Bone Deep Read online

  ALSO BY RANDY WAYNE WHITE

  DOC FORD SERIES

  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

  Dead Silence

  Deep Shadow

  Night Vision

  Chasing Midnight

  Night Moves

  HANNAH SMITH SERIES

  Gone

  Deceived

  NONFICTION

  Randy Wayne White’s Ultimate Tarpon Book

  Batfishing in the Rainforest

  The Sharks of Lake Nicaragua

  Last Flight Out

  An American Traveler

  Gulf Coast Cookery (and Recollections of Sanibel Island)

  Tarpon Fishing in Mexico and Florida (An Introduction)

  Available exclusively as an e-book: Doc Ford Country (True Stories That Inspired Doc and Tomlinson)

  FICTION AS RANDY STRIKER

  Key West Connection

  The Deep Six

  Cuban Death-Lift

  The Deadlier Sex

  Assassin’s Shadow

  Grand Cayman Slam

  Everglades Assault

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

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  Copyright © 2014 by Randy Wayne White

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  White, Randy Wayne.

  Bone Deep / Randy Wayne White.

  p. cm.—(A Doc Ford novel ; 18)

  ISBN 978-0-698-15016-4

  1. Ford, Doc (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Marine biologists—Fiction. 3. Crow Indians—Fiction. 4. Florida—Fiction. 5. Suspense fiction. I. Title.

  PS3573.H47473B66 2014 2013049644

  813'.54—dc23

  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, either living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  This book is for my pal and traveling partner, Dr. Brian Hummel, and his brilliant family: Kristin, Sydney, Jordan, Andrea, John, Chris, Allison, Kipling, Theodore, Amary, Stephen, Kris, Asher, Maggie, Jon McConnel, Harlan, Peggy, and dear Joyce

  CONTENTS

  ALSO BY RANDY WAYNE WHITE

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  MAP

  DISCLAIMER

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  EPIGRAPH

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  Sanibel and Captiva Islands 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.

  In all other respects, however, this novel is a work of fiction. Names (unless used by permission), 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 unintentional and coincidental.

  Contact Mr. White at WWW.DOCFORD.COM

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I learned long ago, whether writing fiction or nonfiction, an author loses credibility if he’s caught in a factual error. I take research seriously, and am lucky to benefit from the kindness of experts in varied fields. Before recognizing those who provided assistance, though, I would like to remind the reader that all errors, exaggerations, and/or misinterpretations of fact, if any, are entirely my fault.

  I have wanted to use Florida’s Bone Valley as a setting for many years, but it was a conversation with two Florida Fish & Wildlife (FWC) officers that finally provided material for a plotline. Much thanks goes to Maj. Curtis Brown, who walked me step-by-step through various artifact theft scenarios. Col. Jim Brown (Ret.) was also helpful, plus he correctly pointed out that Doc Ford owns a tactical boat built in Florida exclusively by Brunswick, not by a French manufacturer as I had wrongly assumed.

  Phosphate mining in Bone Valley is controversial, which is why the Mosaic Company—one of the world’s leading producers—deserves high marks for having the professionalism and confidence to allow me to tour their mining operation and reclamation projects in Central Florida. Especially helpful were John Courtney and Diana Youmans. Through their eyes and experience, I learned much about Bone Valley and the history that lies beneath.

  In this book, Doc Ford references “snag fishing” for tarpon in Boca Grande Pass on Florida’s Gulf Coast. Thanks to Kenneth W. Wright—Florida Environmentalist of the Decade, in the minds of many anglers—this “jigging” technique has finally been exposed as a fraud. Mr. Wright, and a group of knowledgeable, courageous FWC commissioners, voted unanimously to ban the technique, and Florida is a better place because of them. In this and other areas, biologists Dr. Jonathan Shenker, Diane and Dr. Phil Motta, and Justin Grubbich also deserve thanks, as does Maria Laura Habegger for her work on bull sharks. While writing this book, I learned that Dr. John Miller, of Mote Marine and University of North Carolina, died in July 2013. He was a fine man; his advice regarding Doc Ford will be missed.

  Much thanks goes to friends and advisers Dr. Justin White, Dr. Marybeth B. Saunders, Dr. Peggy C. Kalkounos, Ron Iossi, Jerry Rehfuss, and Dr. P. D. Miller. Sports psychologist Don Carman, once again, contributed unerring insights into human behavior, aberrant and otherwise, and his advice regarding Marion Ford’s fitness routine is much appreciated.

  Bill Lee, and his orbiting star, Diana, as always, have guided the author, sa
fely—for the most part—into the strange but fun and enlightened world of our mutual friend, the Rev. Sighurdhr M. Tomlinson. Equal thanks go to Gary and Donna Terwilliger, Wendy Webb, my wife and trusted friend, Stephen Grendon, my devoted SOB, the angelic Mrs. Iris Tanner, and my partners and pals, Mark Marinello, Marty, and Brenda Harrity.

