Bone Deep

by Randy Wayne White

  Deon claimed he’d told no one about his plan to rob the house—a claim I doubted. He was a drug addict who lived with his stripper girlfriend. Same when he swore he’d found the .22 caliber pistol behind a false wall where Tovar had stashed his most prized artifacts.

  “What’s that tell you?” Deon had rationalized. “The shit’s stolen. Otherwise, he’d put it in a bank. The maid said Tovar had a big safe upstairs. But, no, he hid this stuff. A whole roomful. I just took a few pieces.”

  Their stories meshed. Tomlinson finished his account, saying, “I figured the guy in the ski mask was SWAT team—black Ninja clothes. That he was after Mick or some hidden meth lab. Didn’t matter when he started shooting. Man, we were so out of there.”

  Tomlinson looked at the bag again and said, “Your turn, Doctor Ford.”

  It was three p.m. Inland, anvil clouds were gathering heat and moisture—a couple of hours before the first boom of thunder would chase us back to Sanibel. I started engines and idled toward shore to give myself time to think.

  “This is me you’re talking to,” Tomlinson pressed.

  I remained cautious. “When you were in Tovar’s house, did you or Duncan touch anything? Or leave anything behind?”

  “My ass puckered when I heard shots. So I almost left something, but just a false alarm.”

  “This is important, stop screwing around.”

  Tomlinson gave me his Okay, Teacher look while opening the cooler. “One of us could’ve touched the door, maybe, on the way out. But I don’t think so. It was wide open and that’s the way we left it.” He pawed through the ice. “Hey . . . you already drank two beers? The six-pack of Kalik was for me, man.”

  I said, “If Duncan tries to hitchhike, police will pick him up. I think I was right. I think he jumped parole. Why else would he take off on his own?”

  “It’s what a medicine man does,” Tomlinson said, miffed about the beer Deon had drank. “He’ll change shapes—shape-shifters can fly when they need to. Or buy a bus ticket. No . . . What I think is, Dunk will go to the closest lodge. So stop worrying.”

  “Lodge?” My mind had to shift gears. Brighton Indian Reservation near Orlando was the closest, but that was seventy miles east. “Police will spot him on the highway,” I said.

  Tomlinson popped one of the remaining beers, tilted the bottle back, and used the back of his hand as a towel. “Cop’s would’a had to be damn quick on their toes to catch him before he got to the lodge. We passed one on Venice Avenue. Dunk saw it. Didn’t you?”

  “Saw what?”

  “A lodge, man.”

  “In Venice?”

  “Right there in front of your eyes.”

  I have learned to disengage when conversation with Tomlinson becomes cryptic ping-pong. It’s his specialty. He enjoys the game too much. So I opened the electronics cabinet overhead and pretended to fine-tune the Doppler weather radar—a storm building over Myakka, which was phosphate country . . . another storm east of Englewood, but still plenty of time to get home.

  Finally, Tomlinson lost patience and explained, “A Masonic lodge. Dunk’s a Freemason—a lot of Skins are.”

  “Why didn’t you just say so?”

  “As if you’d believe me.”

  “With good reason,” I said, which sucked me right back into his game.

  “Believe what you want. You’ve never wondered why Mohawks fought the British? They were Masonic warriors just like Ben Franklin and Paul Revere. Near Sedona, the rez there, a lot of Skins are in the Brotherhood. Wisconsin—the great Sauk chief, Black Hawk, was a Mason. Red Jacket in New England. When Lewis and Clark crossed the Rockies, more than one unsuspecting Skin greeted those white bastards with a Masonic handshake. So it only makes sense that’s where Dunk would go.”

  This was said to reassure me about the fate of our Crow or Apache friend from Montana—or was it Arizona?

  I gave up. “Let’s review here. The house you broke into was robbed. You do understand that?”

  “Robbed?” he asked.

  “Shots were fired. Judges don’t like it when firearms are used during the commission of a felony. Valuable property was stolen, so it’s grand theft. Someone saw you leave that house—the guy in the ski mask, if no one else. If police find fingerprints, they’ll match them on a computer. If they . . . no, when they question Mick, the magic tour guide, he’ll tell them about you and Duncan. See why I’m concerned?”

