Dead of Night
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
epilogue
Randy Wayne White
“WHITE HAS NEVER BEEN AFRAID OF TAKING CHANCES when it comes to creating push-the-limits plots and loathsome bad guys. But he’s never gone as far on either score as he does in Dead of Night:”
-Sarasota Herald-Tribune
“Written in a crisp, lean, and muscular style ... White’s ability to evoke the feel of South Florida is second to none.” —The Miami Herald
“Plenty of action and danger ... mov[ing] quickly to a violent climax.”—The Tampa Tribune
“[A] horrific but shockingly realistic thriller plot.”
—Booklist
“Deliciously addictive and nail-bitingly suspenseful.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Full of fast-paced action . . . White’s electrifying tale offers superb, scary, high-powered entertainment. It makes episodes of Fear Factor seem like child’s play.”
—Lansing State Journal
“Dead of Night takes readers on a thrill ride. It’s hard to beat... White for action and suspense.”
—Omaha World-Herald
“Edge-of-the-seat suspense... Dead of Night quickly kicks a terrifying plot into gear.” —Tallahassee Democrat
“Randy Wayne White can write. And his Doc Ford character models what it takes to be a man. The entire series is excellent.” —Contra Costa Times
“RANDY WAYNE WHITE TAKES US PLACES THAT NO OTHER FLORIDA MYSTERY WRITER CAN HOPE TO FIND.”
—Carl Hiaasen
Praise for
tampa burn
“More double-crosses than an 1-40 interchange.”
—The Raleigh News & Observer
“I wrote that [White’s] first Doc Ford novel created a character fit to walk beside Travis McGee, and nine books later, I can gloat about how right I was.”—The Washington Times
“Engaging, funky... a thrilling story... Zooms along... at accelerating speed.”—St. Petersburg Times
“The action is unstoppable.”—Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
“A spellbinding story-spinner... [Tampa Burn] is highly suspenseful, with strong characters and a complex moral dimension.”—St. Louis Post-Dispatch
“Starts off at the speed of light and only gets faster.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Best sheer storytelling in years.” —Kirkus Reviews
“Compelling action.”—Publishers Weekly
“Keeps the suspense churning.” —Booklist (starred review)
“[RANDY WAYNE WHITE] RAISES THE BAR OF THE ACTION THRILLER.”
—The Miami Herald
Praise for the novels of Randy Wayne White
“White’s writing is as muscular as ever.”
—The Tampa Tribune
“Randy Wayne White and his Doc Ford join my list of must-reads. It is no small matter when I assert that White is getting pretty darn close to joining Carl Hiaasen and John D. MacDonald as writers synonymous with serious Florida issues and engaging characters.” —Chicago Tribune
“Enough twists to satisfy any hard-boiled but intelligent detective fan.” —The Dallas Morning News
“One of the hottest new writers on the scene.”
—Library Journal
“Packed with finely drawn characters, relevant social issues, superb plotting, and an effortless writing style.... The best new writer since Carl Hiaasen.”—The Denver Post
“White is the rightful heir to joining John D. MacDonald, Carl Hiaasen, James Hall, Geoffrey Norman.... His precise prose is as fresh and pungent as a salty breeze.”
—The Tampa Tribune
“White’s Doc Ford series... can always be counted on for an entertaining mix of character interplay and straight-ahead action adventure.” —Booklist (starred review)
“A series to be savored.”—The San Diego Union-Tribune
Titles by Randy Wayne White
Sanibel Flats
The Heat Islands
The Man Who Invented Florida
Captiva
North of Havana
The Mangrove Coast
Ten Thousand Islands
Shark River
Twelve Mile Limit
Everglades
Tampa Burn
Dead of Night
Dark Light
Hunter’s Moon
Black Widow
Nonfiction
Batfishing in the Rainforest
The Sharks of Lake Nicaragua
Last Flight Out
An American Traveler
Tarpon Fishing in Mexico and Florida (An Introduction) Randy Wayne White’s Gulf Coast Cookbook (with Carlene Fredericka Brennen)
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
DEAD OF NIGHT
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley mass-market edition / March 2006
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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eISBN : 978-1-101-16070-1
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This book is for my daughter, Kate, a dear and gifted young lady.
author’s note
On Friday the thirteenth, August, in the year this book was written, the eye of a category 4 hurricane made landfall on Pine Island, west coast of Florida, and the storm’s northeasterly tornado wall savaged the village of Pineland, where I’ve lived for many years.
