Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,96

but maybe this won’t take long. You plan on staying awhile?”

When the lady nodded, her hair bounced, framing the good smile that had not changed in a decade and, hopefully, would not be changed by the marauding decades to come.

Our farewell hug was longer, tighter, included a quick brush of the lips, then I was off.

—

“SHE’S WAITING IN THE MERCEDES,” Tomlinson told me when I came into the lab. Cressa, he added, was suffering what he called a delayed lysergic reaction, which I realized, after a moment, referred to LSD in the pot they’d smoked. He was sitting at my desk, watching the wall of lighted aquariums, ribbon streaks of fish within, as if it were a theater screen—Fantasia, perhaps. The dog, lying near the desk, used one droopy eye to convey boredom. He had been chewing at a hunk of hawser line, pieces everywhere.

“How are you feeling?” I asked my pal.

“Came down slow, but I’m back on the planet,” he said. “Not Cressa. It hits her in waves, the panic, then paranoia. She seemed okay last night, but it came back. That’s unusual—flashbacks were invented by screwheads and Reader’s Digest. Makes me wonder how the Voodoo Prince poisoned our shit. Christ, belladonna, plant alkaloids, who knows? Cells from a pituitary gland ripped from a human throat, I wouldn’t put it past him.”

I said, “I’m driving you both to the ER. Don’t argue.” The swelling had gone down in my left hand, I could use it, no problem, but it crossed my mind to maybe get the damn thing X-rayed while we were there.

Tomlinson turned away from the fish tanks, startled. “I’m fine, man, really. And she’s getting better. The shit was more like a Nitrox dive. It takes you deeper and longer, but you still have to put in the decompression time. Mostly, she’s paranoid about her father-in-law. That’s why she locked herself in the car and won’t come inside. Nothing to do with you.”

I moved toward the door, but he stopped me. “I just checked on her. She’s in a calm cycle now, but still scared. Doesn’t want to be around people.”

“Can’t hurt for me to say hello,” I replied, then went out the door after signaling the dog not to follow.

The Mercedes SUV was parked inside the gate, engine running, a strand of white LEDs showing beneath each dark headlamp. I let Cressa get a long look at me before I approached yet she lowered the window only a few inches.

“I’m staying here, so don’t bother!” Her voice was shaky, but had an aggressive edge that warned me not to push.

“Need some water, a blanket maybe?” I asked. “It’s cooling off tonight.” To put her at ease, I’d stopped two paces from the door.

“The police arrested Deano today! He told me you watched the whole sick business . . . that you set him up! Tomlinson says no, but I think you lied to him, too.”

The windows were tinted, but moonlight showed a band of blond hair and two haunted silver eyes that, at once, accused me and feared me. Music played inside, classical and soothing—therapy of Tomlinson’s selection, I assumed. Calm, serene, violins playing now.

My voice softened in an attempt to blend. “You’re right, you can trust Tomlinson. I told police where to find your brother-in-law, you’re exactly right. He’s dangerous, Cressa. Maybe he’ll be okay one day, but he needs downtime. Give him some space. Same with his friend, Luke—”

“Stay away from him, too! You attacked Luke, tried to kill him—that’s what he told me, and Lucas wouldn’t lie to me! I know the real you. I warned Luke that you were dangerous.”

I took a step back. No surprise that she’d spoken to her brother-in-law, and now was not the time to ask about Luke. Enough, I decided, so told her, “The important thing, Crescent, is for you to be safe. Lock your doors, listen to the music. I’ll send Tomlinson out now. Okay?”

The woman sniffled at this unexpected kindness from a “dangerous” man, and I got a glimpse of the familiar handkerchief. “No. Tell him . . . tell him I want a few minutes to ride this out. When I saw you, it came back. Go away. Ten minutes alone . . . I’ll be fine.”

“Anything else I . . . that Tomlinson can do for you?”

Sounding more like Cressa the married mistress, she explained, “I’ve never experienced anything so awful, Doc. The drugs we smoked, it’s like I’m trapped inside my own