Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,21

gloves come off.”

I wasn’t going to ask what sacerdotal meant. It would only encourage more esoteric gibberish.

Tomlinson provided it anyway, adding, “His name’s Kondo Ogbay, which is Swahili—you don’t even want to know what it means. The night you left for Tampa, one of Kondo’s people put an assault fetish on my dinghy. Blue stone and turpentine on a bundle of dried grass, which is obvious enough—the man’s a damn witch doctor. That’s sort of why I almost got electrocuted in your—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” I said. “No more talk until we get the dog fixed up.”

I waited while Tomlinson, making soothing sounds, got down on his knees on the opposite side of the retriever. His confession hadn’t convinced me, and I wanted time to think it through. The gunshots from the Cessna were imaginary. Had to be—how would anyone have known we were out here in the first place? And my friend had missed the significance of the wire used to sabotage Futch’s plane. Tarpon guides in Boca Grande have used Malin’s leader for a century. As do other discerning anglers, including the so-called jig fishermen—but only when not fishing for tarpon.

There was something else Tomlinson didn’t know. I hadn’t gone to Tampa, as I’d told my marina neighbors. I had spent three days in a Central American city where I had added a new enemy to my list. Not just one man. It was an emerging terrorist cell founded by a Muslim cleric.

The cleric had recently disappeared. The bandage on my forearm covered the last evidence of the man’s final moments—a bite wound that was less severe because of the cleric’s missing teeth.

“Good god, the snake bit him and wouldn’t let go!” Tomlinson whispered, when he finally figured out what he was seeing. “Damn head’s the size of my fist.” Then cooed, “Brave doggie . . . yes you are,” before saying to me, “This guy’s a hardass, huh? The snake, too. Neither one would quit—you’ve got to love that.”

“He’s a survivor,” I said, then looked at Tomlinson. “We both have enemies, and we both have reasons not to involve the police. So let’s keep all this to ourselves when we get back. Okay?”

“About Kondo, you mean. Sure.”

“All of it,” I told him, and should have added especially about the plane but didn’t, which would turn out to be a mistake.

We’d be home before sunset, hopefully. Dan Futch was to call Dinkin’s Bay Marina from the air, so, once we made it to the road, our ride would be nearby, only a text away—if we could get a signal.

Tomlinson nodded in agreement, then dismissed it all, looking into the retriever’s eyes. “You’re gonna love living at Doc’s place . . . aren’t you, big fella? Sharks to swim with, pissing in the mangroves . . . and maybe help us find our missing cat—”

“I’m not keeping him,” I interrupted. “I travel too much. And so do you.” I wiped the tweezers with an alcohol pad, then slowly, slowly slid my glove toward the snake’s head. The skull was coffin-shaped and solid on the retriever’s pliant skin, fangs buried at an angle. The pain caused the dog to drop the snake long enough to slap my cheek with his tongue, but he remained steady.

Tomlinson watched, a familiar knowing expression on his face that I find particularly irritating. “Don’t worry, we’ll find a home for him,” I added after backing the skull free. “Maybe use some of your illegal drug money to pay the vet bills first. How’s that sound?”

When a wet tongue whapped me a second time, Tomlinson gave me a What a crazy day! sort of look, then confided to the dog, “He can be an asshole . . . yes he can! Prudish as a damn arrow . . . and jealous. But that’s not going to stop us from picking out a good name!”

6

DAN HAD BEEN TRUE TO HIS WORD AND OUR RIDE WAS waiting for us when we got to the Tamiami—thankfully, just before the rain hit.

The next two days, I had plenty to do in the lab, so I really didn’t spend much time thinking about the near plane crash or the many theories about who might be trying to kill us.

Until I met one of the theories in person at Dinkin’s Bay.

—

IT HAD BEEN A STRANGE NIGHT to begin with. I’d been standing by a fire near the marina docks with my friend JoAnn Smallwood, a chunky, busty woman with big