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  For an instant, images moved through Bern’s mind: a white hand sinking into a fifty-gallon drum, a small shape in fetal position, the diesel machinations of burying an object beneath fill dirt. A redhead was next, only a month later…

  He shook himself. Get over it!

  Think positive.

  He replaced the image with another, and immediately felt better because picking a woman, getting her alone, and taking her was okay. Healthy, when the feeling got too strong, or the timing was right, or he met someone he considered especially beautiful, and got the hots for. Then it was worth planning.

  Planning was good. Exactly what he hadn’t done both times he overdid it, and had to buy garbage bags, bleach, rubber gloves. All because he hadn’t planned, and got a little carried away.

  There was a word for that. The word made him nervous, too, when he heard it.

  None of his women had the haunting, gaunt beauty of this one.

  Her lips, God. In those days, the lips had to be real, not all shot up with plastic crap. Full lips, so sensual.

  The feeling the woman in the photograph gave him…

  Okay…so what if she was an old hag by now? If she wasn’t already dead, it didn’t matter. A woman like this, even in her seventies, he’d do it. Just to touch her…check out where things used to be, get his skin on her—like visiting a museum!

  Plan it. That’s what he should do. Somewhere in the briefcase, there had to be a clue to her identity. The old man didn’t do anything by accident. He’d put her photo on top of the pile for a reason.

  There were lots of papers, most in German. Maybe she was mentioned. Or in the old man’s leather-bound journal, handwritten, the last entry dated October 18, 1944, also in German. Augie spoke the language. He could get Augie to translate, maybe—the kid was scared shitless of him now.

  Or…he could call his grandfather’s personal assistant, Jason Goddard. The man smelled of mothballs, but he had a brain that filed details away like evidence. Jason might know the woman’s name, if she was still alive. Even if he didn’t, what the hell?

  Just trying to find out who she was made her seem more real when he imagined how it would be: Putting his hands on her. Taking her. Covering those amazing lips with his mouth as he stripped her clothes off. Do it better than his grandfather ever could’ve, much better, harder, too.

  Make her old body bounce like a young girl!—punishment for allowing an animal like the old man to touch her.

  Punish. That was another word that fit. In Bern, it helped the swelling sort of feeling last.

  13

  17 September, Friday

  Sunset 7:28 P.M.

  New moon + 1 sets 12:02 A.M.

  Low tide –0.4 6:03 A.M.

  SE wind freshening. Excellent day for collecting…

  Because Tomlinson was in a happier mood, and because he asked, I told him, “I’m supposed to see Chestra again tonight. She lied about why she’s interested in the wreck. I called her on it. I thought she’d be offended; instead, she got a kick out of it. She said she’d tell me the real story, if I came back.”

  “She lied?”

  “Well…she didn’t actually lie, she just didn’t tell the truth. I was going to leave—it was after eleven. I wasn’t mad—what do I care?—but then she offered to play something on the piano.”

  We were on the lower deck of my stilt house, standing near a five-hundred-gallon wooden tank made from a cistern similar to the one I use for showering. I’d sawed it in half, sealed the wooden staves, then added pumps and a complicated filtration system. The tank is roomy, the water deep and clear, so it’s a good place to keep fish, delicate tunicates, sea urchins, sea stars, bivalves, and other marine creatures I gather during collecting trips.

  I was transferring specimens now, using a dip net, taking them from my boat’s live well. I’d been on the flats, collecting, taking advantage of the powerful new moon low tide to restock my aquaria. The wind was howling, but there were protected places in the backcountry to anchor, and wade with a bucket and cast net.

  Tomlinson watched as I returned to my boat, saying, “I told her I’d drop by after nine, no special time. Have a drink, listen to what she has to say, then I’m out of there. Are you okay with that?”

  “Okay with what?”

  I said, “You know. No matter what a guy says, it’s poison to spend time alone with his girlfriend.”

  “Chessie and I, we’re not a boyfriend-girlfriend thing, man. I already told you. We talk, we dance. That’s all. Go as long as you want, stay as late as you want.”

  Boyfriend, girlfriend—talking as if we were in high school.

