The Mangrove Coast Read online

  Praise for Randy Wayne White’s

  CAPTIVA

  “A Doc Ford novel has more slick moves than a snake in the mangroves.”

  —Carl Hiaasen

  “Captiva is … packed with finely drawn characters, relevant social issues, superb plotting and an effortless writing style. We’ll drop anything we’re doing to read a new Randy Wayne White book and be glad we did.”

  —Denver Post

  “One of the more dramatic finales in mystery fiction. White tells one whale of a story.”

  —Miami Herald

  “An enticing brew of hard-drinking, thick-skulled anglers, plodding detectives, and plotting marina bosses. White knows a thing or two about friendship, love, and honor.”

  —Entertainment Weekly

  “Edginess is what sets White’s work apart from the rest of the pack … a prickly, enigmatic hero … ambience, compelling characters and straightforward suspense.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  “An inventive story … White knows how to build a plot … with touches John D. MacDonald would have appreciated.”

  —Playboy

  “This is a top-shelf thriller written with poetic style and vision. Don’t miss it.”

  —Booklist

  Praise for

  the novels of

  RANDY WAYNE WHITE

  “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

  “White is a wildly inventive storyteller whose witty, offbeat novels come packed with pleasure.”

  —San Diego Union-Tribune

  “Enough twists to satisfy any hard-boiled but intelligent detective fan.”

  —Dallas Morning News

  “One of the hottest new writers on the scene.”

  —Library Journal

  “Great action scenes, terrific atmosphere, and a full-bodied hero add up to a pleasure.”

  —Booklist

  “The best new writer since Carl Hiaasen.”

  —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.”

  —Tampa Tribune-Times

  the

  MANGROVE

  COAST

  Titles by Randy Wayne White

  TEN THOUSAND ISLANDS

  THE MANGROVE COAST

  NORTH OF HAVANA

  CAPTIVA

  THE MAN WHO INVENTED FLORIDA

  THE HEAT ISLANDS

  SANIBEL FLATS

  the

  MANGROVE

  COAST

  RANDY WAYNE WHITE

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  THE MANGROVE COAST

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents

  are either 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.

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with

  Putnam Berkley Group, Inc.

  PRINTING HISTORY

  G. P. Putnam’s Sons hardcover edition / September 1998

  Berkley Prime Crime edition / November 1999

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1998 by Randy Wayne White.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced

  in any form without permission.

  For information address: G. P. Putnam’s Sons,

  a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://www.penguinputnam.com

  EISBN: 9781101573747

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published

  by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks

  belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 9 8 7 6 5

  Author’s Note

  The portions of this novel set in Panama and the former Panama Canal Zone could not have been written without the advice and patient guidance of men and women who know the area far better than I. For this I thank: T-Bird Tom Pattison, Captain Bob Dollar and Mindy, Queen of the Chilibre Hill Gang; Taj Mahal advocate Jay Sieleman, la chinita linda Priscilla Hernandez, Legendary Vernon Scholey, Renate Jope, Mimi and Lucho Azcarraga, and my friend Teresa Martinez. Not only did these kind people introduce me to sunsets at Panama’s Balboa Yacht Club; they also added much in terms of detail and texture about life in the former Canal Zone. However, the portrayal of what is now happening in Panama, while factually accurate, has been filtered through my eyes and my eyes only. Any errors or misrepresentations of fact in this novel are entirely my fault, or of my own creation, as are all claims, insights or opinions implicit or otherwise that might be considered political or controversial.

  I would also like to remind readers of the many thousands of Americans past and present who were proudly and justly called Zonians. Without complaint or excuse, these extraordinary people kept the canal open and running every hour of every day flawlessly and without pause for nearly nine decades.

  The entire world owes them a debt of gratitude.

  I also thank Lee and Debbie White for their steadfast support, as well as my friends in Cartagena, Colombia, for their help and unfailing hospitality: Alvaro Sierra, Norm Bennett, plus George Baker and Jorge Araujo of Comexa Co. They really do make one of the best and most fragrant hot sauces in the world: Fiery Green Amazona.

  Finally, I thank Rogan White for his assistance, and Dr. Roy Crabtree and Lewis Bullock for allowing Doc Ford to help with their grouper research.

  For …

  Dr. Floyd L. White, a good man. The great Totch Brown who did not share Tuck’s negative qualities. Mark Bryant, Larry Burke and all the fine editors at Outside magazine who kept me on the road. And the Panamaniacs.

  To educate a man in mind and not in morals is to educate a menace to society.

