Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,34
thought. “You never know,” he said in the way that open-minded people do, then herded us out the door. “We want to be in the water by noon, the sun directly overhead. Visibility’s bad enough down there without us being dumb, blind, late, and lazy. Okay?”
—
WALKING TOWARD THE WATER, Tomlinson confided to me, “I took three Xanax. You’re sure he inspected that damn plane. Right?”
“Drank them down with a shot of rum, I suppose,” I replied.
“Coors Light. I’m nervous, not suicidal.”
“You and Kondo, two drug dealers having fun. Let’s hope your new buddy didn’t slip a half dozen roofies into your beer as a send-off.”
“Nothing wrong with fun,” Tomlinson responded, changing his tone and the subject. “As long as you don’t break the karmic rules.”
My god . . . was he referring to last night, me and Cressa Arturo? I couldn’t help laughing. I’ve heard the man say some outrageous things over the years, but this was a new low in hypocrisy. “You’re something, you know that?” I told him. “A real piece of work.”
“Don’t worry, it’s cool, Doc, it’s cool. Crescent said she had a fab time at your place. Very bubbly on the phone this morning—but sounded, you know, like she overdid it a little.”
It took me a moment. Cressa was short for Crescent, but I didn’t stumble.
“Oh?” I said. “Good.”
He hadn’t mentioned the scratches on my face but did now by pretending to notice for the first time. “Looks like you might have overdid it yourself.”
“Nope,” I told him. “Did some work, then hit the bed.”
“Hit the bed,” he said. “I just bet you did.”
I derailed him by telling him about my adventures with the dog. “He’s valuable. He belongs to someone, I bet—they’re running ads in magazines. Hell, they might have even hired a search plane—which would explain why we got buzzed. That’s why you and JoAnn and the others can’t let yourselves get too attached.”
For some reason, that helped Tomlinson rally. “Attached emotionally to your dog, you mean?”
“The dog we found,” I said. “He already has an owner.”
“Sure,” Tomlinson said, smiling. Then added, “Now who’s a real piece of work?”
—
SOUTH OF MARCO ISLAND and Everglades City, we dropped to six hundred feet and followed the wilderness shoreline, the seaplane’s shadow linking white sand beaches with blue water and swamp. All around us was a region called Ten Thousand Islands—a mosaic of green that, from altitude, resembled an algae bloom of islands adrift on a shallow sea. No villages, roads, trails, or houses . . . Even boats became a rarity as we flew south.
“Lostman’s River,” Dan said through the intercom, pointing. Then tapped the GPS, his finger on some unnamed bay. “We’ll land here. Then it’s a hell of a hike to Hawksbill Creek.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Everybody okay? How you doing, Quirko?”
“Dreamy,” Tomlinson replied with a Xanax sigh, his nose pressed to the window. “Know what I’ve noticed? The busy multitude doesn’t hold a damn candle to nature in the flesh. Photosynthesis and saltwater . . . my god, the power of it all. I wouldn’t mind taking a piss, though. How much longer?”
“We’re gonna follow Lostman’s almost to the sawgrass,” the pilot said. “We’ll drop to tree level . . . a few sharp banks, but don’t let it scare you. This plane’s solid now.”
He turned to me. “I’m glad I didn’t tell the cops. Hell, I didn’t even tell Kathy.” He shrugged. “Probably some guy with a hair up his ass and Johnnie Walker courage. A last-minute deal when he saw my plane unattended—then spent the next day scared shitless, hoping it was all a crazy dream.”
I didn’t agree, but would know more when I heard from Cheng and Bernie—something I couldn’t discuss. Ahead, a black crevice appeared in a canopy of green: Lostman’s River snaking its way inland from open sea.
“You ever fish the oyster bars at the mouth?” I asked.
Futch grinned. “Granddaddy told a story about setting trotlines there. Not really a trotline ’cause they’d tie the lines to trees. You know, camp, roast some oysters, then do a check. One morning they came back, the damn tree was missing. He swore it was true!”
“Big snook there,” I agreed.
“Or tarpon. The bull sharks get in that river sometimes and just tear it up. Or a big gator. I’ve seen lots of gators, they don’t mind brackish water.”
The prospect of a big bull alligator had been on my mind since packing my dive fins and mask that morning. And