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  They were among the newest in Tomlinson’s long list of weird interests.

  When I’d showed him the bronze eagle, he’d put the goggles to his eyes briefly. Bizarre.

  Jeth said, “I don’t see him. Where?”

  I pointed, watching as Tomlinson became animated, using his hands to converse with the men wearing hard hats. He gestured toward the green boat, angry for some reason. Why?

  Jeth stared toward the parking lot for a moment. “Hey—that’s Javier’s boat. The green Pursuit, with twin Yamahas. What’s Tomlinson doing?”

  What it looked like he was doing was climbing onto the boat. Maybe with reason: For the first time, I noticed Javier Castillo in the distance, walking like a man on a mission.

  But why was Javier walking away from Tomlinson?

  F rom a hundred yards, I watched two of the hard hats reach, grab Tomlinson by the belt, and haul him off the trailer as he tried to swing a lanky leg aboard the boat. One of the men wagged a finger in his face while another held him. A warning.

  Three marina employees stood nearby, hands on hips, a classic aggressive posture intended to broaden a man’s shoulders.

  I pointed at Javier, who had now reached the marina’s access road. Jeth and I both watched as he vaulted a fence rather than use the main entrance where a security truck was parked next to the gate. A clot of people were gathered outside the gate, no one getting in.

  Jeth said, “Geez, the owner of this place really looks pissed off,” now gazing in the direction of the three men striding toward us. “He’s a big’un, huh?”

  Yes, he was a big one. Coming to claim what we had taken from little Augie.

  I lifted the bucket that contained the artifacts and said, “Time to leave. Go get Tomlinson. He’ll listen to you—put him in a headlock if he doesn’t. I’ll bring the skiff and meet you at that little clearing in the mangroves. Once we’re off marina property, there’s nothing they can do.”

  Jeth tried to downplay his surprise. “You want to run?”

  “Yes, I want to run.”

  “I don’t know, Doc. You know how fishermen gossip. What’ll people say?”

  “They’ll say we’re not in jail. Jeth…?” I glanced and saw that the men were closing. “Let’s move.”

  He did, grabbing his fishing gear and striding away from me, his eyes fixed, which caused the owner to pause, Augie and Oswald stumbling to a halt behind.

  I waved at the three men. Gave the group a smile of my own, and pointed toward Tomlinson, who was still arguing with the hard hats. Meet me there.

  Angry little mobs are unsettled by people who respond cheerfully. It added to their confusion.

  When I got to my skiff, I set the bucket on the casting deck, then ignored it. I ignored the men, too. I knew they were watching as I waded through the flotsam toward the boat’s console. I got aboard and flicked a toggle switch beneath the wheel. There’s a built-in fiberglass tank astern plumbed to circulate salt water—a well for keeping live fish.

  As water hissed into the tank, I behaved as if I’d lost something, it didn’t matter what as long as it bought enough time for Jeth to drag Tomlinson to the mangrove clearing, where I’d meet them.

  As I hunted through compartments, I noticed a raft of dead fish floating in the trash line. The fish were bug-eyed from the pressure of internal gases.

  I snuck a look at the bucket that contained the artifacts. Glanced again at the fish. Mullet, spadefish, a couple of snook, several sheepshead, their color leached gray.

  Folklore credits animals with knowing in advance when a killer storm is coming. It suggests they escape to a safe place.

  Folklore is often wistful.

  From Tomlinson’s direction, I heard a muted shout. I turned and saw a white truck similar to the truck parked at the marina gate. Big tires, windows open, security on the door. Inside were two men, their expressions cop-serious as they accelerated toward Javier’s boat, where Tomlinson was still arguing.

  Augie Heller’s group was watching, too, reading body language, no longer focused on me. The owner said something. He watched a moment longer, then decided that’s where he was needed. They headed off at an angle to intercept Jeth, who was walking faster now.

  In a rush, I freed my boat’s bowline, and grabbed the bucket from the casting deck. It was heavy. I popped the plastic top, the smell of organic rot and metal blooming. Looked to make certain I wasn’t being watched, then poured the contents into the flooded live well.

  The artifacts I had cleaned sank to the bottom, still wrapped in their towels.

