Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,16
to fixate on how the plane had been sabotaged. “The fishing wire used on the bell crank, it looked like the good stuff,” I said. “Is it Malin’s?” Malin was a well-known tackle manufacturer.
Futch touched fingers to his billfold pocket and nodded, aware of my meaning.
“How many tournaments have you won the last few years?”
“That’s something else I’m thinking,” he replied. “Somebody wants me out of the picture. My boat took the two biggest pots last season, and we almost always place pretty high. One tournament, my anglers split a quarter million dollars between the four of them. And I went home with fifty thousand cash just from the calcutta. Get rid of me, some idiot might picture himself moving up a few rungs.”
The calcutta was an auction-style event in which fishermen bid on the different tournament teams. At the end, the winning bidder got a payout from the pot.
Futch couldn’t come to terms with the idea, though, and began shaking his head. “I don’t know . . . it’s just too damn hard to believe. We get our share of hard cases and assholes fishing that pass, but I don’t know anyone who’d do something as crazy as this. Hell, if there’d been rough air when we crossed over Naples, we could have killed a houseful of people. Or that field where we saw all those kids playing soccer? Imagine what would’ve happened!”
Tomlinson had an alternative ready, one I would have never considered. “Maybe it has to do with Flight 19. Think about that. How many people know we’re looking?”
“Nahhh,” Dan replied. “There’s no money in finding those Avengers. The government owns them. Because men died, the sites will be protected—nothing to sell. There’d be some fame, maybe, but who cares about that?”
“Almost everyone not already famous, that’s who,” Tomlinson answered. “Maybe some military kooks afraid we’ll beat them to the spot. Or just some right-wing freak with an obsession.”
Futch mulled the idea over while he checked the other cables, ratcheting the nuts tighter. “Well . . . I sure haven’t tried to keep it a secret. At the marina last night, how many people were listening when we talked about flying today? There were a bunch when Quirko told the telegram story. And the fishing guides at Boca Grande, they’ve known for years I’m hot to find those planes. So, I guess—”
“In an Internet world, fame is power,” Tomlinson cut in. “Power can be converted into wealth.”
“Nahhh,” Dan said again, his tone more final. “If we were close to finding them, maybe. But we’re not.”
“Could be we’re closer than we think but don’t realize it,” Tomlinson countered. “Either way, whoever did this has a snake loose in his noggin.”
I checked my watch—almost noon—then looked to the east where a horizon of gray hung motionless in the jet stream. “That weather’s coming,” I said, which caused Tomlinson to give me a look, aware I wanted to switch the subject. I didn’t want to lie to Dan Futch, but I also didn’t want to discuss any killers who might be willing to murder two innocent men just to get at me. As I knew for certain, there were several out there who wanted me dead. A couple of foreign agencies, too. Tomlinson had to at least suspect that.
Ours has been an unusual friendship—one linked by polar differences and secrets. Once upon a time, my peace-loving New Age pal had been the underground revolutionary type. We had both lived covert lives, but at opposite ends of the spectrum, so, unknowingly, we’d been overt, unswerving enemies. I don’t perceive any glimmer of good in improvised explosive devices or similar backdoor terrorist carnage—never have, never will. The fact that Tomlinson and I are now friends is irony at its symmetrical best and gives me hope for the other warring coverts in this world.
My boat bum neighbor has gone “straight” by his own twisted definition—although he has still his share of closeted skeletons . . . and possibly secret enemies. I, however, continue to bounce between my public life as a marine biologist and a shadow life that can, with a phone call, send me and my passport packing. It doesn’t happen more than a few times a year, but the calls still come, so I continue to create and keep secrets, old and new. The newest was a trip I’d returned from less than a week ago, another name added to my own list of enemies. Yet another reason to dodge the pilot’s