Dead of Night, page 13
“We’re entering a very heavy biblical phase, which I’ve been expecting. Read Revelations. The Seven Seals, man. It’ll begin with a celestial sign—think about the number of planets now in a line. The scripture says the sea will become like the blood of a dead man, and a third of the fishes will die. A red tide, Doc. Understand the meaning? An algae bloom that kills fish. I bet we’re in for a bad red tide very soon.”
I was covering the microscope, putting away instruments. “Nope, it’s been months since I’ve gotten any reports about red tide. Which is unusual.”
“But what about the parasite you found? It’s not the only one, you know. It’s been in the newspapers. All across the country, there’ve been demon exotics raining down out of heaven, stirring up all kind of crap.”
Harrington had mentioned small-time biovandalism in other parts of the country. Suddenly, I was interested again. “What exotics? Raining down where?”
“That’s why I read newspapers, man. One morning I’ll wake up, open the Miami Herald, and the first sign of the Apocalypse is gonna be grinning at me from between the lines. There’ve been four or five articles this month—a couple paragraphs buried inside—about what they call noxious exotics turning up in different areas. Outside New Orleans, they’re finding giant, poisonous toads, weighing nearly five pounds. Same type that about took over Australia.”
I seldom read papers but was familiar with the amphibian. “The Central American cane toad, if that’s the one you mean. They’re in Delta country? That could be a mess because it’s an ideal habitat. Just a few, or significant numbers?”
“Enough to poison a bunch of Cajuns who tried to fry up the legs; ate them with red beans and gumbo. Kept right on eating until their nervous systems shut down. And they breed like bunnies. Toads, not the Cajuns—though that may be true, too. Significant numbers, and in a bunch of parishes.”
I was thinking I’d ask Harrington to provide more details as Tomlinson said, “Another exotic I read about—this was just last week—they had to close a big lake near Houston ’cause some swimmers got various appendages eaten off—piranhas. Those little South American fish with great big teeth. They got their first taste of gringo.”
Before I could ask, he answered, “There’s a thriving population, according to the story. Like, maybe hundreds of the little darlings, if the first samples are accurate. But mostly immature, so the kimchi hadn’t hit the fan as far as tourist swimmers entering the food chain.”
I said, “That many fish, they had to be introduced intentionally. We find piranha in Florida occasionally, but pet store numbers, fish that get dumped from an aquarium because the kids are tired of them. But hundreds? It takes a special kind of nasty to do something like that.”
Tomlinson shrugged his bony shoulders, then told me he’d also read about exotic snakes—cobras, a couple of other poisonous African species—that had been found loose in Minneapolis, the Mall of the Americas, crawling around clothing stores, Ben & Jerry’s, a CD supermarket.
No one was bitten, but a couple of shoppers were trampled in the panic. And also about a hatch of what are commonly called “seventeen-year locusts” in some rural Southern California county. Cicadas, Tomlinson knew them to be. Their numbers, he said, were so enormous that they clogged village drains, caused cars to overheat.
“This was more than a year ago. They aren’t supposed to be in California, and the hatch timings are off,” he added. “Rolling Stone said that the old LSD prophets had predicted it. A very far-out story.”
I said softly, “African snakes in Minnesota, African parasites in Florida,” thinking about it.
“You’re wondering if it’s some kind of organized deal?”
“Yeah, I am. But I also know there are a couple hundred exotic plant and animal species introduced into this country annually. Usually accidentally. So it’s more likely coincidence.”
“Not according to Rolling Stone.”
“Ah. The final word on bio-anomalies and biblical prophecy.”
Tomlinson flipped his hands outward, a gesture that dismissed the sarcasm. “I don’t believe in coincidence, man. Related events, phenomenon, everyone involved—us—there’s linkage. A purpose.”
I said slowly, “Well ... the timing’s interesting.”
“Are piranha found in Africa?”
“No, only South America. And cicadas? They’re in the northeastern United States, I think. Maybe Africa. I’m not sure. I don’t know much about them.”