  By virtue of their affection for Florida and all good causes, special thanks go to Mollie B. Nelson, Ryan J. Farley, Matt and Maggie Farley Bradfield, Will Andrew Derco, Capt. John C. Comstock Jr., Ann Miller Ekas, Sue Depré, Lisa Bowling, Linda Comstock Teel, Tom Braciszewski, Kirsten Dickerson, Shane Traugott, Joey Ann Kempson, lovely Marla J. Martin, and to my wonderful fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. France Crow, of Pioneer, Ohio, who recently celebrated her one hundredth birthday.

  Much of this novel was written at corner tables before and after hours at Doc Ford’s Rum Bar and Grille on Sanibel Island and San Carlos Island, where staff were tolerant beyond the call of duty. Thanks go to Liz Harris, Chef Kris Zook, Juan Gomez, Kim McGonnell, Ma-Donna Butz, Jeff Kelley, Jose Sanchez, Allyson Parzero, Amanda Rodriguez, Ashley Rodeheffer, Christine Sabater, Amazing Cindy Porter, Desiree Olson, Kara Sarros, Big Khusan Ismatullaev, Marvelous Milita Kennedy, Olga Qlgita Jarrard, Detroit Rachel Songalewski, Rebecca Harris, Sarah Carnithan, Tall Sean Lamont, Hi Shawn Scott, T. J. Grace, Yakh’yo Yakubov, Darlene Mazzulo, Gabrielle Moschitta, Maria Jimenez, Mario Martinez, Charles Hill, Tall Cheyne Diaz, Chris Jenkins, Dale Hempseed, Dylan Wussler, Tyler Wussler, Richard Decosta, Big Boston Brian Cunningham, Jim Rainville, and Nathaniel Buffam.

  At the Rum Bar on San Carlos Island, Fort Myers Beach: Dan Howes, Kandice Salvador, John Goetz, Corey Allen, Charity Owen, Heriberto Ramos, John Rhoads, Jamie Allen, Nora Billheimer, Seth Bishop, Kassee Buonano, Dan Busby, Astrid Cobble, Allison Dell, Sue DeMartini, Brian DeMartinis, Jessica Foster, Samantha George, Ashley Griner, Nicole Hinchcliffe, Eric Hines, Mark Hines, Janell Jambon, Netta Kramb, Jesse Kane, Anthony Kelhower, Meredith Martin, Katy McBride, Megan McNeill, Grace Novak, Kerra Pike, Cris Rentas, Kevin Reynolds, Dustin Rickards, Sandy Rodriquez, Deon Schoeman, Michael Scopel, Jon Spellman, Heidi Stacy, Josh Vega, Lee Washington, Erin Montgomery, Ali, Pereira, Kylie Pyrll, LaToya Trotta, Kevin Tully, Molly Brewer, Katie Kovacs, Natalie Ramos, Taylor Recny, Jordan Van Leuven, Emily Heth, Anthony Howes, Justin Voskuhl, David Werner, Nick Howes, Bronson Joney, Andreas Ramon, Reyes Ramon, and Marcus Summ.

  At Doc Ford’s on Captiva Island: Mighty Jean Crenshaw, Raynauld Bentley, Clark Kent Hill, Chef Greg Nelson, Chef James King, Alexis Marcinkowski, Amy Charron, Cheryl Erickson, Chris “Go Bulldogs” Orr, Erica Debacker, Heather Walk, Holly Emmons, Isabel Garcia, Julie Grzeszak, Karen Bove, Larissa Holmes, Matt Ginn, Sarah Ginn, Shelbi Muske, Nick Hopkins, Thayne Fugal, Jon Calupca, Alexa Mozes, Hope McNulty, Ashley Foster, Chad Chupurdia, Daniel Flint, Dominic Cervio, Stephen Day, and Mojito Greg Barker.

  Finally, I would like to thank my sons, Lee and Rogan White, for helping me finish this, the twenty-first novel in the Doc Ford series. Quite a ride, huh?

  —RANDY WAYNE WHITE

  Casa de Piña

  Sanibel Island, Florida

  Florida archaeologists . . . found a mastodon tusk, scarred by circular cut marks from a knife. The tusk was 14,500 years old. The age was surprising, even shocking, for it suddenly made the Aucilla [Florida] sinkhole one of the earliest places in the Americas to betray the presence of human beings.

  Smithsonian Magazine, FEBRUARY 2013

  ONE

  A big chunk of Central Florida is known as Bone Valley to geologists and antiquities thieves, as I was reminded by a stranger wearing braids and wrangler denim who appeared on my porch one stormy June morning.

  The man claimed to be on the trail of artifacts stolen from Crow tribal land in Montana.

  “Stone carvings about yay high,” he said, holding his fingers apart. “They didn’t come from Bone Valley, but Florida is where a lot of tribal stuff ends up.”

  My stilthouse on Sanibel Island, the Gulf Coast, is four hours from Orlando, and two thousand miles from Big Sky Country. “You sure you have the right Marion Ford?”

  “You’re Doc?”

  “Yeah, but not the kind you need.”

  “A marine biologist who doesn’t read his horoscope, that’s what I heard. You could be just the guy.”

  I was standing outside my lab, water slapping at pilings below my feet, thunderheads sliding our way. “What does astrology have to do with stolen artifacts?”

