Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,97

skull. There’s a . . . burning sensation, it comes out of nowhere. Then the panic and the crazy colors come next. I just want it to stop. Dear god, how I want it to stop! Ten minutes, tell him . . . I can’t talk now.”

The window closed.

When I turned toward the lab, Cressa Arturo, in silhouette, had buried her face in cupped hands.

—

“INSTEAD OF PLAYING GAMES with the Haitian’s engine,” I told Tomlinson, “you should go to the state’s attorney and help put him in prison. The son of a bitch is worse than a killer. Who knows how many people he’s screwed up, scarred for life? If you don’t, I will. And damn it, take Cressa to a doctor now!”

“Kondo definitely plays by his own rules,” Tomlinson agreed but sounded evasive. Then chose to educate me, the unhip biologist, about druggie protocol instead of explaining why he couldn’t narc-out a fellow dealer.

“The whole hospital scene—white coats, the stink of alcohol, and elevators—it would only add to her paranoia, Doc. I’ve been through this too many times. Physical symptoms, sure, you call for help. Twelve hours from now, she’s still bad off, you bet. But the acid in her brain is tapering off, man, I can tell—sort of like a clothes dryer at the end of its cycle. Plus, it would be a big mistake to get Crescent’s in-laws involved, understand what I’m saying? And that’s what the hospital drones would have to do.”

“Not even her husband knows?”

Tomlinson’s expression replied No, thank god, then he continued, “What it all boils down to, man, her head was in the worst possible space to travel chemically. Why? Because she was already paranoid. Even a tab of classic Kesey Sunshine can’t change what you bring to the party. Don’t always blame the drugs! See, Crescent’s scared shitless of what might happen if she divorces. That’s what the drug is feeding on.”

I hadn’t mentioned stealing a copy of the prenuptial agreement, but I hinted at it now, saying, “I’m convinced her prenup doesn’t include an infidelity clause. She gets written out of the old man’s will, so what?”

“No, it’s what the old man might do to her. That he might have her killed if Deano squeals about her sleeping with me—and sleeping with the guy who whacked you with that spear.”

“Smith, too?” I said.

“Who’s . . . ? Oh. Right, the guy who broke your hand. Yeah, she opened up to me last night. Calls him Lucas or Luke. But her thing with him, Luke—Smith—was just a one-time deal. Too much wine, a big lonely house—you know how those things go—and very recent. Other than that, Crescent’s been a straight arrow, sexually speaking, which would drive anyone into a stranger’s bed. Now she doesn’t care if Robby finds out or not—force him into a divorce, see? But the father-in-law’s a different story. She’s afraid of the whole Mafioso deal, that’s my read.”

Something else I hadn’t told Tomlinson was what Smith—Bambi—had said about Cressa’s affair with Robert Sr. The married mistress had obviously omitted that little detail, too, but I let it go. “Take her home and get some sleep. Sunrise is around seven, and I want to be on the water by first light.”

When Tomlinson replied, “Doc, that’s what I stopped to tell you,” I knew what was coming. He was worried about Cressa. He wasn’t going to leave her alone.

“Can’t believe I’m asking this, but maybe I could fly down Saturday with Dan. Or the Brazilian Nazi, is he still taking his boat? A boat that size, he needs an extra hand.”

To give myself time I replied, “How about a beer?” before I remembered there was none so switched my offer to Gatorade or tea.

“Rum would hit the spot,” he replied. “There’s still about four fingers of Eldorado left, but I hid the bottle and can’t remember where.” He had lost interest in the fish and was attempting tug-of-war with the dog but paused to say, “Doc . . . mind some advice? You’ve got to start being more careful about who we let in here. Or buy a beer fridge with a lock.”

27

I WENT PAST THE BOOKSHELVES INTO THE KITCHEN and opened the little oven where I had rehidden the bottle of Eldorado that Tomlinson had stashed under the sink. As I got ice, I was thinking about my two-minute conversation with Vargas Diemer. The Brazilian had asked—no, urged—me to leave Tomlinson behind in the morning. Said he was worried