  I said, “I’m not going there as her date, I want to be clear about that. It’s about the wreck—she’s offered to pay Jeth and Javier. A woman her age? It should be obvious that it’s just not…It would be nutty.”

  Tomlinson grinned. “Whoa there, daddy-o, you thought I was dating her. It’s okay if I’m nuts? Besides, age should have nothing to do with it.”

  I was tempted to tell him, Yeah, but you’re not as shallow as me. Instead, I said, “Daddy-o?”

  He continued to grin, and made a calming motion with his hands. “Chill, man, because it’s cool, very cool. She played some tunes for you? She sang? I dig listening to the lady weave her spell.”

  Yes, Chessie Engle had played. When she offered, I’d agreed out of politeness. At a party, when someone comes into the room with a guitar, or sits at the piano, I bolt for the nearest door. I dread that feeling of being trapped by social protocol. I’d heard her music from the beach. It was eloquent and professional, but it was nearly midnight, and I wanted to get back to the marina.

  I figured I would stay for one song.

  I didn’t get home until after one.

  I told Tomlinson, Yes, she performed, and then tried to describe the experience. “I had no idea. At the piano, she’s…And her voice…”

  I couldn’t find the words, so he provided them. “She’s a superb musician. She has the tonal confidence of a young woman, but a very old soul. Her vocals go right through the heart into bone—haunting. Chestra is haunting.”

  I agreed, but additional praise seemed pointless. I didn’t expect her to be that good. I don’t expect anyone to be that good. I said, “How could a woman with that much talent remain an unknown? Most of the songs she performed, she composed herself. But no records or CDs.”

  It puzzled Tomlinson, too. His tone was guarded. “It’s interesting, man, the way you phrased that: How could a woman with that much talent remain unknown? Exactly.

  “The first time I heard her play, I did what everyone does when they stumble on a genuinely gifted artist. I searched for comparisons. Laura Nyro, Norah Jones, Joni Mitchell before cigarettes destroyed that beautiful instrument of hers. She’s their equal in every way, but comparisons don’t work because they’re all originals, Chessie included.”

  He was thoughtful for a moment. “I haven’t figured it out, man, and I’ve worked in the music industry. Chessie is smart, and classy, but she also has a weird vibe. Powerful; she’s a force. Especially when she’s at the piano. Her voice isn’t audio—it’s chemical. So watch yourself, man. Watch yourself. Hear?”

  Was that some kind of warning?

  Tomlinson was wearing his baggy British shorts, and a tie-dyed tank top that read: WEIRDNESS IS ONLY WEIRD IF YOU FIGHT IT. He also had the Kilner goggles strapped around his neck. He touched the goggles now. “It has to do with her aura. Chessie’s different. When I use these to look at you”—he fitted them over his eyes—“I should be able to see three auric layers. The etheric, the astral, the mental.”

  I said, “Oh, please,” and continued working.

  “This is science, man. Read the Bible, those halos weren’t made of plastic. The brain and body put out thermal energy and electromagnetic waves. I’ve recoated these lenses with dicyanin dye, which makes them…well, imagine that it’s an auric prism.”

  I had a net full of thrashing g
runts and pinfish. I lowered them gently into the tank. “I’m imagining.”

  “When I look at you…I see all three energy layers. Hmm. Yes, a sort of cloaking effect. Lots of blue and violet in your ethereal layer today. Light blue, which is good. Means your creative side is growing. Green, that’s the dominant color. Far out. Doc, you’re entering a period of growth and change you’ve never experienced. Normally, there’s a lot of red in your aura—no offense.”

  I said, “None taken. We were talking about the old lady.”

  “You think of her as old?” His surprise was genuine. He removed the goggles. “Maybe I did, too, at first. I’m trying to think. Well…if I did, she seemed younger every time I saw her—because she’s fun, so full of life. Until you came along, anyway.”

  I looked at him. Huh?

  “We had some fun. The friendly type. Discussed old movies; she’d play the piano. Dance, like I mentioned. Then she shut the door on me. Emotionally, I mean. I think it was because I was trying too hard to figure out her act. The karmic story. You know, the big picture? Then you came along.” He made an open-palmed gesture, telling me it was no big deal.