  Had Jeth mentioned the owner’s name?

  Whoever he was, I knew he wouldn’t settle for half of nothing. He wouldn’t give me his special smile—not if I handed him an empty bucket.

  J avier’s boat was on the far edge of the clearing near a hill-sized mound of dirt. The hill was backdropped by wreckage of uprooted trees where shoreline changed from shell to asphalt. The shell was bone gray against the wet asphalt, the survey stakes the same shade of yellow as a backhoe parked on that raw space.

  It was land being prepped for a parking lot. Or more condos.

  The boat’s trailer, I now noticed, was hitched to a hydraulic handcart. Maybe Javier had been muling his boat toward the ramp when Tomlinson came along.

  Which didn’t explain why Tomlinson was still trying to climb aboard the damn thing. I watched him attempt to vault himself onto Javier’s boat again…watched the hard hats pull him to the ground.

  There were a half dozen of them, different sizes, and ages. They wore their helmets straight like derbies, no scratches showing, new safety gear worn by novices not old construction hands. They looked like school-crossing guards confronting a homeless person, this shirtless outsider with hippie hair and baggy shorts.

  Amusing. But not to Tomlinson, who was furious. His chin was thrust forward, fists clenched as if he might take a swing at somebody. Also amusing. Tomlinson, the Rienzi Zen Master. The passive, nonviolent hemp smoker. Tomlinson the Gandhi devotee. The worst he might do was give them a stern lecture, or a forgiving hug.

  I stood at the wheel of my skiff, idling toward the clearing. I was in a hurry, but going slow in this shallow water, protecting my new propeller, which was attached to my new engine, which was mounted on the transom of my new skiff. It gave me time to allow my eyes to drift along the shoreline. As I did, I felt the same emotional jolt as when I’d arrived an hour earlier, seeing the place as it had been, unchanged. Not as it was.

  What had been subtropical forest was now a hollow geometric; a rectangular space that had been bulldozed flat, surveyed, and graded—the precursors of high-rise construction so obvious that the sky seemed already darkened by stucco.

  PRECONSTRUCTION PRICES. PENTHOUSE SUITES. GATED WATERFRONT, ASSOCIATION DUES, ASSIGNED DOCKAGE.

  There should be standardized billboards, the destiny of commercial waterfront in Florida is so predictable. There probably were similar billboards on the road into this place: a village that was now a commercial venture to be split up, repackaged, and sold like berths on a cruise ship.

  Pre-Death Chambers. A Tomlinson phrase.

  There had once been a fishing village here…

  I pictured a woman I’d lost only a few years ago standing on the porch of a house that no longer existed. Yellow house of pine, a tin roof. The woman had Deep South eyes that hinted how the weight of her body would feel, her footsteps resonating on wood, leading me to a cooler and darker place, her skin burning beneath my fingers.

  I could hear the woman’s woodwind voice in fragmented sentences, the oboe notes of her laughter:

  “Way I’m built, when it gets cold? You could see my nipples through a raincoat…

  “I’m a Gemini born on the cusp. But with Leo rising. Like two people in one body, both of us bossy…

  “We can have separate lives, Ford. We’ll be like secret partners.”

  The voice of a woman I’d liked and admired, Hannah Smith. Maybe even loved, tho
ugh I’ve never settled on a comfortable definition for that overused word. I stood at the wheel, imagining the sound and shape of her, feeling nostalgic…

  Irritated, I caught myself. There’s a long list of self-indulgent emotions, and nostalgia is as pointless as—

  “Doc! Get over here.”

  Jeth’s voice.

  Startled, I refocused.

  Now what?

  Tomlinson’s confrontation was no longer amusing. There was Jeth, striding up behind the hard hats, giving the situation some gravity because of his size. Arriving at the same time was Augie Heller’s group, the oversized boss man already elbowing his way in. Nearby was the security truck, doors open, two men keeping an eye on things from striking distance. The tallest of them wore a cowboy hat. White straw.

  “Doc?”

  Jeth called again as I watched Tomlinson step toward the marina manager. He was overexcited, and moved too far into the big man’s space, bumping him accidentally. Immediately, though, he declared a truce with his hands, eager to talk.

