Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,88

for his dinghy and the thing was under warranty.

“Nope,” Tomlinson said in an airy, self-satisfied way that was unusual.

The marina’s good tool chest, I noticed, was open near his feet—another oddity. “Mack didn’t give you permission to use those, did he?” Mack didn’t let anyone touch his tools.

“Nope,” Tomlinson said again while his eyes drifted toward the mouth of Dinkin’s Bay, then studied the area. He, too, had been following the progress of Kondo Ogbay’s boat, I realized.

“Ransom had some interesting things to say about your Haitian buddy,” I told him. “I just talked to her—he’s bad news, pal. Did you hear what the guy yelled as he went past No Más?”

Tomlinson found a mechanic’s towel, and began to clean a ratchet he had used. “Yep,” he replied, “every word.”

A spark plug ratchet—that’s what he was cleaning. It caused me to hope there was an association. “You were screwing with Kondo’s engine, weren’t you?” I said. “While they were eating lunch.”

Tomlinson stood, offered me a wink, and said, “Yep.” Then inquired, “How far would you guess it is between here and the sky bridge at Fort Myers Beach? Tide’s ebbing—a full moon tide.”

He had loosened one of the spark plugs, that was my guess. “He’ll be running on only three cylinders, so the tide will push him into the Gulf and he’ll have to idle twice the distance. Like a warning to leave you alone—good for you!”

No, Tomlinson had done worse than that because, instead of answering, he explained, “You’re a bad influence, Doc. I decided you’re right—maybe there’s not a peaceful solution to everything. The dude tried to put me in the loony ward—bad LSD, that’s what he used to lace that grass. Crescent’s still a wreck. He deserved more than just a warning. Maybe it’s the rank acid or because I’m sober, but I don’t feel bad about what I did. In fact, man . . . I feel good.”

Had the peacenik guru really said those words? “Tell me you didn’t do anything crazy,” I pressed. Rig the gas tank to blow up, reverse the polarity of the bilge pump, and sink the boat—there are all sorts of ways.

Tomlinson held a hand up to reassure. “Just the spark plugs,” he said, “all four cylinders. Depending on how hard he pushes the engine, the first plug should blow before he gets to the causeway. Which should really piss him off. A dude like Kondo will take it out on the throttle, so the last three spark plugs will hit the cowling like rockets. Scripture tells us, ‘Render judgment into God’s hands, not thine enemies,’ so that’s what I’m doing. By midnight I’m guessing Kondo and his witch doctor posse will be somewhere between Lighthouse Point and the Yucatán—within easy reach of the Lord. No help from the Coast Guard, either, because someone stole that bastard’s flares.”

You’re really coming along, I wanted to tell him, but I had kept the news to myself long enough. “Kerry called,” I said. “You and I are going back to the West Wind Inn.”

Tomlinson’s ears or instincts had been right about hearing a cat.

“They found Crunch & Des in the adjoining room,” I told him, “but I don’t want to tell Rhonda and JoAnn and the rest until we’re sure.”

“He’s alive? Did those bastards hurt him?” Tomlinson sounded damn-near savage.

“Let’s take my truck and find out.”

24

THURSDAY, AROUND SUNSET, DAN FUTCH TEXTED ME from somewhere over Lake Okeechobee—Have news, time to talk?—then landed in Dinkin’s Bay twenty minutes later, gunning the engine before shutting down and drifting into the shallows next to my dock.

“Isn’t the party usually Friday nights?” he asked, taking the iced tea I offered, then selecting a chair on the porch. He’d brought the leather briefcase again. Something new inside to show me, I hoped.

I popped my first beer of the day and said, “You remember the six-toed cat? Black with scars on his face, been around here for years. The guy who futzed your plane took him. It’s a sort of welcome-home celebration.”

“What guy?”

“The one who kidnapped the cat—I’m getting to it,” I said.

“Geezus, every marina has a cat, who cares?”

“I don’t think the cat cared one way or another,” I agreed, “but you know how some people get attached. The guy I’m talking about—had a partner—the cops found a ransom note, but one of them was sane enough not to bother delivering it. Or maybe they were saving it as a last resort. The cat was fine. Had a litter