  The man, who had introduced himself as Duncan Fallsdown, said, “Tonight, at what’s supposed to be a sweat lodge, it would be nice to have a buffer. You know, someone who talks about something other than Mother Earth and spirit quests—all the standard stuff I’ve heard a million times. A hawk circles overhead, a guy like you figures the bird’s hungry, looking for a mouse. A snake, maybe. No big deal. Am I right?”

  I said, “A sweat lodge in June? If that’s an invitation, no thanks.”

  “Not the best timing, but I’m committed,” Fallsdown replied, his eyes moving to the bay where a sailboat was anchored. The boat’s boom was strung with laundry that flapped in the breeze: a tie-dyed shirt, several sarongs, and what appeared to be women’s lingerie. Suddenly, the nonsensical was redefined as commonplace.

  “Tomlinson’s behind this,” I said. “How long have you known him?” I was referring to a lecherous, cannabis-growing anarchist turned Zen master who lives aboard the sailboat, an old Morgan, No Más in faded script on the stern.

  “Long enough to leave last night, when he chugged a tray of Jell-O shooters and invited some women to go skinny-dipping,” the man replied. “That was around one. I flew in late yesterday afternoon.”

  Yep—definitely bras and panties clipped to the Morgan’s halyard, all doomed to be soaked by the rain rumbling toward us. “You do know him,” I said. “How many?”

  “Women? At least one that was married, so I didn’t bother counting. They’re here because of the sweat lodge.” Fallsdown considered the squall, then looked beyond me through the screen door. “Man . . . you’ve got a bunch of aquariums in there. As a kid, I always wanted one. What kind of fish?”

  It was a request to escape the rain, so I opened the door, asking, “What time did Tomlinson start drinking this morning?”

  Fallsdown’s shoulders filled the doorway, his Indian braids black on blue cowboy denim, and I got a whiff of what might have been smoke—mesquite, maybe, not tobacco or marijuana.

  “Answer that one,” he replied, “I’d have to know what time he stopped last night, wouldn’t I?”

  • • •

  DUNCAN FALLSDOWN, who told me to call him Dunk with a k, accepted a bottle of Gatorade after refusing a beer, saying, “I’m hop-tose intolerant,” which might have meant ten a.m. was too early—or the gentle rebuff of an alcoholic. A man in his mid-forties acquires seismic markers at the corners of the eyes—harsh winters, smoky barrooms, is what I saw.

  I dumped my coffee and made fresh while wind blew the first fat drops of rain against the roof. Twice, while water boiled, I went to the door and whistled, then made small talk until Fallsdown followed me outside, across the breezeway, into the old ice house I have converted into a lab. I showed him around, explained what I do for a living—collect and sell marine specimens, plus environmental consulting—then went to the door again, “When you crossed the boardwalk, did you happen to see a dog swimming around near my house?”

  “That was a dog?” Fallsdown replied.

  Surprise with a tinge of wariness—the typical reaction of a newcomer who thinks he has seen what is probably an alligator but could be a giant otter. A few minutes later, I returned, and my yellow-eyed retriever was drying in the breezeway, a fresh bone to occupy him, while Fallsdown and I talked above the hiss of rain.

  “These stone carvings, someone I know wants them back. Dollarwise, they’re fairly valuable, but that’s n
ot the reason. The person’s in a hurry. Tomorrow, there’s a flea market near Venice I want to hit. Then a gun show in Lakeland.”

  “You don’t know where the artifacts are?”

  “I’ve got some contacts, and Tomlinson’s working on some others—that’s why I’m here. MapQuest says the trip’s three hours.”

  Over an hour to Venice, then two hours to Lakeland, I guessed. “But double that if Tomlinson’s driving.”

  Fallsdown, focusing on fish tanks along the wall, kept his back to me. “You know the guy better than I do. He’s not as flaky as he pretends, sometimes. He’s got good instincts, too, and people trust him. Better than having just me show up, a cowboy-Indian dressed like Billy Jack, asking questions about artifacts that might sell for fifty, sixty grand. See what I’m saying?”

  I was surprised by the numbers. “At a flea market?”

  “It’s the sort of place dealers use now. Used to be, the quality stuff was sold at auctions or antiquities shows. Coins, arrowheads, fossils—Florida had some of the biggest shows in the country. Vegas was big. New Mexico used to be, but the Indian relics trade has mostly gone underground. States are cracking down, Florida included, but it’s still one of the world’s best places for finding fossils and relics. The money’s here, so the dealers keep coming.”

  I was sitting at my computer and broke a personal rule by turning on the Wi-Fi before I’d finished the morning grunt work required of an aquarist who owns two boats. “These artifacts, do you have a link where I can find photos?

  “I’ve got a folder in my rental car when the rain slows down. The carvings don’t look like much—black soapstone—steatite, it’s called. Some say the pieces look like owl faces.”

  “Just the face?”

  “Judge for yourself, but they’re plain-looking stones. Not nearly as pretty as agate coral. They find a lot of that near Tampa, but other areas, too. Phosphate quarries are best.”

  There were plenty of quarries. Phosphate mining has been a major Florida industry since the early 1900s, which Fallsdown already knew.