Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
EPILOGUE
ALSO BY RANDY WAYNE WHITE
Sanibel Flats
The Heat Islands
The Man Who Invented Florida
Captiva
North of Havana
The Mangrove Coast
Ten Thousand Islands
Shark River
Twelve Mile Limit
Everglades
Tampa Burn
Dead of Night
Dark Light
Hunter’s Moon
Black Widow
Dead Silence
Deep Shadow
NONFICTION
Randy Wayne White’s Ultimate Tarpon Book
Batfishing in the Rainforest
The Sharks of Lake Nicaragua
Last Flight Out
An American Traveler
Randy Wayne White’s Gulf Coast Cookbook
(with Carlene Fredericka Brennen)
Tarpon Fishing in Mexico and Florida (An Introduction)
FICTION AS RANDY STRIKER
Key West Connection
The Deep Six
Cuban Death-Lift
The Deadlier Sex
Assassin’s Shadow
Grand Cayman Slam
Everglades Assault
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Publishers Since 1838
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA · Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) · Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England · Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) · Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) · Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi-110 017, India · Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) · Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Copyright © 2011 by Randy Wayne White
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. Published simultaneously in Canada
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
White, Randy Wayne.
Night vision / Randy Wayne White.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-48639-9
1. Ford, Doc (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Marine biologists—Fiction.
3. Florida—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3573.H47473N
813’.54—dc22
Sanibel and Captiva Islands, and Immokalee, Florida, are real places, faithfully described, but used fictitiously in this novel. The same is true of certain businesses, marinas, bars and other places frequented by Doc Ford, Tomlinson and pals.
In all other respects, however, this novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is unintentional and coincidental. While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
http://us.penguingroup.com
For my adored partner, Wendy Webb, and our eloquent, gifted
Webb family: Sandy and Jim Phillips, Ben, Sarah, Tom, Janet,
Luke, Jack, Mary, Joost, Jesse, Kelly, Ryder, Layla, and
three ascending stars: Hannah, Phoebe and Zoë Webb
AUTHOR’S N OTE
I learned long ago, whether writing fiction or nonfiction, an author loses credibility if he’s caught in a factual error. Because of this, I do extensive research before starting a new Doc Ford novel, and Night Vision is no different.
However, a scene takes place in this book for which no research data was available. It concerns bottlenose dolphins that are surprised while foraging beneath mangrove trees, on land, on a starry, moonless night. As the author, though, I can vouch for the scene’s accuracy and authenticity because I witnessed a similar event, and the details are as described, although viewed through the eyes of Marion Ford and Tomlinson.
Otherwise, thanks go to experts in various fields. These include Dr. Frank J. Mazzotti, wildlife biologist, and one of the country’s foremost experts on crocodilians. Ryan D. Battis, of Laser Energetics, manufacturers of the Dazer Guardian. Peter Deltoro and Dr. Tim S. Sigman, both of whom provided invaluable help to the author.
Special thanks also go to my partner, Wendy Webb, my guardian, Iris Tanner, my partners and pals, Mark “Dartanian” Marinello, Coach Marty and Brenda Harrity, my surfing buddy Gus Landl, my spiritual advisers Bill and Diana Lee, my battery and travel mate Don Carman, Stu “The Big Lefty” Johnson, lovely Donna and Gary “Twig” Terwilliger, and Dr. Brian Hummel, the author’s intellectual compass and ever-faithful friend.
Once again, the early chapters of this book were written in Cartagena, Colombia, and Havana, Cuba, and I am indebted to friends who helped me secure good places to live and write. My thanks go to Giorgio and Carolina Arajuo for their help in Cartagena. In Cuba, my Freemason brothers Ernesto Batista and Sergio Rodriquez were particularly helpful, as were Roberto and Ela Giraudy, Rául and Myra Corrales and Alex Vicente.
Most of this novel, though, was written at corner tables before and after hours at Doc Ford’s Rum Bar and Grille on Sanibel and San Carlos Islands, where staff were tolerant beyond the call of duty.
Thanks go to Col. Raynauld Bentley, Dan Howes, Brian “Boston Blackie” Cunningham, Mojito Greg Barker, the amazing Liz Harris, Capt. Bryce Randall Harris, dear Milita Kennedy, Kevin Filliowich, Kevin Boyce of Boston infamy, Eric Breland, Big Sam Khussan Ismatullaev, Olga Guryanova, lovely Rachel Songalewski of Michigan, Jean, Evan and Abby Crenshaw, Lindsay Kuleza, Roberto Cruz, Amanda Rodriquez, Juan Gomex, Mary McBeath, tattoo consultant Kim McGonnell, the amazing Cindy Porter, “Hi” Sean Scott, Big Matt Powell, Laurie and Jake Yukobov, Bette Roberts and master chef Chris Zook, a man of complex talents.
