Sanibel Flats

by Randy Wayne White

  Hollins lowered his head, shaking it. "Ah, Christ." A low agonized wail.

  "Why don't you give him a chance, Ford? Or maybe it's

  more than just the boy. Maybe you did some window peeking and just didn't enjoy the show."

  Ford snapped, "Why would an old pro like you care?" throwing the words at her—and was surprised to see her face register pain.

  She turned her back to him. "Sometimes you're just so damn unfair."

  Ford stared at the woman, then released a long breath. He said to her, "Go inside and get some ice. A washcloth, too. He's bleeding pretty bad," as he took Hollins's arm, helped him to his feet, and steered him toward the porch steps.

  Hollins said, "I broke into your house."

  "I know."

  "I just wanted to tell you that right off the bat. "

  "Something honest for a change. There were grown men crying at your funeral, you asshole."

  TWENTY-THREE

  Hollins sat on the steps and the wood creaked beneath his weight. Jessica brought the washcloth out and he leaned his face against it, flinching at the cold. He said, "I needed money, Doc. I figured I needed ten or twelve grand to get Jake out, to make all the bribes and get the right papers—all that stuff. I couldn't ask you for that much, plus I thought I had a couple of other ways to get it. I'd been smuggling in Mayan artifacts and this art dealer, Ben Rouchard, was auctioning them off in New York—

  "I know all about that."

  "You do?"

  Ford looked at Jessica. "Yeah; almost all of it."

  "Well ..." Hollins was thinking, trying to put the rest of the story together. He said, "The other way I came up with getting quick cash was to offer the corporation that developed Sandy Key a deal. I used to work for those bastards, and I had some information that could cost them a couple of million in fines if the Environmental Regulation people found out. "

  "About them putting illegal insecticide in your helicopter."

  "Jesus, you know about that, too?"

  "I'm surprised they didn't kill you when you tried to blackmail them. There's no statute of limitations on environmental offenses."

  "That's the point. They tried. My old boss was a guy named DeArmand, so I called him and offered him the deal. I said if he brought me twenty grand in cash, I'd sign a paper they could postdate saying that I understood that I'd been fired for spraying illegal chemicals and accepted all responsibility, like the poison was my idea. Like a confession. DeArmand's the sheriff there now, and he threatened to have me put away for that kidnapping charge, the thing with Jake. I said fine, I'd go to prison but he would, too, plus the corporation would go bankrupt paying the DER fines. So DeArmand agreed to meet me on the Tequesta Bank, just him alone with the money.

  "He was supposed to be there in the morning, the day before you came. I watched him coming across the flats in a small boat, kicking up mud the whole way because he didn't know the cuts. But, when he lands, I see it isn't DeArmand at all. It's this big guy about my size and I know he's some professional DeArmand has brought in to kill me. But I didn't give him a chance, Doc. We got up there on the mound and I hit him with a club the first chance I got. He went down and I couldn't believe it—he was dead. That quick; just stopped breathing.

  "I panicked. I was already wanted for kidnapping and now they d get me for murder, too, and I'd never see Jake again. You know how upset I was when I talked to you on the phone that morning but, when that guy stopped breathing, I just went crazy. At first, I was going to run. Just get the hell out of there.

  But the idea of being wanted for murder was about the worst thing I'd ever felt, Doc. I'm not kidding. It made me want to run around in circles and bang into trees. Like some kind of animal being hunted. I wanted to vomit. So I got the idea of trying to make it look like an accident. I drug that guy's body all over the place, trying to make it look like he'd fallen or hit his head on a rock or something. But it just didn't work. Shit, there's noplace to fall on that island and no rocks to hit—it's all shell.

  "Then I got the idea of making it look like he'd killed himself. That seemed like the best idea. Even if I ended up in court, there were no witnesses and the jury would have to go by what the cops found. So I got a rope, and you know what I did with that. The dead guy looked like he'd come straight from the big city, so I tied bad knots like he'd probably tie and did a bunch of other stuff, trying to make it just right. But then it crossed my mind they'd do an autopsy and find out the guy had died from getting hit in the head and that just ruined everything. Right back to square one. I was about ready to cry by that time.