It was as if a five-hundred-pound bomb exploded overhead. My 1920s Cracker house, built on an Indian mound overlooking the bay, had to be gutted because of water damage. My guesthouse was crushed, the houses of neighbors leveled, and acres of old tropical growth were flattened, including avocados, poinciana, key limes, and also three gumbo-limbo trees that were several hundred years old.
The irony that, five years earlier, I’d written about Marion Ford climbing an Indian mound to escape a category 4 hurricane with the same name (Charles) did not mitigate the difficulties that followed.
It was a month before I got water, six weeks before my power was restored, and, as far as I know, my phone at Pineland still doesn’t work. I don’t know because, three months later, I am still homeless, as are several neighbors.
Here is what I’ve learned: A hurricane is just bad weather, unless you are touched by the eye. But if you are in the path of that tornado phalanx, your life is forever changed.
I am happy to report that a disaster of Charley’s magnitude mobilizes a lot more good people than the few who became profiteers. Many dozens offered me help, even their homes. I will forever be in their debt.
I am especially grateful to Jill Beckstead and Dean Beckstead, and the staff at Palm Island Resort, Cape Haze, Florida, a barrier island hideaway south of Sarasota and north of Fort Myers. Palm Island is a Florida classic: miles of beach, classy Gulf Coast architecture, few automobiles, swimming pools long enough for laps, and a fine restaurant, Rum Bay, where much of this book was written. During many busy lunches, the staff kindly tiptoed around me as I typed away. Chef Khoum, Jennifer Graham, Phyllis. Muller, Walt Mintel, Dave Comello, Campi Campese, Capt. Blackie, Jay Hodges, Liam Crowley, and others were very supportive.
Other places where people went out of their way to provide me a place to write include Doc Ford’s Sanibel Rum Bar and Grille, Sanibel Island, Matt Asen’s Sanibel Grill, the staff of Pine Island Library, the staff of Holmes Beach Library, Sharkey’s Steak on Bradenton Beach, the staff of Sanibel Library, and people associated with the Queen Mary 2, especially Ms. Mary Thomas, Sara Andersson, Jennifer Schaper, Laura Penfold, and Capt. Ronald War-wick’s brilliant staff.
Others who were generous beyond the expectations of friendship include Sandra McNally, Gary and Donna Terwilliger, Mrs. Iris Tanner, Tom and Sally Petcoff, Capt. Steve Stanley, George and Michelle Riggs, Craig and Re-nee Johnson, Kevin and Nadine Lollar, Moe Mollen, Dr. Brian and Kristan Hummel, Capt. Craig Skaar, Bill Gutek and his Nokomis pals, the Wells family of Cabbage Key and Pineland, Bill Spaceman Lee, Diana, Ginny Amsler, Allan W. Eckert, and Jennifer Holloway. Wendy Webb—a gifted singer and songwriter—provided much-needed musical relief, and Erin Edwards, and the band AMERICA, gave me an emotional lift when it was much needed.
This book demanded extensive research in several fields, and I am grateful to the experts who took the time to advise me. I’d like to thank Animal Planet’s Jeff Corwin, a man who is as decent and funny off camera as he is on. Dr. Thaddeus Kostrubala, a brilliant psychopharmacologist, has once again provided behavioral profiles on some truly nasty fictional characters. Dr. James H. Peck, fellow Davenport Central (Iowa) graduate, has compiled exhaustive notes on all the Ford novels, and is due much thanks.
Also providing valuable aid or information were Dr. Kim Hull of Mote Marine and Dr. Bob Vincent and Dr. Alan Rowan, both with the Florida Department of Health.
These people all provided valuable guidance and/or information. All errors, exaggerations, omissions, or fictionalizations are entirely the fault, and the responsibility, of the author.