  —THEODORE ROOSEVELT, SHORTLY AFTER THE COMPLETION OF THE PANAMA CANAL

  E-mail is not to be used to pass on factual information or important data. It is for departmental use only.

  —DIRECTIVE TO FEDERAL EMPLOYEES FROM A CLINTON APPOINTEE (FOUND ON THE INTERNET)

  Our ends are the same. We can do somethin’ big or we can play it safe. Either way, our ends are the same.

  —ERVIN T. ROUSE, COMPOSER OF “THE ORANGE BLOSSOM SPECIAL,” IN CONVERSATION AT THE GATOR HOOK BAR, THE EVERGLADES

  The village of Gamboa in the former Panama Canal Zone is a real place and, I hope, accurately described, but it is used fictitiously in this novel. The same is true of Sanibel Island and Cartagena, Colombia. In all other respects, this novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue
/>   1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  It was Tomlinson who suggested that I write about Panama; that I review on paper what happened and how it happened. He told me, “It might be good for your soul, man. Kind of a purge deal. Your tummy’s upset, you pop a couple of Alka-Seltzers, right? Maybe eat some stewed prunes, get rid of the bad stuff. Same thing. Put it down on paper and it’s gone.”

  I was on the deck of my stilthouse at the time, Dinkin’s Bay Marina, Sanibel Island, southwest coast of Florida.

  I’d been doing pull-ups.

  Lately, I’d been doing lots and lots of pull-ups.

  Thinking about Panama brought back specific unrelated images: black rain, banana leaves fauceting water, lunar halos, small precise breasts, a woman’s eyes diminished by uncertainty, wood fires, a mangrove shore …

  I told Tomlinson that my soul was doing just fine, thank you very much.

  It was a lie.

  Three days later, I said to Tomlinson: “Write it all down, huh?”

  He was momentarily confused, but then he was right there with me. It is, perhaps, because Tomlinson is always lost that he is also endlessly empathetic. He said, “Just a suggestion. I got to tell you, Doc, you haven’t exactly been yourself. When you look inward, man, your eyes actually change color. What used to be your Gulf Stream stare? Kicked back, friendly, drifting? It is now gray, dude, seriously gray. I mean like boiled beef. Not a pretty sight. Or maybe get some counseling. We catch a virus, we go to the doctor, no big deal. So we get an emotional virus, what’s wrong with getting a little psychiatric help? Christ, I spent a year making wallets and signing my letters, ‘Sincerely as a fucking loon.’ And look how together I am now.”

  I said, “Right. Your stability is … well … right out there for anyone to see.” Then I said, “Like a kind of intellectual exercise.” I was still discussing the prospect of writing.

  “An exercise, sure. That’s one way of approaching it.”

  The difference between patronization and kindness is intent. I was being treated kindly. Still … it struck me as having interesting potential.

  The human animal is accurately named. And I am, after all, a biologist.

  Here’s what I’d been wrestling with ever since returning from Central America: What quirk of experience or genetic coding compelled certain men to isolate vulnerable women and then to prey upon them?

  That kind of behavior certainly did not benefit the species, so why were their devices so commonplace … and so successful?

  The problem had bothered me since Panama. How can one protect all good and delicate people, all the children and wounded ladies, who are potential targets?

  Perhaps it is more accurate to say that the problem haunted me.

  For Tomlinson, I condensed the dilemma: “Not all sexual predators are killers or serial rapists. The most successful of them live well within the boundaries of the law and they’re probably more common than we’d like to believe. See … the problem is identifying the bastards. They are not social anomalies; they are social deviants.”

  He said, “I’m with you, man. The difference is subtle but specific.”

  I said, “Exactly. So what’s that mean? What it means is, to succeed they must give the appearance of living socially acceptable lives. They must construct a believable facade so that their secret motives go unsuspected. Like camouflage, understand? They live a lie their entire lives … which means they become superb liars and actors.”

  Tomlinson was nodding, following along, indulging me. “You’re talking about that guy. Merlot? Jackie Merlot.”

  Just hearing the name keyed the gag reflex in me … and something else, too: dread.

  I said, “Yeah. Pedophiles, voyeurs, wife beaters, the back-alley freaks. Ted Bundy—he’s another textbook example. But that’s an extreme case. More commonly, only their victims know who these people are and what they really are. No, I’ll amend that. The truly successful predators are probably so adept at manipulation that their victims never realize they’ve been used.”

  Tomlinson was listening sympathetically, not analytically. I found that irritating. Did he really believe that I was so adolescent that I needed that kind of friend?

  He said, “You’ve got a lot of anger built up. The subject makes you furious. I can see it.”