  That’s not the way the owner read it. He stepped aside as if dodging a bull, dwarfing Tomlinson. Then he reached and caught Tomlinson’s hair in his fist. He did a competent trip-step, and jerked my friend’s head backward as his knees hit the ground. The man yanked hard a couple more times to demonstrate his control, Tomlinson’s neck snapping puppetlike.

  “Doc!”

  I leaned on the throttle, throwing a geyser of muddy water astern, hull shuddering as my boat plowed shoreward. Before the Maverick grounded itself, I bailed into water calf-deep, and ran…

  6

  The hard hats had formed a screen to keep Jeth back. Nearby, men from the security truck were stirring. Jeth was their main concern…until they spotted me coming.

  I ran into the clearing where there were mounds of gravel and survey stakes all around, slipping my glasses into my shorts, my eyes adjusting to a world that blurred, the security guys watching.

  I was near enough to hear: “All I wanted to do was talk, man! My buddy owns the damn boat, so what’s the big deal?”

  Tomlinson was yelling, not pleading, but pain inserted exclamation points. The manager was hurting him.

  “Let go…you are really blowing your cool, man. That’s not hair. You’re pulling my flag, man!”

  The manager telling him, “You come charging at me, what do you expect?” Smiling as he talked. The accent was Minnesota or Wisconsin, only a generation or two removed from migration.

  As I sprinted, the hard hats turned from Jeth to me, realizing that they’d have to intercept. Nervous men sometimes use body language to anchor an alibi. These guys were already telegraphing excuses: This wasn’t their fight. For the money they were making?

  It gave them a reason to get out of my way.

  I slowed to a walk. “Let him up,” I told the big man. “Get your hands off him.”

  Augie pointed. “He’s the one I told you about, Uncle Bern. With the big mouth. I’d be happy to shut it, if you want.”

  Showing off his tough-guy attitude for the uncle who was also his boss.

  Augie and Uncle Bern, a pair.

  Near us, an engine started, and the security truck spun away toward the marina entrance, Oswald now inside beside the driver. An emergency of some sort, judging from the warble of sirens in the distance. And getting louder.

  The man with the white cowboy hat had stayed behind. He was putting the hat on now, ducking his head into it like he’d maybe seen rodeo riders do. Showing forearms that were colored with script and decorations, a guy who was no stranger to passing out in tattoo parlors.

  “Mr. Heller? This is important.” His tone was urgent.

  The owner still had his fingers knotted in Tomlinson’s hair, but he shifted his attention to cowboy.

  “The fella who said he’d be back with a gun? The front gate just radioed—they spotted his truck parked down the road. The cops are on their way.”

  That got the big man’s attention. He straightened, holding Tomlinson’s head off the ground like a trophy. “Just the truck or did they see him?”

  Behind me, one of the hard hats said, “If you’re talking about Javier Castillo, he was just here. We caught him and the hippie moving the boat.”

  “Javier’s got a gun?” Jeth looked unconvinced but concerned.

  The owner spoke to Tomlinson, but he was studying me. “What were you doing, helping him steal our boat? You fellas don’t care what you steal, huh?”

  Meaning the contents of the bucket.

  Uncle Bern was evaluating. Apparently, he decided that I was the threat so he shook his hand free of Tomlinson’s hair and stepped in my direction. He glanced at his nephew, who was approaching from the right. “I’ll take care of this, Augie. But stick close. Moe?”

  Cowboy hat, who was edging closer, stopped.

  “The same goes for you. We don’t want the Cuban’s friends getting in the way.”

  What the hell did that mean?

  Moe understood, though. He touched a finger to the brim of his hat.

  I stopped an arm’s length away, looking up at the man’s box-shaped face, his fake smile, the jaw muscles flexing as he said, “I hope you’re not thinking of doing something stupid, Mr….?”

  “His name’s Ford. Doctor Ford, according to Stuttering Jeth.”

  Jeth said to Augie, “Hey, you can kuh-kuh-kiss my butt,” as Heller said, “Doctor! Well, we should be able to talk this out.”

  The smile broadened, telling me he was a reasonable guy, but I could see the menace. He wasn’t nervous. Seemed right at home in nose-to-nose confrontations, this one just beginning, both of us aware. Wondering how far the other would take it.