Finally, the islands of Sanibel and Captiva sustained damage from the storm, but they not only survived, they are thriving and open for business. As always, they are real places, faithfully described, but used fictitiously in this novel. The same is true of certain businesses, marinas, bars, and other places frequented by Doc Ford, Tomlinson, and pals.
Finally, I would like to thank my sons, Lee and Rogan White, for, once again, helping me finish a book.
Reptiles are abhorrent because of their cold body, pale color, cartilaginous skeleton, filthy skin, fierce aspect, calculating eye, offensive smell, harsh voice, squalid habitation, and terrible venom; wherefore their creator has not exerted his powers to make many of them.
—Carolus Linnaeus, 1758
Thou shalt not fear the terror of night;
nor the arrow that flieth by day;
nor the pestilence that walketh in darkness;
nor the destruction that wasteth at noonday.
A thousand may fall at thy side,
and ten thousand at thy right hand;
but it shall not come nigh thee.
—Psalm 91:5-7
1
serpiente
Solaris thought of her as “Snake Woman” because the first time she asked to see him, he thought she’d pointed at a crate just arrived from South Africa that contained leathery eggs and baby snakes.
He’d said, “Of course. You are the buyer, I am the seller. It is your right.”
He wasn’t the seller. Solaris was nineteen years old, lived with his family in Vinales, west of Cuba, eight people crowded into a shack near the village baseball diamond and communal fields where he’d plowed behind oxen until the Chinaman hired him as labor for his smuggling operation.
The Russian, whose name was Dasha, was blond, tall. Good teeth and skinny hips like women he’d seen in American magazines. Still aiming her finger at him, she’d smiled. “No. It’s you I want to see. We’re alone, aren’t we?”
She’d come into the barn where the Chinaman had organized the unloading of seventeen crates of African reptiles, parasites, spiders, and South American fish recently delivered in an old Soviet freight helicopter, a Kamov. It was a barn for drying tobacco. It smelled peppery and sour. Good, like the inside of a whiskey keg. Dusty light leaked through the wooden siding and roofing shingles. The interior seemed brighter when she pulled the door closed and slid the wooden bolt.
Yes. They were alone.
“My ... private thing?” Was she joking?
“When you take your shirt off, your skin looks like it’s stretched tight over cables. Every muscle vertical or horizontal. So I’m curious about the whole package. Don’t be shy.” Looking up into his eyes, she reached and cupped him in her fingers. Still holding him, she backed Solaris into shadows against the wooden wall, the pepper smell stronger now, staring into his face, her expression different: He was a toy, his reactions amusing.
“Is there a zipper?”
“No. Just my belt. I didn’t expect—”
“Untie your belt. Or I could use my knife. It’s only rope. Would you like that?”
Solaris fumbled with the knot, his fingers shaking as the woman pulled his pants down over his hips, then to the floor, pausing to slowly retrace the curvature of his buttocks with the tips of her fingers.
“Step out of them.”
She moved away as he kicked off his pants. Stood there like an artist, her pale eyes inspecting, vacuuming in color, angles, texture.
“Nice. So smooth.”
Solaris was aroused, but he also felt ridiculous. Could this really be happening?
Now the woman was unbuttoning her blouse as she returned to him. He’d never seen skin so white.
He held his hands out
to embrace her.
“Stop. Just stand there. Don’t do anything.”
He let his arms drop to his sides. “But if we are to make love, then you must let me—” Solaris stopped, not sure how to continue. The only woman he’d ever been with was a prostitute on the beach at Veradero, and that had lasted only a few minutes. How did a man go about making love, particularly with an older woman who was so certain of herself and aggressive?
The Russian saved him, barking, “This has nothing to do with love. I want to have fun after a shitty day. For my pleasure. Just stand there and keep your mouth closed.”
Like all Russians, she spoke Spanish as if she had a bad cold and was coughing.
“Don’t try to touch me again. Unless I give you permission.”
He nodded. Stood upright, shaking, not wanting to ruin it.
Her voice was dense and sleepy once again. “He has eyes. The way he follows my body. What does he remind you of?”
A picture came into Solaris’s mind of a man wearing a turban, sitting before a woven basket, playing a flute. A cobra followed the movement of the flute, head swaying.