Tomlinson said, “Females bite little slits in tree branches, then deposit thousands of eggs. Eggs hatch, the nymphs fall to the ground, and burrow deep. Seventeen years later, they hatch en masse. Clouds of flying grasshopper-looking things, a million to an acre. And you’re right, they don’t belong in Southern California. It’s a mystery how they got there.”
“Where in Southern California?”
“San Bernardino County. A couple little towns, Ludlow and Amboy, got the worst of it. I remember their names because, years back, there was a very cool commune nearAmboy where I crashed for a month or two. Called themselves the Rainbow Amish. A very far-out tribe of herbalists.”
I knew the area, too. Near the Mojave Desert, and home to the massive Marine Air Ground Task Force Training base.
“You don’t think there’s a chance they migrated, got caught in a big wind?”
He said, no, entomologists didn’t think that was likely. They believed the insects had been imported. Intentionally or unintentionally, they didn’t know.
I asked, “Then the LSD prophets are guilty. Maybe your commune friends, too. Maybe you—your memory’s so spotty. Make a prediction, then set it up to happen. Truck branches filled with eggs across the country. Political activism in a time capsule.”
“I don’t know, Doc. I think even I would remember smuggling bugs” He mulled it over for a moment. “There could be a connection. Not with me—the toads, the piranha, all the exotics. The Stone runs a story about the LSD prophets, which is read by a bunch of wannabe ecowarriors. It gets them stoked. Mother Earth fighting back. They love the idea, so they start doing the copycat gig. Releasing noxious exotics.”
Tomlinson took a slow breath, sighed, then sighed again. It pained him that his counterculture brethren may have behaved badly.
“How long ago did the story appear?”
“Maybe a year. More—could be. It’s not the sort of magazine where you fixate on dates.”
“Shortly after the locusts start hatching in California?”
“Yep. ‘Is Aquarius Dawning?’ That sort of piece.”
“There’s no room on your boat, so I know you don’t save magazines. If you have time, could you check the Sanibel Library?”
“Sure, dude. Get you acquainted with my fellow Lysergic Rangers. I can see you have a powerful interest.”
Rising out of my chair, I said, “Dude?”
He was chuckling, mood lightened. “I’ve spent the last four days hanging out with East Coast surfers. So, yeah, dude. You shoulda stuck around. The language, their tribal customs—bonfire beer bashes and sexual debauchery—I’ve been adopted. I’m still shredding on the whole gnarly scene. Which reminds me: You need to come look at your present.”
Following him across the room, I said, “Gnarly?” as he pushed open the screen door and stepped into the breezeway.
15
With a Barnum & Bailey sweep of his hand, Tomlinson directed my attention to what stood leaning against the railing. “What do you think? You ever seen anything like it?”
I slid past him and gazed at the most beautiful surfboard I’ve ever seen.
It was a custom long board. Had to be over nine feet. No ... closer to ten. It was built with an outside skin that was a mosaic of alternating wooden strips—red, onyx, and white—all sealed beneath a protective coating of acrylic. On the nose of the board was an airbrush painting of one of the mackerel sharks: a great white. On the tail was an impressionistic American flag.
Tomlinson asked, “Is this thing exceedingly bitchin’, or what? At Vero Beach, when you had trouble catching waves, you should have blamed that shitty rental board instead of yourself. Just like you to take the heat.”
I cupped my hands around the rails, taking pleasure in the board’s convex lines and its symmetry. It had a ceramic gloss, like sculptured porcelain, and a biconical shape that would not have been out of place if spiked into a bluff on Easter Island. The shape was totemic. It was suggestive of ancient stone idols, blood sacrifices.
I lifted the board—amazingly light.
“Your surfing chariot. Like it?”
I said, “It’s gorgeous. Really ... beautiful. What I like most is that it’s not new, right? It’s been refinished. Completely redone.”