  He took a moment to check over his shoulder as two sheriff’s cruisers lurched to a stop, light bars strobing. The cars scattered people who’d been massed at the gate. He waited for a third cruiser to appear before saying, “Augie claims you’ve got something that belongs to us.” The man let that hang for a moment before asking, “What’s in the bucket, Dr. Ford?”

  “It’s none of Augie’s business. Or yours.”

  “They were using my boat and my gear. That makes it my business. Whatever they bring back belongs to my marina. Rules of salvage, my lawyers say.”

  Smiling, I said, “Really?” I looked at Javier’s boat, the barn wreckage, the boats in the background. “Maybe your lawyers will get a chance to catch up on their admiralty law. While you’re in jail.”

  I turned, intending to tell Tomlinson and Jeth to get aboard my skiff. Once we were away from marina property, we could hike to the road, and find Javier. Before I could speak, though, Heller reached and clamped his hand on my shoulder.

  “Whoa there, Ford. You’re not going anywhere until I see what’s in the bucket.” He seemed more interested, though, in what was going on now at the entrance: Deputies moving along the inside of the fence, hands on their weapons.

  Moe said, “I’ll get the bucket, Bern. And anything else I think belongs to the marina.” Moe began to walk toward the shoreline, but he was watching the deputies, too, who were now fanning out near the section of fence Javier had vaulted earlier.

  I had tolerated Bern Heller—barely. But no way was I going to let some stranger go clomping around on my skiff. I said, “Heller?” then rolled my arm under his, and slapped his hand off my shoulder. I got him hard beneath the bicep, then turned immediately and started after the man in the straw cowboy hat.

  I could feel Heller behind me, walking too close. I expected him to say something, or grab me again. But I didn’t expect to hear Jeth say, “Oh shit. We need to get over there. They’ll kill him!”

  I stopped, and turned. In the far distance, I could see Javier, cops crouched on one side of the fence, Javier on the other, as he ducked through a mangrove thicket, no idea he was being watched. He was wearing shorts and a red T-shirt, carrying something in his hand that was hammer-sized. He held it beside his face, pointed skyward.

  I hurried to fin
d my glasses.

  A gun.

  7

  “Augie! Stop them!”

  Jeth and Tomlinson were hurrying toward the fence, yelling at Javier, trying to stop him from climbing over the fence onto marina property. I watched Augie and three of the hard hats move after them, but that’s all I saw because Bern Heller grabbed me by the shoulder again, and spun me around.

  Showing me his pasted smile, he said, “You think you can steal from me?” He reached his right hand toward the stitches on my forehead. “That the problem? Someone hit you with an ax? The way farmers do to get a jackass’s attention?”

  The natural reaction when a stranger’s fingers stray within a few inches of your eyes is to flinch. That’s what I did…and Heller used his left hand to slap my face, open-palmed. I saw the hand move, a gunslinger blur, and didn’t have time to react. Then he slapped me with his right hand a micromoment later. A boxer’s technique: fake right, then attack with a left-right combination.

  Both caught me square.

  Too stunned to respond, I stood and let it happen, hearing the same raw sound as when I’d slapped his arm away. Skin on skin, but louder because he banged my left ear hard. It caused an instant ringing in my head.

  Even so, I heard a jumble of voices, Jeth, Tomlinson, Augie, all reacting simultaneously, their words vague and faraway. Vague, because I was furious—a fast chemical transformation. My concentration imploded in an emotional burst. Vision and concentration narrowed as adrenaline spiked, so it was like staring down a tunnel, or the bore of a gun. I felt an ether chill move up my neck, a chemical blooming.

  I looked hard at Bern Heller. Saw him in shades of black and white beneath a tropic sky that had been drained of color.

  “Look at this. The guy’s kind of mild lookin’ until he gets mad. Are you mad, Dr. Ford?”

  I saw the blurred movement of Heller’s right hand as he swung to slap me again. I crossed with my right to block. Wanted to catch his wrist because, once I got his hands under control, this obnoxious bastard was going to the ground no matter how big he was…then maybe into an ambulance.