  I winced. “You’re missing the entire damn point. I’m talking about difficulties of assessment. Pathology, not emotion.”

  “Sure. I relate entirely! It’s exactly the kind of stuff you need to be writing. Get it out of your system. You know another reason it might be good to get it down on paper? If the feds decide to take up the case again, call you in to testify, you can always refer to your notes. Tell them, hey, this is the way it all went down. I mean, if they decide the guy didn’t exactly disappear on purpose, they might come around again and ask more questions.”

  I was nodding; smiling just a little. I said, “Yeah, a written record. I see what you mean. Accurate notes of what went on, plus it might help me deal with losing what I lost.”

  But I was thinking: No matter how many questions they ask, they’ll never find out what happened to Jackie Merlot ….

  Certain odors key the synapse electrodes, and there is no alternative but to return to the precise time and place in memory with which those odors are associated.

  Why is the linear memory so much easier to discipline than memories that are sensory?

  It’s like one of Tomlinson’s favorite little paradoxes: I have no choice but to believe in free will.

  If there is such a thing as free will, how is it that one can have no choice?

  What I am avoiding discussing, I guess, is how I happened to return to Panama. What I’m avoiding discussing is how it all began and what happened afterward.

  It would make an interesting research paper: “The Olfactory Senses as Conduit to Recall …”

  Yes. Odors …

  The barrier islands of Florida’s west coast have their own odor, their own feel. It’s a fabric of strata and weight: seawater, sulfur muck, white sand, Gulf Stream allusions and a wind that blows salt-heavy out of the Yucatan and Cuba.

  Think about hot coconut oil. Add a few drops of lime, then a drop or two of iodine. Dilute it with icebergs melted by ocean current: even if you’ve never been to Florida, reconstitute that mixture and you will know how the air feels and smells on the mangrove coast. You’ll also know something about a pretty little village there called Boca Grande.

  Boca Grande is on the barrier island of Gasparilla. It is one of the isolated, moneyed enclaves south of Tampa, north of Naples—way, way off Florida’s asphalt network of theme parks and tacky roadside attractions.

  It’s a place that I associate with quiet dinner parties, Sunday tennis, tarpon fishing and bird-watching … not with violent death.

  That’s one of Florida’s charms: Places like Boca Grande still exist. They are always full of surprises.

  1

  The first thing I noticed upon entering Frank J. Calloway’s secluded beach house was that there was something disturbing about the composition of the air. Less an odor, really, than an adverse density.

  It was as if oxygen molecules had been weighted with water plus unknown organic particles, then compressed and compressed again in the silence of a process so newly completed that something—illness? decay?—had only recently begun.

  It was a piscine acidity. It had an oily tinge….

  I noticed the odor as I passed through the living room—What’s unusual about the air in this place?—which was just before I stepped into the kitchen and found the body of a man lyin
g belly-down on glazed Mexican tiles.

  I stopped, took a step back and said, “Hey … are you okay?” Then I said, “Hello … ?” and stood listening in the heavy air.

  I’m ashamed to admit how often I say idiotic things and ask dumb questions. This was one of my dumber questions. The guy definitely wasn’t okay.

  But it was a startling scene to discover: A stranger’s clay gray face wedged against custom cabinetry … copper pots and skillets suspended from hooks above rows of stainless burners … a mottled black swash of blood on the cupboard which marked where flesh and bone had impacted marble countertop, then wood.

  The man was wearing green swim shorts, no shirt or thongs.

  He had fallen heavily. Big men in their forties always do.

  Standing there looking at the body, I could hear Frank Calloway’s stepdaughter, Amanda, tell me, “Frank loves to cook. He studies it, like a gourmet. If he invited you over and he likes you, he’ll probably want to make dinner. If his ditzy new wife—he calls her ‘Skipper,’ for God’s sake. If Skipper will let him.”

  But there was nothing cooking on the stove. Nothing to account for the weightiness of atmosphere …

  I stood beneath the cathedral ceiling, aware of a silence amplified by the sound of skittish palm fronds outside and the slow collapse of waves on sand. A little-known fact: Waves do not move horizontally; only the disturbance that creates them does. Like fog in a breeze, water only illustrates energy.

  Even so, on this summer-bright afternoon in April, the Gulf of Mexico seemed a gelatinous membrane that was part of a greater respiratory system. I could look through the kitchen, through the shattered sliding glass door and beyond the pool and patio furniture to the beach: Wave after low jade wave sailed shoreward … one long exhalation followed by another … another … another.

  The waves made a hissing sound that gathered volume then deteriorated, gasped in the spring heat, gasped again and collapsed.