  “A week ago, I took these to her house.” He tapped the goggles. “I think it scared her.”

  “That’s enough to scare anybody.”

  “No. It’s because I can see what other people can’t.”

  I said, “There are some who doubt?”

  He was oblivious to the sarcasm. “She doesn’t have a normal aura. The energy pattern she gives off, it’s black and white. Evil and good, nothing else. Weird, compadre. Spooky. I’m not convinced she’s real.”

  I said, “Terrifying,” thinking: The man has been up for a while, meditating, conversing with God, smoking dope like there’s no tomorrow. I changed the subject, saying, “Hand me that bucket, would you?”

  M any people lost boats in the storm, Jeth included. Which is why he was now in the starboard seat beside me after asking if I’d give him a ride to St. James City on Pine Island.

  By car, it was an hour-and-a-half drive. By boat, even in this crummy weather, it was twenty minutes.

  We were taking my boat.

  “I’m done fishing out of Indian Harbor Marina,” he said. “So I’ve got to do something to make money. I just talked to Mack. He’s pissed I quit, and won’t hire me back.”

  “What?”

  “Even though I’m a guide, he still thinks of me as a marina handyman. There was a ton of crap needed doing, but I took off for Indian Harbor. So, hell…I don’t know what I’ll do. Maybe a water taxi business. Cast-net mullet—anything. There’s a guy in St. James who’s got a Mako he says Javier and I can use in exchange for a cut of what we make.”

  “Javier’s still in jail?”

  “Nope. One of his fishing clients is an attorney, Steve Carta. Steve got him out already. I’ve been through that drill, man. It sucks.”

  I wasn’t certain that Chessie Engle and I would come to an agreement about salvaging the wreck, so I didn’t mention that he might already have a job. I drove the boat and listened.

  I was glad Tomlinson wasn’t along to tell Jeth how dark his aura looked. He was glum; under a lot of pressure. Jeth had finally married Janet Mueller, his on-again, off-again lover. She was a great lady who’d endured too much tragedy, including the loss of a child. Janet was now three months pregnant, and didn’t need the additional worry of how they would pay bills.

  Even when I told him about the German coins, he didn’t smile. “Coins, huh? If we find a million of them, maybe I can make the last two house payments, then buy my own boat.”

  It’s the randomness of life that’s at the root of two delusions: good luck, and bad.

  I was one of the lucky ones. I didn’t lose my boat because I didn’t have a boat to lose. I’d ruined my much-abused Maverick months before by running it over a ski jump—intentionally—on a black, black night.

  Big loss. To me, a boat’s a tool that I also use socially. All along the coast of Southwest Florida, there are islands to visit. I use a boat the way most people use a car.

  I spent weeks researching what boat to buy next. I thought seriously about one of the rigid hull inflatables used by the military and Coast Guard. Also considered catamaran hulls. The design makes a lot of sense.

  But when it came time to put down money, I bought a newer version of the boat I’d trusted for years. Ordered the twenty-one-foot Maverick with a 225 horsepower Yamaha. A ghostly gray-blue hull, jack plate, and poling platform. The Maverick is an open boat classic that’ll run sixty miles an hour in a foot of water, handles like a Lexus, and rides smooth and dry even in weather.

  I’d taken delivery one week after the storm. Lucky.

  D inkin’s Bay is a brackish lake that opens through mangroves into a water space of islands called Pine Island Sound. Seventy miles to the north is Sarasota. Fifty miles south is Naples. Marco’s next, then the Everglades littoral, and the Florida Keys.

  Hundreds of islands lie between, some inhabited, most not. St. James City is to the east of Dinkin’s Bay, a couple miles away.

  I told Jeth, “Hold on,” and leaned on the throttle, feeling the hull lighten beneath me as it popped friction-free from the surface, then settled on plane—“plane” meaning the boat had partially escaped the wave system beneath, and was displacing less than her own weight.

  Nice.