  Tomlinson appeared confounded until his eyes found the duffel bag, then they zoomed in on me. “Jesus Christ, Doc. You hijacked the robber and took his swag. Then you killed him. I was right from the start.”

  No . . . I had struck a deal with Deon Killip and dropped him a few miles north on Turner Key, where his stripper girlfriend had relatives.

  “Call the Masonic lodge in Venice,” I said. “I’ll explain on the way.”

  No answer at the lodge, but Tomlinson’s phone buzzed an hour later off Stump Pass, south of Englewood Beach.

  “What’s your twenty, Magic Man?” he asked, grinning. It was Fallsdown. I slowed, preparing to turn around, but Tomlinson waved me onward.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “He’s in Key West, not Atlanta.”

  Tomlinson covered the phone. “Dinkin’s Bay—Dunk had to stop at the 7-Eleven to buy more phone minutes. Should I tell him what we have?”

  By then, I had unboxed the owl charmstone but hadn’t shared all the information with my pal—nor would I until I decided on a next move.

  “Let’s surprise him,” I said.

  • • •

  I SPENT THE NEXT DAY, Saturday, expecting a knock on the door and a refresher on my Miranda rights. I had hidden the bag, minus the charmstone, deep in the mangroves on the western fringe of Dinkin’s Bay, but was still uneasy.

  A close inspection of the duffel bag’s contents would have to wait until I deemed it safe.

  Tomlinson and Fallsdown didn’t know what I’d done but must have shared my uneasiness. They had avoided the lab and kept a low profile.

  In the afternoon, my cousin, Ransom Gatrell, stopped to say hello. With her cinnamon skin and Bahamian accent, we are an unlikely family, but Ransom is my closest relative and among my most trusted friends. She was leaving for Key West that night. We had a good talk. She offered some insights into Hannah’s behavior, then shared a few details about her own love life that caused me some brotherly uneasiness, the woman was so succinctly graphic.

  “Never seen a man so fast to embarrass,” she said more than once, although her intonation varied with her laughter.

  I shared a few secrets with her, too, but of a less intimate nature.

  Leland Albright called as Ransom was leaving and hinted again at his offer of a consulting job. “Don’t tell me you’re not qualified,” he said. “I did some research on you. Tomorrow, I’ll show you what an old phosphate mine looks like if you’re willing to discuss a business proposition.”

  In the morning, he wanted me to come to his home in Sarasota and we would drive to his mining property together.

  I told Albright, “Let me think about it,” and walked Ransom to her car.

  His offer was tempting. Tomlinson and Fallsdown were going to a Lakeland gun show in the morning to search for more relics dealers. Duncan was delighted to see the little stone owl but was pressing ahead with his search for the second carving. I had been dreading the trip to Lakeland. In a building full of right-leaning gun advocates, Tomlinson would require careful monitoring—or a gag. Leland’s invitation would spare me all that . . . if police didn’t arrive and recite my Miranda rights, then lead me away in cuffs.

  I spent late Saturday with old baseball buddies, then worked with the dog on blind retrieves using hand commands, which he often ignored in favor of shorter routes. The early, wakeful hours of Sunday morning were spent thinking about the duffel bag hidden out there in
the mangrove darkness.

  What exactly had I taken from Deon, the petty thief? Valuable, no doubt, but how valuable? Sooner than later, news about the robbery of the late Finn Tovar’s house would get out. The aftershock I expected would be proportional.

  Someone would come looking.

  EIGHT

  Sunday morning, at Leland’s home in Sarasota, the shake-up I anticipated arrived with the mildest of tremors. I was wandering toward the backyard where, behind a courtesy fence, an unhappy wife swam nude, when my phone chirped with the link to a newspaper story.

  The interruption spared me the charms of Mrs. Ava Albright—momentarily.

  VENICE POLICE INVESTIGATE

  Police investigated a possible break-in at 50 Sand Lane, Caspersen Beach, yesterday. Officers reported a padlock had been cut, and interior water damage caused by recent rain. The investigation was in response to a complaint by the estate attorney representing the late Finnlund J. Tovar, a longtime Venice resident and well-known paleontologist.

