Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,39

collided with another plane overhead.

The tail rudder was the most compelling evidence of all. As we’d strapped ourselves into the seaplane, Dan had opened his flight bag and produced a sheet listing the ID numbers of the missing Avengers. All numbers were prefaced by the letters FT—Fort Lauderdale; Torpedo—but only numbers, he said, appeared on an Avenger’s tail.

No wonder the man had paced when a 3 was revealed. On the Flight 19 list were Torpedo Bombers FT-36 and FT-3.

If a chunk of paint had been sheared away, there were also planes FT-28 and FT-81.

The pilot was excited for good reason. So was I. Tomlinson galvanized his own interest by matching tail numbers with the names of pilots and crew. What he discovered was a surprise to all but him: the telegram sent three weeks after Flight 19 had vanished still meshed with the wild story he’d told at Punta Rassa. “Georgie” had been the radioman aboard FT-36.

Now, flying toward Sanibel at two thousand feet, Futch was trying to rein in his partners, and also come up with a plan. “Here’s what we need to keep in mind, okay? I mentioned the Avenger found in the Glades a few years back. From the moment word got out, the place was a circus. Everyone from UFO nuts to local historians wanted to be the first to prove it was one of the famous missing planes.”

Through my headphones came Tomlinson’s voice. “The wrong types would flood the place. Yeah.”

“We’ve got to protect the place,” Dan agreed. “Believe me, I flew over the Glades the day after it hit the papers. Must have been thirty cars, plus TV crews, parked along the Tamiami Trail. None of them knew the exact location, of course. Even with the sawgrass burned away, the wreckage wasn’t easy to find—you know, parts scattered everywhere. But souvenir hunters hauled off a bunch before the experts got a chance. Not the data plate, though. The data plate proved it wasn’t a Flight 19 Avenger. But you see my point.”

Tomlinson said, “We need a beard. The right beard, no one will ask questions.”

I understood, but Futch was confused again. “Try English, Quirko. Except for Miami, they speak it almost everywhere.”

I said, “He means invent a reason why we’re interested in the Lostman’s River area. He’s right, people will want to know. When that plane flew over awhile ago? Someone’s probably already curious. So we need a story. Something believable, but also so damn boring no one will bother asking. Or follow us. Flying around in a seaplane isn’t cheap—we owe you money, by the way. It’s best if people at the marina see us writing out checks.” I looked over my shoulder at Tomlinson.

“Doc’s a beard expert,” he said. A private joke, which he covered by asking, “How often do we come back? That’s important. I’d be fine with a few times a week—you know, as long as we show proper respect—but people would get suspicious.”

The pilot was mulling it over. “A story that’s believable but boring . . .” Then said, “I’m booked through Thursday. So Friday morning? Maybe camp, which would give us more time. I can’t go anywhere once tarpon season starts . . .”

As they talked, I was thinking about the guy from Adventure World Productions, Luke Smith. I hadn’t mentioned him and wouldn’t until I found out if he was legitimate or not. Either way, Smith would have to be dealt with. Throw him off the trail with a convincing story . . . or invite him along?

Some enemies require more attention than others. So it depended on what my friends Bernie and Donald Cheng had to say.

11

MACK, WHO OWNS THE MARINA, INTERCEPTED ME near the gate, warning, “You’ve got to do something about your dog! Anybody else, I would have called Animal Control. Or the Marine Patrol. Where’ve you been?”

I was shouldering my backpack, a quart of cold beer still unopened in my free hand. “Marine cops?” I joked. “What’d he do, Mack, steal a boat?”

My smile vanished when the man replied, “No—three of them! Two kayaks and Stu Johnson’s Whaler. He was chewing the lines on a Donzi when we caught the bugger or it would’ve been four.”

I was confused. “From the water? The boats drifted off—”

“No! He chewed through the lines and swam them back to your lab! We can’t have it, Doc. My clients pay good money for slippage. Just because he’s your dog doesn’t mean he can nick any boat he fancies.