Salt River 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

  Bone Deep

  Cuba Straits

  Deep Blue

  Mangrove Lightning

  Caribbean Rim

  HANNAH SMITH SERIES

  Gone

  Deceived

  Haunted

  Seduced

  THE SHARKS, INCORPORATED SERIES FOR MIDDLE GRADES AND YOUNG ADULTS

  Fins!

  NONFICTION

  Introduction to Tarpon Fishing in Mexico and Florida

  Batfishing in the Rainforest

  The Sharks of Lake Nicaragua

  Last Flight Out

  An American Traveler

  Randy Wayne White’s Gulf Coast Cookbook: With Memories and Photos of Sanibel Island

  Randy Wayne White’s Ultimate Tarpon Book

  AVAILABLE EXCLUSIVELY AS AN E-BOOK:

  Doc Ford Country: True Stories of Travel, Tomlinson, and Batfishing in the Rainforest

  FICTION AS RANDY STRIKER

  Key West Connection

  The Deep Six

  Cuban Death-Lift

  The Deadlier Sex

  Assassin’s Shadow

  Everglades Assault

  Grand Cayman Slam

  FICTION AS CARL RAMM

  Florida Firefight

  L.A. Wars

  Chicago Assault

  Deadly in New York

  Houston Attack

  Vegas Vengeance

  Detroit Combat

  Terror in D.C.

  Atlanta Extreme

  Denver Strike

  Operation Norfolk

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  Publishers Since 1838

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2020 by Randy Wayne White

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: White, Randy Wayne, author.

  Title: Salt River / Randy Wayne White.

  Description: New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, [2020] | Series: A Doc Ford novel

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019050880 (print) | LCCN 2019050881 (ebook) | ISBN 9780735212725 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780735212749 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Ford, Doc (Fictitious character)—Fiction. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3573.H47473 S25 2020 (print) | LCC PS3573.H47473 (ebook) | DDC 813/.54--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019050880

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019050881

  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, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  For Georgia Jeff, a fellow wanderer and wonderer

  CONTENTS

  Also by Randy Wayne White

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Disclaimer

  Author’s Note

  Map

  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

  About the Author

  The coast [of Southwest Florida] is all in ruin because in these four or five leagues of sea there is barely 1.5 fathoms of water where many fish are dying.

  —Juan López de Velasco,

  Spanish cartographer,

  journal entry, 1575

  We are born alone, and we will die alone. This, the most basic of truths, was revealed to me when, a week after I left for college, my parents moved to East Hampton and failed to provide a forwarding address.

  —S. M. Tomlinson,

  One Fathom Above Sea Level

  DISCLAIMER

  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

  Before thanking those who contributed their expertise, time and good humor during the writing of Salt River, I want to make clear that all errors, exaggerations, or misstatements of fact are entirely my fault. This applies particularly to those who helped guide me through the morass of data (and often politically charged misinformation) on harmful algae blooms known as “red tides” in saltwater regions, or “blue green algae” when referencing cyanobacteria outbreaks that occur in, but are not restricted to, freshwater areas.

  Organisms that contribute to destructive algae blooms are found in most water environs, salt and fresh, throughout the world, year around. “Pollutants” they are not. Indeed, the global food chain would collapse without these microorganisms and macro algae. Keep this in mind the next time you read about small quantities of “red tide organisms” found at your local beach. This is not news. The micro flora are always present—and, sadly, so is the hysteria associated with the word “algae.”

  There isn’t much that biologists agree upon regarding harmful algae blooms (HABs) save for a worldwide
consensus that the phenomenon, while naturally occurring and massively destructive, can be enhanced by human activities. The degree to which humans cause, or contribute, to these events is at the historic epicenter of disagreements so passionate that opinions too often have more in common with theology than science.

  In this book, the fictional Doc Ford attempts to provide readers with an overview of the subject that is dispassionate and, above all, factual. This was a challenge. As I explained in an editorial I wrote for the Sunday New York Times (September 29, 2018): “During my 50 years on this coast, I’ve experienced four killer algae blooms as a fishing guide (1974, ’82, ’96 and 2004). As a novelist, I’ve researched the subject, yet my understanding lacks the certainty or rage of those newly acquainted with these blooms.” [https://www.nytimes.com/2018/09/29/opinion/sunday/red-tide-florida-tourism.html]

  In other words, the more I learn, the less likely I am to be persuaded by those whose convictions are unshakable, for they invariably have a financial stake in whatever “solution” they advocate. This includes organized camps representing the phosphate, sugarcane, and agriculture industries as well as low-profile developers who view agriculture as a waste of acreage that would become a goldmine if bulldozed and transformed into golf courses and gated communities.

