his shortwave. He works out harder, he drinks fewer beers. The one sure sign?” Tomlinson gave me a knowing look. “His lab begins to smell of a very specific kind of oil that folks like me don’t associate with fish and boats.”
“Oil?” Emily said, confused, then sniffing. A moment later, I was taken aback by the look of recognition on her face. “Oil,” she said. “Yeah, I can smell it. Very faint, but it’s there.”
I stood and opened the screen door. “If you think of it, you might stop by the 7-Eleven and buy some beer. See you in the morning-but not too early. Okay? ”
Tomlinson was laughing as he headed out the door but turned to say to the woman, “Or maybe I’ll see you two at the Rum Bar later. We just got in a shipment of twelve-year-old Fleur de Cana from Nicaragua. Really superb stuff.”
I was heartened by Emily’s green-eyed gaze and by her response: “It’s entirely Doc’s call. Whatever he’s up for, I’m with him.”
Whatever concerns I had about Emily Marston’s vulnerability were set free when she slipped her arm through mine as we walked toward the marina and she told me, “I didn’t divorce Paul because I was unhappy with him. I did it because I was unhappy with myself. Oh, I pretended it was his fault. Came up with all sorts of reasons why we had to end the relationship and move on. He’ll always be the professor. To him, I’ll always be the student. And another big problem was…”
I waited through several seconds of silence before I told her, “Talk about it or don’t, that’s up to you. I was impressed by the way you stood up for him, after your argument this morning. That was nice. Unusual for an ex-wife or -husband to do.”
It was as if she didn’t hear me because she picked up the thread, saying, “For some reason, I want to be honest with you about what happened, Paul and me. One of the problems was, he doesn’t enjoy physical contact-not really. Not with me, anyway. But not with anyone, I think. I’m amazed at how many people dislike being touched. Aren’t you?”
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