  It was after 3 P.M. Tide was up but ebbing. Wind: twenty knots, east-southeast; bay choppy, even though we were in the mangrove lee. I crossed the flat to Green Point, running forty miles an hour in knee-deep water, then cut behind the ruins of an abandoned fish house, spooking pelicans and cormorants off roosts, their wings creaking in the volatile air.

  At Woodring Point, I found the cut, slowing long enough to wave at my cousin, Ransom Gatrell, who was sitting on the porch of her little Cracker house, reading—a financial report, most likely. A blue tarp, government issue, covered her roof, and the roofs of neighboring houses. Trees were down, dumped in splintered circles by tornadoes.

  She blew me a kiss. I saluted in return, and continued on.

  My engine was new, still going through its break-in period, so I varied speeds, accelerating, then decelerating, taking it easy as we slipped into the larger waves of Pine Island Sound.

  Jeth had ridden in silence, but brightened now that we were away from land. “She rides nice.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Solid, like she’s got a keel with ballast. Quiet, too.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I haven’t felt a drop of water. Is she trimmed much?”

  “No, just a tad.”

  I smiled, and got a fraternal smile from Jeth in return. There are few things as freeing as being on open water, in a boat that’s solid and fast.

  Not everyone, though, felt as we did on this blustery, choppy day.

  A mile from St. James City, as we approached the Intracoastal Waterway, Jeth lifted his head, and said, “I’ll be damned, it can’t be. But, by God…it is.”

  To our right, traveling north in the channel, was a white sportfishing diesel. The person driving the boat was either cruel or a novice, because the vessel was plowing along at the worst possible speed: banging hard on waves, and throwing a mountainous wake.

  “That’s the Viking from Indian Harbor Marina,” Jeth said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Guarantee it. See—” He pointed. “That’s that fatass, Oswald, and Augie on the flybridge. The little creep. He’s so dang stupid, he probably tried to go offshore in this weather and fish. Either that, or—” Jeth’s expression became serious. “Hey! Either that, or they were outside trying to find my wreck. Damn it, Doc, I bet that’s what they were dah-dah-doing! Trying to steal from me. As if I don’t already have enough problems. Damn it, you think they could’ve found it? It’s possible.”

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “We don’t know that for sure.”

  “Why else would the idiot be out on a day like this? Waves off
shore gotta be five or six feet. I thought I erased those GPS numbers, but maybe I didn’t. Something else I managed to screw up.” He took off his ball cap and slapped his leg. “And it’s not like they’re gonna tell us if we ask.”

  I thought about it for a moment. “Maybe they will tell us. Let’s find out.”

  I turned toward the Viking, running with the wind. Used the trim tabs to flatten the bow solidly on track, then pushed the throttle forward.

  “You’re not going to try and talk to them, are you?”

  I shook my head, feeling the wind, focused on the white boat that looked whiter because of the gray water. “Augie’s got ego problems. He might tell us without saying a word.”

  Now Jeth’s expression said, Huh?

  I ran a parallel course as if to pass the much larger boat port to port, which is how it’s supposed to be done. Once the Viking was beside me, though, I turned sharply, and nudged the throttle forward, increasing speed as I steered as if to ram them. Held the course steady, seeing the boat’s size inflate…seeing Augie’s profile up there high above us on the flybridge, Oswald, too…seeing Augie turn, finally noticing us…watched Augie begin to wave both hands frantically…

  “Doc?”

  I said, “Just wanted to get his attention,” as I turned hard to the right, plenty of room to spare, then banked left toward the Viking’s stern. I backed the throttle, slowing for the seven-foot wake rolling toward us…powered up one side of the wave, then surfed down the other. Turned hard to port once again…so that we were directly behind the slow-moving Viking, matching her speed.

  We followed for less than a minute before Jeth said, “Don’t you wish Javier could see this? Man, I wish I had a camera.” A smile in his voice for the first time in weeks.

  Yes, Javier Castillo would have enjoyed seeing what we were seeing.

  Bern Heller and Moe were both aboard, sitting miserably in twin fighting chairs on the stern. Both of them seasick—their pallid, glazed faces unmistakable. Too sick to notice us right away.