  • • •

  PALEONTOLOGIST? I had researched the man. Finn Tovar was to paleontology what Murf the Surf was to gemology—a driven amateur who, unlike the diamond thief, had been shrewd enough to avoid jail.

  I continued reading:

  According to police, robbery was a possible motive, although the residence appeared to be intact. Pending an inventory of Tovar’s possessions, the investigation will remain open. A representative of Viz-Watch Inc., which installed a security system in the home, was unavailable for comment.

  Mr. Tovar, during his career as a paleontologist, is credited with discovering the carapace of the largest prehistoric turtle on record, and the skull of a unicorn-like animal that went extinct a million years ago and was thought to be unique to the Florida peninsula.

  The subject of criticism by Native American organizations, Mr. Tovar withdrew his collection of indigenous artifacts, but his reconstruction of a mastodon skull and a saber-toothed tiger remained on display locally until he was diagnosed with a brain tumor a year ago. Scientists worldwide considered Tovar an authority on Florida mastodons and mammoths. Both prehistoric animals are related to elephants . . .

  • • •

  I REREAD THE PIECE, wondering if AIM, the American Indian Movement, had been involved with the protest. Fallsdown and Tomlinson had, as expected, gone to Lakeland, but would be back by sunset for the marina’s Sunday shrimp roast. I would ask them about it when we compared notes.

  The theft had not been discovered—a relief. That gave us some time. If the news story had been different, my next move would be to call a cop friend in Tallahassee. That would happen, but not yet.

  On my phone, I typed a quick reply to Ransom, who’d sent me the link, and walked toward the backyard. To my right were oak trees and a sweep of asphalt where my old truck sat ticking in the morning heat. The Albright residence—a secluded acreage off Bee Ridge Road—was not as grand as their island mansion and much newer. A Deco ranch-style structure that rambled. No one had answered the front door. Odd—but I was ten minutes early. The back patio was the logical alternative, so I continued along fence and shrubbery, my thoughts on Finn Tovar.

  Violent temper aside, Tovar had been an interesting man. It takes more than a Ph.D. to excel in the field sciences. He had possessed talent, there was no denying—a rare blend of instinct and expertise. He had eclipsed the achievements of many academics, but along the way he had made enemies. Among them was a maid he had slapped. It was the maid who had given Deon Killip the security code to Tovar’s home. But had she also sent a gunman to rob the petty thief? A maid willing to take risks to secure a bigger chunk of the prize had cunning. She would know more about Finn Tovar than she had told the petty thief and drug addict. Was it worth a return visit to Venice?

  I was considering logistics when I heard a woman’s voice call through the foliage, “Is someone there?”

  Mrs. Albright—that’s the way I thought of her after exchanging only a few words at the drum ceremony. I’d been right. Breakfast on the patio had emptied the house. I stopped and replied through the shrubbery, “It’s Marion Ford. Your husband is expecting me.”

  “Who?”

  I said my name again.

  “Oh . . . I remember you. Doc. Sure! Hey—I could use your help with something, Doc. The gate’s at the back, come on around.”

  I found the gate, entered, turned . . . and there was Ava Albright, naked, floating, small-breasted and buoyant, in a gel of turquoise, her blond hair pinned primly, her body a paleness of refracted angles, white, brown, and pink.

  “I can’t reach my mimosa,” she said, an intentional parody of a pouting vamp. Then stood to show off her body and laughed, “I’m joking. My glass is on the table—don’t be shy. We’re practically nudists around here.”

  I said, “You should post a warning sign.”

  I turned, exited, closed the gate, and walked to my truck. Gave it some time before trying the front door again. Leland Albright, red-faced, loomed over me. “What the hell do you mean surprising my wife like that?”

  “Is that what she told you?”

  “I came out on the balcony as you were leaving.”

  “Then you know I didn’t surprise her,” I said. “And you know your wife liked it, too.”

  Albright slammed the door in my face.

  I leaned against my truck and waited. Two minutes, I allotted, then two minutes more because I wanted the list of old-time relic hunters he had promised. When I heard the ascending verbal punch and counterpunch of an argument, though, I drove away. An angry man can be won over. A man who has been humiliated cannot. Space and time are required before he can reappear in his old familiar role.