At the Rum Bar on San Carlos Island, Fort Myers Beach, thanks go to Wade Craft, James Gray, Kandice Salvador, Herberto Ramos, Brian Obrien, lovelies Latoya Trotta, Alexandria Pereira, Kerra Pike, Christine Engler, Stephanie Goolsby, Danielle Gorman, Corey Allen, Nora Billheimmer, Molly Brewer, Justina Villaplano, Jessica Wozniak, Lauren Brown, Kassee Buonano, Sally Couillard, Justin Dorfman, Chris Goolsby, Patric John, Stephen Johnson, Manuel Lima, Jeffrey Lyons, Matthew and Michael Magner, Catherine Mawyer, Susan Mora, Kylie Pryll, Dustin Rickards, Brooke Ryland, Ellen Sandler, Dean Shoeman, Jessica Shell, Andrea Aguayo and Kevin “Stretch” Tully.
At Timber’s Sanibel Grille, my pals Matt
Asen, Mary Jo, Audrey, Becky, Bart and Bobby were, once again, stalwarts.
Finally, I would like to thank my two sons, Capt. Rogan and Lee White, for helping me finish, yet again, another book.
—Randy Wayne White
Casa de Chico’s
Sanibel Island, Florida
Everything that has happened, everything that will happen, it all exists in this single moment, endlessly surfacing and submerging; natural order, perfect law. The word “coincidence” is an invention that defines our own confusion better than it describes a unique occurrence.
—S. M. TOMLINSON
One life is all we have and we live it as we believe in living it. But to sacrifice what you are and to live without belief, that is a fate more terrible than dying.
—JOAN OF ARC, 1412-1431
ONE
ON AN EVERGLADES-SCENTED EVENING IN MARCH, AS I DROVE MY pickup truck west, toward the Gulf of Mexico, my hipster pal, Tomlinson, reached to switch off the radio, saying, “Life is the best thing that can happen to any of us. And it’s also the very worst thing that can happen to any of us. Problem is, our luck begins with mom’s location when the womb turns into a slippery slide. That’s why I self-medicate. It makes the shitty unfairness of it all almost bearable.”
We had just dropped my chatty cousin, Ransom Gatrell, at Regional Southwest, and I was eager for a few minutes without conversation. I nodded toward the radio and told him, “Hey, I was listening to that. We can talk later.”
“The Guatemalan girl deserves your full attention,” Tomlinson reminded me. He leaned back in his seat and stuck his hand out the window, surfing the Florida night. “She’s gifted. And she’s in trouble.”
He wasn’t referring to Ransom, although my powerhouse cousin, and my other neighbors at Dinkin’s Bay Marina, Sanibel Island, Florida, are a gifted, eclectic bunch.
“Your friends are always in trouble,” I said. “Your female friends, anyway. Percentages suggest the problem is you, not them.”
“Tula isn’t a female. She’s an adolescent girl,” he replied. “There’s a big difference. Tula’s at that age—a magic age, man—when some girls seem to possess all the wisdom in the world. They’re not screwed up by crazed hormones and menstrual periods. They exist, for the briefest of times, in a rarefied capsule of purity. The window is very, very narrow, of course. It’s afterward that most women go a little nuts. Hell, let’s be honest. All of them.”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
Tomlinson pressed, “I’m trying to give you the background so you understand what we’re dealing with. This girl traveled three thousand miles on freight trains, riding in the backs of semis, to get to Florida. Hell, she even hiked across a chunk of Arizona desert. It’s because she hasn’t heard from her mother in almost three months. Her brother, two aunts and an uncle are somewhere in Florida, too, and she hasn’t heard from them, either. Something’s wrong. Tula came here to find out what.”
I said, “An entire family goes off and leaves a girl alone in the mountains of Guatemala? Maybe they’re not worth finding.”
“One by one,” Tomlinson replied, “whole villages migrate to the States. You know that. They watch television at some jungle tienda. They see the fancy cars, the nice clothes. Meantime, they don’t even have enough pesos to buy tortillas and beans. All the volcanic eruptions and mudslides the last few years in Guatemala, how do you deal with something like that? The coffee crop has gone to hell, too. Another revolution is brewing, and there’s no work. What would you do if you lived there, and had a family to feed? That’s what I meant when I said a person’s luck—good or bad—begins with where they’re born. Are you even listening to me?”
An instant later, the man’s attention wandered, and he said, “Holy cripes, another Walgreens. If they keep piling up the concrete, building more condos, this whole damn peninsula is gonna sink. Just like Atlantis. It could happen.”
I downshifted for a stoplight, and I turned and looked at Tomlinson, the odor of patchouli and his freshly opened beer not as penetrating as the magenta surfer’s shirt he wore. “Not listening, huh? The girl is thirteen-year-old Tula Choimha from a mountain village northeast of Guatemala City, not far from the Mayan pyramids of Tikal. Did I pronounce her last name right?”
“Choom-HA,” Tomlinson corrected, giving it an Asiatic inflection, which is not uncommon in the Quiché Mayan language. He spelled the name, then added, “Does it sound familiar? It should. Choimha is mentioned in The Popol Vuh. She’s the goddess of falling water.”
