Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,94

the nearest deepwater anchorage for his yacht was three miles away? Cell phone reception? Did the feds patrol the area by plane or boat? The Bone Field—like Tomlinson, Diemer was fascinated by the name and the ancientness of the place, but was frustrated by Dan’s reluctance to share information.

“I’m not a grave robber. I respect history,” he said. “The age of this shell mound you describe—how old?”

“Long before Spanish contact,” I said. “Two, three thousand years ago. The first archaeologist to visit this coast—this was in the late eighteen nineties—even then the mounds had four distinct sides. The archaeologist made drawings—they were actually pyramids, not just mounds.” Because I’d answered for Futch, I sought his approval by asking, “Frank Hamilton Cushing, right? Sent by the Smithsonian.”

Dan said, “He didn’t visit the place we’re talking about, though. Far as I know, no one’s been there—that’s what I want you to respect.”

Diemer was ahead of him, already agreeing, saying, “I know of a similar place—of course! I’ve told no one. I say to you the word Amazon, you picture primitive people, jungle, yes? Yet, only a few years ago, I myself found the remains of a city. I was flying over the remote Xingu region. A bright day, the light shining just so, and I noticed the jungle was scarred by what looked like grids. A year later, I returned by canoe and hiked in. Alone. Always, I prefer to travel alone. What I found—roads. Evidence of roads built in grids. Remains of central plazas, what might be an aqueduct—and pyramids such as you describe. Made of stone, not shell. Built two thousand, three thousand years ago—the same time period as your Bone Field. I’ve told no one—the research . . . history, it’s my passion.” Diemer and Futch exchanged looks, one pilot asking another Trust me now?

Dan did, apparently, because he answered a dozen questions about the Bone Field and the plane wreckage, using satellite photos on which the Brazilian made tiny, precise notations.

Three times while they talked I texted Tomlinson, wanting him involved in this unfolding story of Florida and aviators during the 1940s but received only one response, which explained his inattention: CA out of woods but still riding the snake. Pray for squalls.

CA was Cress. The squalls were for Kondo the drug dealer, who quite possibly was adrift in moonlight miles from shore.

I gave it some thought while Futch and Diemer veered off into more esoteric talk of aviation. Tomlinson could play catch-up, and it would be fun to throw various theories back and forth on the boat trip to Lostman’s River. So, yeah, it was okay.

I was getting a vacation feel for the project. Deano was in jail, his Bambi-eyed friend had been warned away, and the married mistress, once she recovered, would soon lose her ties to Dinkin’s Bay. The heavy lifting was over. It was time to kick back, relax, and enjoy this new project.

I, too, am a history buff—prefer pre-Columbian to lost bombers, but all history is grafted from the same rootstock. A few days camping at the edge of the Glades would shear the electronic ties, plus the multiple bonuses of Tomlinson finally showing some backbone, finding the dog’s owner, and recovering Crunch & Des—all in the same day—were reasons to celebrate. True, the problems with my running partner hadn’t been resolved, but Hannah would come around. Other than that, how much better could it get?

What is often referred to as “life’s flow” can as accurately be described as a stationary awareness of cascading events. Contextual changes that impact our individual reality—a reality that oscillates in operatic patterns, the waves sometimes spaced like teeth on a buzz saw. So we hunker down, weather the troughs, grab a breath through the foam, and hang on, awaiting that next glimpse of sky. This was one of those rare days, though, when the buzz saw had been flattened by a sudden and glassy wave. True, I’d made a bold move. And, yes, Diemer had appeared in my lab at precisely the right moment—but who knows why or what changes the polarity of our own luck, good or bad?

It was happening, that was enough. The wave was starting to curl nicely, so I was going to sit back, pack a book or two, maybe even my Celestron telescope, and enjoy the ride.

“Doc?” Diemer said. “Captain Futch says we’re done. Something on your mind?”

Dan was standing, packing his briefcase, I realized, so I got to my feet, saying,