  This is another element to keep in mind when ferreting through arguments regarding the solutions to red tides.

  The newer, booming “environmental industry” also has a stake in the controversy. According to Environmental Business International Inc., a publishing and research firm, the industry grew by 4.8 percent in 2017 and produced $370 billion in annual revenue. This amount dwarfs the $10.1 million collected in 2016 by the Everglades Foundation, one of fourteen Florida-based nonprofit organizations that have a vested interest in the causes and effects of harmful algae blooms. I do not doubt the altruistic motives of these groups, nor do I think it unfair to acknowledge a simple fiduciary fact: to survive, to continue their good work, each must motivate the public sector to provide funding.

  In this novel, you will meet Mack, the owner of Dinkin’s Bay Marina. Mack has strong opinions on this subject. Even the unflappable Marion Ford cannot convince Mack that hysteria mongering has become a dangerously misleading fundraising tool.

  For decades, I’ve collected newspaper accounts and research on algae blooms that date back to the 1800s. My file contains hundreds of clippings, many acquired at Florida libraries, after scanning through reels of microfiche. The historic overview they provide suggests a predictable cycle, and that cycle has not changed much. When acres of dead fish begin to wash ashore, there is a sustained, communal panic. Civic leaders demand action—and an explanation.

  A few examples: According to a study issued by the University of Miami in 1955, a series of lethal red tides between 1844 and 1878 were, according to local fishermen, caused by a “poisonous” flow of freshwater from the Everglades into Florida Bay. A December 1918 headline in the Punta Gorda Herald asserted “Seismic Explosion Under Gulf Kills Many Fish Between Boca Grande and Marco.” In July 1937, the St. Pete Times suggested that “the discharge of chemicals from freighters at Port Tampa” was to blame for the sudden death of “fish and eels rarely caught.” An article in a November 1940 edition of the Fort Myers New-Press claimed that a massive fish kill was the result of a mysterious “subterranean disturbance.” A Miami Herald article, dated February 1954, referenced the devastating red tides of 1947–50, and reported that scientists had traced the cause to excessive amounts of phosphorus found in the Peace River. A year later, in February 1955, the News-Press, under the optimistic headline “Red Tide Seen Under Control in Three Years,” cited a study that concluded that phosphate had nothing to do with red tide, then reassured readers that “government scientists” had discovered that dusting algae blooms with copper sulphate (sic) was an inexpensive and effective solution.

  Problem solved? Of course not, and it is ironic to note that, as recently as 1989, the idea of dusting algae outbreaks was revisited—but with phosphatic clay, a residue produced by Florida’s controversial phosphate industry.

  The list of researchers from whom I’ve culled information is lengthy, but I would like to give special thanks to Dr. Brian Lapointe of Harbor Branch Oceanographic. Dr. Lapointe possesses the rare ability to process the opinions of those with whom he disagrees, to accept them as integral to a valid historical overview, and then distill even the most complex subjects in a way that is fair-minded, objective, and understandable even to a layperson such as I myself. Dr. Karen Steidinger also deserves special thanks for her concise responses to what, to me, seemed complex questions. Dr. Steidinger is acknowledged worldwide as an authority on dinoflagellates and harmful algae blooms. Indeed, her scholarly impact on the subject is so profound that the scientific name for Florida’s red tide organism, Karenia brevis, was named in her honor. As mentioned previously, all, if any, misstatements of fact in this novel are entirely my fault, not theirs.

  Insights, ideas, and medical advice were provided by doctors Brian Hummel, my brother Dan White, Marybeth B. Saunders, Peggy C. Kalkounos, and my amazing nephew, Justin White, PhD. Local consultants on far-ranging topics include tennis guru Nate Dardick and “Captiva” Jeff Brown.

  Pals, advisors, and/or teammates are always a help because they know firsthand that writing and writers are a pain in the ass. They are Gary Terwilliger, Ron Iossi, Jerry Rehfuss, Stu Johnson, Victor Candalaria, Gene Lamont, Nick Swartz, Kerry Griner, Mike Shevlin, Jon Warden, Davey Johnson, Barry Rubel, Mike Westhoff, and behavioral guru Don Carman.