  "So I left the guy hanging up there; took the boat and just went. God, I've never spent a night like that in my life. I holed up in a tidal creek under the mangroves, expecting police choppers to start buzzing me any minute. It was like I was crazy. I couldn't stop . . . stop crying. I spent all night in that boat, trying to figure out what to do, and it seemed like the best thing was to just hide the body and try to pretend like it never happened. By the time I got back to the island, though, the vultures had already been at this guy and his face was about gone. That's when it hit me. All my problems solved at once. They don't hunt a guy for kidnap and murder if he's already dead. The guy was about my size, had my hair, but wore clothes like I'd never wear. I swear to God, that was the worst part. Changing clothes with that corpse. It still gives me the shivers."

  Ford said, "You told DeArmand if he'd push the body past the coroner, you'd give him a confession about the insecticide?

  "Right. That was the risk. Turned out, it wasn't much of a risk. I snuck over to the mainland that night and got DeArmand alone. He didn't give a damn about the guy I'd killed—he was just some Marielito from Miami, a professional killer. But the twenty grand would have come out of DeArmand's pocket. So that was the deal. I signed the paper and DeArmand would see to it this guy went to the grave as me, no questions asked. No money, but I got my freedom. And I'd planned on living with Jake in Costa Rica anyway."

  Hollins cleared his throat uncomfortably and added, "I wanted to stay on the island and wait for you, Doc. I almost did. But I was still panicky and you always were kind of a stickler for the law. I figured I'd just head down to Masagua alone and try to get Jake out by myself, but when I got back to the island the emeralds were gone. Shit, I had no money and no emeralds— nothing to trade. I woulda called you that night, but I knew the marina was closed. Then I figured the best thing to do was just sneak in and see you in person. But, by then, it was Tuesday night and you were already gone."

  Ford said, "Zacul didn't want the emeralds. He wanted the book you stole."

  Hollins sat up. "He wanted the what?"

  Ford did not repeat himself; just stood looking at the man, watching it sink in.

  Hollins said, "Christ, I gave that to Rouchard to auction off. I didn't think it was worth more than a couple hundred bucks. You're serious? And I thought it was the damn emeralds! That's why I broke into your house. They didn't mean money to me, they meant getting my little boy back. And I was beginning to think you were dead."

  Ford looked at Jessica. She was leaning against the screen door, one hip thrown out, her copper hair hanging over the left side of her face. He said, "And you're the woman I could tell everything."

  She made an open-handed gesture, as if pleading guilty. "Nice little trap, Ford. But don't you get a little nervous setting traps for people who love you? I mean, you're the one who gets hurt if the traps work."

  Hollins reacted to that, glaring at Jessica. "Hey, wait a ininute—you just told me you two were friends." He turned to Ford. "I swear to God, this girl didn't tell me that you and she were—"

  "We're not." Ford was standing up, finding it hard to look at either one of them. "Rafe, you come over to my place in the morning and we'll talk about your son."

  "What?"

  "You heard me."

  "I can't just come out in broad daylight. I've been camping over on Chino Island so no one would see me. Jessica'
s been bringing me food and stuff until you got back. About her and me, I had no damn idea that you two were . . . and I hardly even knew her until about four days ago when Rouchard said—" He was stammering over a tough subject and making it tougher, so Jessica finished, "When Benny told him that any friend of his gets anything he wants from Jessica McClure. Right, Hollins?"

  Rafe groaned. "Doc, I feel like a real shit about this. After all you've done for me. "

  Ford was already walking away. "Stop by in the morning, Rafe. You don't have to hide anymore. They couldn't prove you were murdered; they can't prove the Marielito was murdered. All the evidence is gone."

  "But I'm supposed to be dead."

  "You were out of the country with your son and returned to discover a terrible injustice had been done. You are shocked some stranger was mistaken for you."

  "I left that stupid note—"

  "I have the note, and I've already forgotten about it."

  "And my wallet was on him."

  "You mean the wallet was stolen? The Marielito died with a guilty conscience."

