Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,120

chill . . . a chill soon replaced by a chemical surge, then a chemical burn that I feel in my brain. The transformation is abrupt. It narrows the senses like being shunted into a tunnel or looking through a sniper scope. When it happens, my world is drained of color and I am indifferent to the subtleties of black and white—and pain.

A common word for that chemical transformation: Rage.

The transformation happened now. I was on my knees on the east side of the dock, Deano on the other side but farther out, water to his waist, most of my body screened from his view. He couldn’t see what I had already spotted: the floating handle of a mahogany club that had been knocked away when I fell. The club was dragging a gaff hook along the bottom as it drifted.

Something else I noticed: Bambi, a Sony digital hanging from his neck, was wearing a photographer’s vest, the glint of a flashlight lens visible when his right leg moved. The leg moved now when I told him, “Grab my hand.” Then raised my voice above Deano’s heavy splashing to urge, “Don’t worry about him. You want the police on your side or not?”

“You’re missing good footage, you idiot!” Deano hollered, coming faster now while Bambi’s jerky movements told me he was close to a meltdown.

I assured him, “It’s not your fault—it’s his fault,” but got one foot under me just in case Bambi didn’t come through. But he did, after one nervous glance at his partner . . . reached, grabbed my hand, and pulled.

I let it happen . . . used the momentum provided by Bambi’s kindness to come up hard and smash the man’s nose flat with the palm of my hand. If I hadn’t caught him by the camera strap, he would have gone down. But I did catch him. Used the strap to choke the man into compliance, yelling, “Dial nine-one-one! Do it or I’ll kill you right here!” When his frantic nodding had convinced me, I yanked the flashlight from his pocket, then shoved the cameraman toward shore. “Do it now!”

Deano saw it all and it stopped him, the spear at shoulder level ready to throw. He yelled, “Ford, that’s not the way the game’s supposed to go!” then took a step back when I tried to blind him with the flashlight. I had the wooden gaff in my hand, prepared to duck . . . was also fighting a sudden nausea because, for the first time, with the flashlight, I could see my bloody tank top and the object buried in my sternum.

Deano’s attention, though, shifted to Bambi, who was crawling into the mangroves for protection, his nose a smear of black, but the phone already in his hand. It caused Deano to turn as if considering new quarry—and that’s when everything changed. The flashlight I was holding became a stage light. The spear hunter became an electrified clown who screamed, “Shit!” . . . jumped as if he’d been cattle-prodded and threw his hands wildly into the air. Then bounced around on one good leg, the other leg paralyzed because of what he had just stepped on—only one explanation, as I knew from experience. I watched the big man stumble, fall, get up and fall again, while his larynx was tortured by a shriek so agonized it pierced the party music at the marina. Deano was lunging toward shore in a panic when I heard Mack’s booming voice, “Hey! What’s going on?” Then Tomlinson’s voice, concerned, hollered, “Doc! You okay?”

No . . . I wasn’t doing well at all. I’d seen what was stuck in my chest. Impossible to pull it out because the edges were serrated like a blade of boney sawgrass—not that I was dumb enough to try. Only two inches of the thing showing, but if even the tip had pierced my heart I would soon be dead. Nothing I could do to stop it from happening and no time to waste, so I walked methodically toward Deano, flashlight in one hand, wooden gaff in the other.

Like most snakes, he’ll run unless you corner him, I had told Vargas Diemer.

The crazy brother-in-law couldn’t run now, though—not with a leg paralyzed by pain and the primitive protein now pumping through his system. Even if he tried, I would summon whatever was needed to catch him. Thought about it as I slogged past Bambi, who was saying into the phone, “Yeah, an