His tail swung a single stroke of recognition. That was it. Then he lumbered up the steps toward the lab.
A small thing, but I felt my worth had been acknowledged. Possibly even elevated. Irrational, of course, and I realized it. But who would ever know?
9
OUR FIRST STOP BEFORE FLYING TO THE GLADES WAS just across the bay. Dwarfed by a ridge of condominiums, I followed Tomlinson into a one-room cabin at the water’s edge, Tomlinson slipping into a receptive state of mind, his bare feet absorbing vibes from the cabin’s pine floor where the imprint of a potbellied stove was centered, brick chimney above, three windows conveying dusty morning light.
“Wood absorbs energy,” my friend replied. “Control your breathing . . . open your receptors. You’ll feel it, Doc. A lot of life flowed through this tiny space.”
Tiny was right. The shell of what had once been a telegraph office was the size of a gardening shed, an incongruous element among towers of concrete, gated grounds trimmed with palms, the Sanibel Causeway within shouting distance, if not for all the traffic.
It was from there that “George” had supposedly sent his telegram.
I tried to ask Tomlinson about his Haitian visitor, but he hadn’t said much, only that he and his competitor had decided to be friends. Kondo Ogbay—finally, I could pronounce the drug dealer’s name—was supposedly a reasonable man, and also very spiritual, which apparently was required of witch doctors.
Tomlinson had dismissed my warning Keep your friends close, your enemies closer with a laugh that informed me I was guiding my life via clichés. Now Kondo’s trusting pal was immersed in vibrations so deafening, he could neither hear nor respond.
“When the battleship Maine exploded in Havana Harbor?” Tomlinson tapped his foot, mimicking Morse code. “This is where the news first touched land. Almost three hundred men dead. Eighteen ninety-eight. It was in January, so this room was still decorated for Christmas.”
He sniffed the air, perhaps in search of a holly wreath, then held up a finger to request silence. “The clicking of a telegraph key. Copper hitting copper. Smell it?”
No . . . but the room had a pleasant odor, typical of old Florida structures. Pine sap, wood, and dust, a hint of warming tar on tin.
Behind us, Dan had set a temporary line to secure his seaplane and now appeared in the cabin’s open door. Unaware we were communing with history, he asked, “How the hell did you get the key to this place?”
I told the truth. “He stole it. The lady he wanted us to meet wasn’t feeling well.”
“Borrowed it,” Tomlinson corrected, peeved at the interruption. “She’s getting up there in years or she wouldn’t have canceled. I wanted you to hear the story for yourselves. Like that’s a federal crime?”
“The lady who told you about the telegram,” Dan nodded. “And she knows for sure it was sent from here?”
Tomlinson opened his eyes, surrendering the mood. “I should have gotten her on tape. The man who used to run the ferry to Sanibel, before the bridge was built, he’s the one told her. Leon was his name.”
I wasn’t surprised. In my teens, I’d known the old ferryboat captain. He was an accomplished waterman, and fun to be around because he told riveting stories—some not easy to believe. Tomlinson was on stage, though, and Dan was interested. The facts could wait.
“The telegram was sent three weeks after those planes disappeared,” Dan reminded him. “Which supposedly means one of the crewmen lived. This lady believes that?”
Tomlinson nodded, an emphatic Yes. “Leon told her about a wounded airman limping down the street, then into this room. Try to picture it—no condos, no bridge, but the same narrow street along the bay, just like now. It was Christmas Eve. That’s why he was so sure.”
Dan and I exchanged looks. Punta Rassa had once been an isolated village. In such a place, an event witnessed on the day before Christmas would be anchored in memory. Didn’t mean it was one of the missing airmen, of course, but the story became more credible.
“Five missing warplanes was big news,” Tomlinson continued, “but details about the telegram didn’t come out for a while. When he found out, Leon put it all together. It’s been two weeks since the lady first told me, but I’ve spent time alone in here since.” He tugged at his hippie hair while his senses absorbed vibes from the little room. “Flight 19 . . . they didn’t all die.”
The pilot gave it some