  "But DeArmand knows—"

  "DeArmand has his own problems to worry about. So does your ex-wife."

  "They'll get me for kidnapping. "

  Ford stopped and turned toward him. "Right—and gun running. You're going to have to face up to that anyway. Good fathers don't keep their kids hiding from the law, Rafe. And you're going to be a good father. A very damn good father. Or I'll unravel your story like a cheap sweater and make sure you lose the boy."

  Hollins's head was down and he said softly, "I guess I have that coming. Maybe I do. But Doc—" He looked at Ford, a steely look. "—don't ever threaten to take Jake away from me again."

  Ford said, "You keep your part of the bargain and I won't."

  Ford could hear Jessica's footsteps in the sand; could feel her following him through the disc of porch light to his bike. He turned and she came closer to him, still holding the robe with one hand, but holding something else in the other. She said, "You might as well take this with you"—handing him a framed canvas—"since you probably won't be coming by again." Not sounding cold now, just weary.

  Ford held the canvas out to the light and saw that she had finished the painting: a man with glasses and a firm expression wading the brass flats. It was Ford's face, but she had idealized it; softened the rough features and added virtues he had never seen in the mirror.

  She said, "That's the way I see you." And they both looked at the painting in a growing silence, then Jessica said in a rush, "Doc, Rouchard has videos of me."

  "Oh?"

  "You don't want to hear it, do you?"

  "I thought it might be something like that."

  "I'm just trying to tell you why you saw what you saw—"

  "You don't owe me an explanation."

  "No, but you owe me the chance to offer, damn it." She was angry and close to tears, too. "That time in Greenwich Village, with the drugs and all. Well, it was a little bit worse than I told you. No, it was a lot worse. The drugs, mostly. Then I went to work for the marketing company in New York—"

  "Seaboard Marketing. Unlimited."

  She turned away from him, her hair swinging. "I don't even know why I bother. I should have known you'd already checked out every little detail. God, I feel like a fool."

  Ford touched her shoulder and she pivoted slowly, not looking at him now. "You went to work for the company."

  "Yes. I started to get my life straightened out a little. But I still had the drug problem. So Ben helped me out by supplying, but then he wanted me to help him, too. It didn't seem like I had much choice, that's how bad my problem was. So I began to do favors for him. Then he wanted me to do favors for his important clients when they came to the city. He didn't know it but he was giving me all the motivation I needed for getting off the drugs for good. By then he had the videos. I didn't even know he'd taken them."

  "Nice guy, Ben."

  "He's leaving the country Tuesday and I'll never have to do another thing for that man. He got busted last week and I'm helping him get out. I'll get the cassettes back in exchange."

  "And Rafe is one of Ben's suppliers. "

  "I don't ask. He must have something on Ben, I don't know. I just do what they want, like taking medicine." She pressed her hands to his chest, not holding him away, but as if to make sure he stood and listened. "After Tuesday, it'll all be over, Doc. That whole damn segment of my life. Like it never happened. In a way, it didn't happen. Not to this me. The Jessica McClure you knew here in this house—that's who I am. It's who I would have been. Do you know how seriously the art critics would treat a coke whore? People don't just buy the painting. They buy the artist. I told you that once before."

  Ford stood watching her, saying nothing as she let her hands slide to her sides.

  She said, "Bad things happen to people, Ford. Bad random things that scar and humiliate. If you make one wrong choice make one mistake, you can go from running your life to wanting to run from it. Like your friend Rafe Hollins. That painting you're holding was done by a person who never knew Ben Rouchard. It was done by a person who hadn't been scarred and was too strong to run. Take a close look at the face, Ford. It looks like you, but it's the way I should have been."

  Ford said, "I like the woman I see in front of me just fine. I always have."

  She slid her arm under his, wanting him to hug her. "I don't want to lose you, Ford, just because you stumbled onto a part of my life that is already over."

