Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,99

the Everglades. All the nice lakes up there, loaded with ducks and trees. Lots of cute little poodles, college girls with golden retrievers—but our guy chooses the land of giant snakes and gators instead? I don’t think so.”

“That’s my personal mail you’re reading,” I reminded him.

“The dog’s yours, too, by rights. That’s why I’m trying to help.”

“Don’t help me,” I said. “I hate it when you try to help me.”

Tomlinson replied, “It’s no trouble, really,” while his fingers moved like spiders across the keyboard. Now the legal forms were on the screen and he looked up, his expression showing disbelief. “You actually signed this bullshit! Doc, the guy’s an asswipe, you can’t tell? It was his father’s dog, not his. And the dog’s happy here—aren’t you, boy!”

The dog snatched the chunk of rope away as a boney hand sought his ears, Tomlinson adding, “This doctor dude sent you an ultimatum, not a thank-you note. What you should do is refuse to go along with the attorney. Hell, maybe that’s what the guy wants. You signed on the dotted line, so what? As long as you haven’t sent these stupid forms yet.” Tomlinson turned. “You didn’t . . . did you?”

No, I hadn’t sent the documents, but I would, so I nodded as if it was already done, then blocked more second-guessing, telling him, “Cressa needs to go home. And don’t forget what I told you about Kondo.”

Finally, the name grabbed his attention. “Kondo?” Tomlinson spun the chair around. “What about that pigmy bastard?”

Opening the door, I repeated what I’d said, then shooed him outside while the man continued to argue, reminding me that if I changed my mind, I had several lady friends who’d be eager to dog-sit when I was away on trips.

The reference only made me more eager to be alone. Sheri Braun, I remembered, might still be awaiting my return to the party. Then, for some reason, my thoughts transitioned to Hannah Smith. Hannah was still on my mind as I watched Tomlinson vanish into the mangroves.

—

A THURSDAY NIGHT in February, and for once I had the house and lab to myself. Still plenty of time to . . .

Do what?

I could finish loading the boat: a twenty-six-foot Zodiac I had recently purchased through contacts at the special ops base at MacDill in Tampa—a confiscated drug runner’s boat supposedly, but I knew otherwise. Still had my checklist to run through to make sure power and electronics were operational. Talking over old times with Sheri Braun was a tempting option. Or . . . what about Hannah?

My former workout partner, still on my mind as I flexed my left hand, movement and feeling returning.

Hannah lived two miles across the bay where she was fixing up a pretty little Marlow cruiser. Lived alone, I reminded myself, at the fishermen’s coop docks. No one else around at that isolated place, just a couple of security lights—a damn lonely spot for a single woman. But was it too late to bother her?

Probably not. Diemer had canceled their fishing trip, so, presumably, she didn’t have to be up at sunrise to catch bait. In fact, an hour before midnight was early for a woman with a day off, and the party outside was going strong. So why not do the friendly, neighborly thing and call?

I thought about it as I returned to the lab and taped feeding instructions to each aquarium for Janet Nicholes, my friend and occasional assistant. When faced with a difficult decision, I sometimes use paper to list the pros in one column, the cons in another, and then compare. Tonight, though, I did it mentally and was soon disappointed because the cons won: Hannah hadn’t responded to messages I’d left yesterday and this morning. Calling now would seem pushy . . . even desperate. Which, of course, I wasn’t—an attractive lady doctor was only a short walk away, down the shoreline where music still played and where, as I could see through the window, someone had lit a circle of tiki torches that blazed beneath the moon.

Desperate? Not Marion D. Ford. There were several women available if I wanted company—more, if I put my mind to it. Any of them—well, at least one, maybe two—would be damn happy to get a call.

Nope, I concluded. Calling Hannah Smith at this hour was childish. End of subject.

The decision, however, put me in an inexplicably sour mood that, in turn, caused me to demonstrate my resolve. I sat at the computer,