  Bill Lee, and his orbiting star, Diana, as always, have guided the author safely into the strange but fun and enlightened world of our mutual friend, the Rev. Sighurdhr M. Tomlinson. Equal thanks go to Albert Randall, Donna Terwilliger, Wendy Webb, Rachael Ketterman, Stephen Grendon, my devoted SOB, the angelic Mrs. Iris Tanner, and my partners and pals, Mark Marinello, Marty, Joey, and Brenda Harrity.

  Much of this novel was written at corner tables before and after hours at Doc Ford’s Rum Bar & Grille where staff were tolerant beyond the call of duty. Thanks go to Andrew Willis, Jim Rainville, Ashley Rodeheffer, Carle Mitchell, Chester Steven Chance, Jim Green, Justin Schirmer, Lisa Kendrick, Michelle Gallagher, Justin Harris, Sarah Carnithan, Scott Hayes, Katy Forret, Blake Colbert, Tyler Wussler, James Sharp, Kirsten Blazo, Yvonne De Montes, Big Boston Brian Cunningham, and Sergio Ramirez.

  At Doc Ford’s on Captiva Island, many thanks to Joyous Joy Schawalder, Misael Guzman, Adam Traum, Ryan Cook, Braulio Mendez, Robert DelGandio, Dear Erica DeBacker, Carey Galantino, Donald Yacono, John King, Ray Rosario, Krystal Bovan, Adam Johnson, Jahlil Poindexter, Sam Uscanga, Ivan Riverol, Shelbi Muske, Scott Hamilton, Tony Foreman, and Cheryl “Key West” Erickson.

  Finally, thanks to my amazing sons Lee and Rogan for helping me to finish another book.

  Randy Wayne White

  Casa de Wendy

  Sanibel, Florida

  ONE

  It started in the galley of my wobbly old house during a lightning storm that fried a nearby transformer. A sizzling boom rattled the windows. Combusted ozone drifted bayward and sweetened the air while rain hammered the tin roof.

  The lights went out.

  “Perfect,” my boat bum pal, Tomlinson, said. “Natural disaster is humanity’s last hope. The internet has butt-ravaged us all and looted our privacy. I say bring on the pale rider. Might as well have another beer, huh?”

  It was late but didn’t feel late. In July on Florida’s west coast, the sun doesn’t set until almost 9. I waited in darkness for several seconds expecting my generator to kick on. It did not.

  “If I don’t get the darn thing started, my fish will be belly-up in an hour,” I said. “And keeping fish alive has been tough enough lately. There’s a kerosene lamp in the cupboard. Help yourself.”

  I’m a flashlight snob. Spend enough time in Third World countries, the dark becomes a
foe. I have a phobia about being without a solid little LED handy, so they’re in every room—including one on the bookcase, which I found before going to the door.

  “Try not to burn the place down,” I said.

  “You’re coming back, aren’t you? I was just getting to the weirdest part of the story.” Tomlinson had a little plastic lighter out. The way he stumbled around in the gloom, arms outstretched, reminded me of a scarecrow Frankenstein.

  “It gets weirder? Good god,” I said. “Shouldn’t you be talking to a priest or something?”

  “I am a priest,” my Zen Buddhist buddy reminded me. “We’re not into the whole confession thing—too risky, the way some monks are wired. Besides, donating to a sperm bank can’t be considered a sin. Not two decades ago anyway . . . can it?”

  I replied, “Forty-some donations in less than a month? If it’s not a sin, it should be a felony.” Going out the door, I added, “There’s a six-pack in the fridge—but leave at least one for me.”

  I switched on the flashlight and crossed the breezeway to an adjoining structure, all built under the same tin roof. I call it my lab because I’m a marine biologist, and that’s how the room is used. Inside was a row of tanks containing fish and other creatures that I collect and sell to schools and research facilities. I was careful with the flashlight. Deer are not the only animals that can be stunned by a bright beam. I’d read a recent study on retinal bleaching in benthic fish. Dazzling submersibles with video cameras are new to their ocular DNA.

  I panned the light to a workstation where there were test tubes in racks, a microscope, other lab tools, and a desktop computer. A sign on the far wall read Sanibel Biological Supply—the name of my business.

  For no rational reason, I confirmed that aquarium pumps and aerators do not work without electricity. The word methodical is preferable to the newer label, which is OCD. I unplugged the computer, went outside to the breezeway, and stood at the top of the stairs. The clouds throbbed with light. A storm cell freshened and battered the tin eave above my head. It was like standing behind a waterfall.