  Ford almost said, "Jessica, you never had me." Instead, he kissed her on top of the head and rode away.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  On June 22, one day after the summer solstice, Ford was standing at the stove cooking when he heard a skiff outside, puttering toward his dock. He was expecting company and he stopped cutting onions long enough to glance out the window. It was Tomlinson—not the person he was expecting. He opened the little refrigerator and used his fingers to squeegee ice off two bottles of beer, then opened them both.

  "Clare de Lune" was coming out of the Boise speakers, just getting to the nice harp part, the part where the music slowed and sparkled.

  Tomlinson came up the steps, opened the door without knocking, and plopped down into a chair. He was carrying a newspaper. "Pilar Santana Fuentes Balserio isn't dead," he said.

  Ford had gone back to the stove and, without looking up, he said, "There's a beer on the desk for you."

  "She presided at the Ceremony of Seven Moons yesterday. They invited the world press, like a coronation. They're calling it the bloodless revolution. Even the Miami Herald ran two . . . no, three pictures. I wonder why they didn't invite you—I mean, you sent Rivera the damn book back just like he asked."

  Ford turned and said, "I've got a lady due to arrive in about fifteen minutes. I don't want to be rude, but she's not coming here to hear about current events. Then we're going up to Cabbage Key and dance. Rob Wells is having us to dinner."

  "You're taking the news a little hard, aren't you?" Tomlinson was holding his bottle of beer, studying Ford's face.

  "I'm cutting onions, you idiot."

  "Oh yeah ... It says here that Masaguans have accepted Pilar as the incarnation of Ixku, the Mayan goddess. Far out, huh? Ixku was the mother of Quetzalcoatl, the blond sun god. Pure spiritualism, man, I love it! 'She had disavowed her former life—'" Tomlinson was reading now. "'—and dedicated herself to promoting the political and social well-being of her people. An estimated two hundred thousand Maya made the pilgrimage to bow before the woman who led them in a ceremony that had not been performed since the arrival of the Spaniards in the sixteenth century.'" Tomlinson rattled the paper. "Goddamn, that woman's smart. In those Central American countries, they assassinate dictators like most people eat popcorn. But they won't lay a finger on a religious leader, no way. She'll govern that country until she dies at a ripe old age. She's a genius, I'm telling you."

  Ford said, "You don't have to tell me."

&n
bsp; Tomlinson was reading again. '"As a Mayan priestess, she must forsake all earthly pleasures and bonds. Even to speak her former name is considered heresy.' I guess that means she can t get married. Yeah, I'm sure that's what that means. See, Doc? It wasn't that she didn't want to see you again. That ought to cheer you up."

  "Have I needed cheering up?"

  "Naw, I guess not. You've been pretty cheery."

  They'd both been pretty cheery. After selling off the emeralds, they each had enough money in the bank to do the work they wanted to do for a long, long time. So would Jake Hollins when he turned eighteen and the trust funds started paying off. And Rafe and Harvey Hollins would have enough money right along if all the stipulations of the trusts were honored.

  "They got some quotes in here from Juan Rivera. He's going to be the high Ixku's prime minister. Some of them are pretty funny. You want me to read them?"

  Tomlinson read the quotes aloud, and by the time he was done they were both laughing. Tomlinson said, "I'm telling you, the guy's going to be a great prime minister. That idea about getting a major league franchise in Masagua was the best. 'Provide us such a bond with capitalism and we will never turn away.' Pure poetry and, when you think of it, he's absolutely right."

  Ford had already thought of it. It was his idea.

  Tomlinson said, "You want to see the pictures they took of the ceremony? I'll leave the paper. Hey, I better get going if you have a lady coming over. Plus you combed your hair and, judging from that clean shirt, probably even took a shower." At the door he said again, "I think you ought to take a look at those pictures, Doc."

  As Tomlinson's boat started, Ford picked up the paper. He looked at the photographs, then put the paper down. He found his glasses and considered the photographs once more, studying them carefully, moving very slowly, as a man in a dream might move. He took a long breath, then another. Then he carried the paper outside, where he stood, hands clenched white on the railing, and stared down into the pen where the two big bull sharks Jeth Nicholes had caught cruised like dark sentinels. Their dull goat's eyes seemed to stare back at him.