  Leland Albright had more backbone than most. I was on Bee Ridge Road, driving east, when he phoned. I saw the name and answered, “Leland, sorry about that last crack. You didn’t deserve it.”

  “Ava knows exactly the buttons to push,” he said, sounding hoarse, a man who’d been yelling. “You’re right, Ford. She enjoys it. Where are you?”

  I told him, “Not far. Want me to come back?”

  “No . . . I’ve still got a few rounds to go with Ava. If she’d just admit what she does! Christ, she claims I’m imagining things. From the pool, she invited you in—I could swear I heard her say your name. We’re practically nudists, Doc. That’s what she said, isn’t it? Or . . . maybe I am crazy.”

  The man had called to make amends but was now drafting me as a witness. “We’ll make it another day,” I said.

  “Wait. You can still drive to the phosphate mine. You don’t need me. Owen will meet you there.”

  Owen, last name Hall, was the stepson. That had been our plan: take Leland’s SUV inland to a section of land north of the Peace River the family owned and where Mammoth Ridge Mines had started.

  “Your stepson won’t mind?”

  Leland answered, “He does what I tell him,” but heard his own phony overconfidence. He exhaled, frustrated. “Sorry. She’s got me off my game.”

  “They do it to us, we do it to them. The human comedy, it’s called.”

  “The way Ava does it isn’t human,” was the reply. A coldness there he tried to cover by adding, “Owen’s a good kid. If anyone can get you into Mosaic on a Sunday, it’s him.”

  Mosaic was the largest mining company in the state and an adjunct to our plan. If we could get through security, that was a bonus. If not, nothing lost. Albright still owned a square mile of Florida—more than six hundred acres. It was challenge enough for one afternoon.

  Yesterday, when I had returned Leland’s call, he’d been more specific about his job offer. “I want an analysis of water quality in our quarries—we have three lakes. And please don’t say you’re not qualified.”

  On the Internet, he’d found papers I had written on the effects of water turbidity on sea grasses and filt
ering species, another on tunicates containing high levels of a toxic algae known as “red tide.” Nutrient pollution, I had concluded, was sometimes a contributing factor.

  Albright had shared my study on manatee deaths as they related to red tide with his daughters. “Believe me, your opinion will carry some weight with those two. You understand the importance of phosphate. Tomorrow, at the property, I’ll explain why I’m considering the mining idea.”

  I had used Albright’s list of relic collectors as a bargaining chip. Which was why I was in Sarasota, a phone to my ear, listening to the man vent about his wife’s behavior. I felt badly for the guy, but I also wanted that list, so I dropped a hint, asking, “Did I give you my e-mail address?”

  Leland, weary of it all, said, “I shouldn’t be dumping all this on you. Don’t worry. Owen will give you an envelope. A partial list is in there, plus some information on mining . . . Ford?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sorry about what happened. I don’t care anymore what Ava thinks. But my daughters—well . . . If you’re willing to keep an open mind, there’s a check in the envelope, too. I don’t expect you to work without a retainer.”

  I said, “Let’s see how it goes,” and signed off.

  At a Burger King, I turned around and took I-75 north to the Fruitville exit, which was all the Sunday interstate traffic I could handle.

  • • •

  IF THE THIRTY-FIVE-YEAR-OLD STEPSON, Owen Hall, couldn’t dissuade two drunks shooting turtles with a rifle, what were the chances of him charming security at a billion-dollar phosphate operation?

  Not good.

  That’s what I was thinking, sitting passenger side in a Jeep, while Owen tried to reason with two men of similar age who weren’t totally shit-faced but close enough. Weekend drunks can be stubborn. It wasn’t going well—and even worse for the three or four turtles that lay bloody on the shore.

  Owen and I had entered the property via a dirt road, between Bradenton and Sebring, into acreage laid waste by draglines. The land was growing a new skin of pines, palmettos, hat-rack cypress, too, on scars left by a hundred years of abuse. A washboard of furrows and high ridges aren’t native to the Florida geoscopy. Nor are rectangular lakes and a sand dune the size of an Egyptian pyramid. The dune—that’s where we’d spotted a red Dodge Ram. Then we’d heard rifle fire—two overage fraternity types, a case of beer between them, at the water’s edge killing turtles.