He was referring to a book of Mayan mythology, one of the few written records to survive the religious atrocities of the Conquistadors.
I thought, Oh boy, here we go, but I pressed ahead, saying, “Tula just turned thirteen, you told me. Her mother’s first name is something unpronounceable, so she goes by Mary. Or Maria. Tula arrived in Florida about eight days ago, and you met her—you said you met her—by coincidence at a trailer park the owners are trying to condemn so they can build condos. She lives with five other people in a single-wide.”
“Meeting her wasn’t coincidental. I would never say coincidental, because I don’t believe in—”
I interrupted again. “But you didn’t tell me the whole truth, did you? You didn’t say that, about once a month, you cruise the immigrant neighborhoods, buying grass or fresh peyote buttons. The illegals smuggle in peyote from Mexico because it’s safer than carrying cash they probably don’t have in the first place. You used to drive your VW, but lately you’ve been taking your electric bike. What? You think it makes what you’re doing less obvious? Just the opposite, pal.”
I waited, glancing at the rearview mirror until I saw the man’s smile of concession, before I added, “See? I was listening.”
Tomlinson disappeared into his own brain as I drove west, his right hand still surfing the wind, his left fist cupping a can of Modelo. Disappeared is a fitting description. Tomlinson has spent so many nights alone, at sea, he says, that he has constructed the equivalent of cerebral theme parks in his head for entertainment. Books, religion, music, whole communal villages populated, presumably, with Jimi Hendrix and Hunter S. Thompson types. All probably landscaped with cannabis sculptures trimmed to resemble objects and creatures that I preferred not to imagine.
Tomlinson is a strange one, but a good one. His perception of reality has, over the years, been so consistently tinted by chemicals that, my guess is, he has reshaped reality into his own likeness. And it is probably a kinder, brighter reality than the one in which most of us function.
Tomlinson is among the most decent men I know—if you don’t count sexual misconduct, which I am trying to learn not to do. He’s brilliant and original, something I can say only about a handful of people, and I count him among my most trusted friends—again, his behavior with women excluded. He had come into my little marine lab earlier that day asking for help. And when a friend asks for help, you say yes and save the questions for later.
It was later. Almost ten p.m., according to the Chronofighter dive watch on my left wrist. March is peak tourist season in Southwest Florida, so beach traffic was heavy, both lanes a bumper-car jumble of out-of-state license plates punctuated by roaring packs of Harleys.
After several minutes of silence, Tomlinson’s attention swooped back into the cab of my truck, and he said, “This place we’re going on San Carlos Island, the trailer park’s named Red Citrus. It’s not far from the shrimp docks. And, lately, it’s become a bitch of a dark space, man. I should have warned you before we started.”
I said, “The shrimp docks? That sounds close to your new restaurant.”
Tomlinson, the hippie entrepreneur, had opened a rum bar and grille on Sanibel, and another at Fisherman’s Wharf, near the shrimp yards, bayside, Fort Myers Beach. I was one of the investors, as was my cousin, Ransom, who also managed both places, along with her two boyfriends, Raynauld Bentley, a Cajun, and Big Dan Howes. So far, Tomlinson’s business acumen had showed no damage from his years of c
hemical abuse, so it had been a wise thing to do.
It was one of life’s amusing ironies. Tomlinson, who claims to have no interest in money or possessions, is gradually becoming wealthy, boosted along, perhaps, by his own fearless indifference to failure. I, on the other hand, remain steadfastly middle class because of my indifference—not counting a cache of small, valuable treasures I have acquired over the years.
Jade carvings and amulets. Spanish coins of gold and silver. All will remain faithfully hidden away, barring an emergency.
“The trailer park’s on the same side of the bay,” he replied, “but a couple miles farther east. That’s why I used to like cruising Red Citrus, it was close enough. I could moor my boat near the bar and use my electric bike. In the last year or so, though, the whole vibe of the place has changed. The aura, it’s smoky and gray now like a peat fire. It’s the sort of place that consumes people’s lives.”
I replied, “Isn’t that a tad dramatic?”
He asked, “You ever lived in a backwater trailer park? You’ve spent enough time in the banana republics to be simpatico with the immigrants who live there—that’s one of the reasons I asked you to come along. People in that park work their asses off, man, six or seven days a week, picking citrus or doing construction or busing tables at some restaurant. Then they wire half the money—more sometimes—back to their families in Nicaragua or El Salvador or the mountain regions of Mexico. Hell, you know the places I’m talking about, man. These people are always fighting just to survive. That’s why the girl deserves our help.”
It was true, I am simpatico. “These people” included illegals on the run, as well as the “shadow illegals,” men and women with green cards and work permits—sometimes forged, sometimes not. They live peacefully and work hard in this country, unlike the drugfueled minority that gives the rest of them a bad name.
Night Vision Page 1