“My friend, you have a superb eye for artistry. This is one of the classic old Vector boards, shaped by fellow hipster Dave Hamilton on Melbourne Beach. The inlaid woods are from South America and Africa—caoba, rose, and mahogany. Otherwise, it’s nearly ten feet of full balsa, but chambered for buoyancy. Dave told me he’d built this one with an extra tail rocker, three stringers, and a long panel vee to facilitate rail-to-rail turns—plus, the thinner rails will make it easier for you to keep an edge in the face of a wave. Perfect for a guy your size.”
I said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. It is pretty, though. For someone to put so much time into it, I don’t doubt it rides fine.”
I was noting the O near the nose, just beneath the shark. There was the brand name, Vector, imposed upon a line drawing of a globe. The globe was crosshatched with lines of latitude and longitude. Still admiring the surfboard, I added, “But I can’t accept something like this. It’s so nice, I’d be afraid to take it near the water.”
“Dude, it’s a present. You’ve gotta accept it. And she’s built to ride, not hang on the wall.”
“Why a present? This thing had to cost a mint. What’s the occasion?”
Tomlinson gave a regal wave of dismissal: Don’t be crass by mentioning the cost. “You have a birthday coming up, young man.”
“No ... Actually, it’s way past.”
“So I forgot.”
“No, you didn’t forget. You don’t recall the party? The night the fishing guides went skinny-dipping and scared off that group of nice tourist ladies? You gave me a little bag of marijuana. What you did forget is that I don’t smoke, ever.”
Tomlinson had an index finger pressed to his lips, thinking about it. Then he began to nod. “Ahhh, yes. It’s all coming back. A lid of Maui Wowie, the world’s sweetest, mellowest headbanger kef from Hawaii. I presented you with the classic self-serving birthday surprise. Something that the recipient can’t use but the giver loves. I was trying to spare a potential host—you—from disappointing me, the potential visitor. Just in case I happened to stop by and was in the mood for a little pick-me-up.
“Say”—Tomlinson was looking over my shoulder, through the doorway—“I don’t suppose you have a little bit of that herbal Kahuna goody left? Your birthday treat? It’s going on noon, and I wouldn’t mind a couple of medicinal hits. Just a little something to get me through a meeting I have coming up. It’s with your sister, The Iron Butterfly. That woman has really been busting my Tater Tots lately.”
He meant my cousin, Ransom Gatrell. She’d been raised in the Bahamas, but was now living in a little Cracker house just across the bay on Woodring Point. She’s a sharp, tenacious woman who’d been staying very busy these days running the burgeoning enterprises of Tomlinson, the reluctant business tycoon.
He’d become an unwilling capitalist. Thanks to her.
I told him, “Nope. I dumped the marijuana. Threw it out, minus the plastic bag. Sea turtles eat the things.”
Groaning, Tomlinson’s body spasmed as if he’d been stabbed in the belly. “You threw out an entire lid of Maui Wowie? Maui Wowie? Oh dear, dear heaven ... the waste ... the inhumanity. And I came this close to splitting half a key with you! There really ought to be a law.”
“There is a law. Has to do with drug trafficking. Which is why I dumped the stuff.” I touched my finger to the board’s surface again. “There’s no occasion, no birthday. So what’s the real reason you bought this?”
He shrugged and sniffed as if he had no idea what I was talking about.
“You had your crazy dream again, didn’t you? The nightmare. The last few months, if you do something unusually thoughtful, it’s because you’ve had the dream. I keep telling you, it’s not necessary.”
“It’s my money, Marion. I can do what I want with my money. Just my way of thanking you.”
I said, “It was the dream.”
“How can you be so sure? You won’t let me tell you details.”
“Because I don’t want to hear the details.”
He referred to it as his Death Dream—capital Ds, because of the dramatic way he said it. That’s all I needed to know.
“You’d go off on one of your talking jags. Rattle and prattle on and on about the hidden meaning. No thanks.”
“I don’t rattle, and I almost never prattle,” he said. “I take exception to that. It’s true that I’m prone to expound. But never rattle. If it wasn’t for the dream, I’d of never made that miserable decision to go into business with your sister.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“If I wasn’t sure I was going to die, I wouldn’t have fallen for her trap.”
“Ransom’s trap,”
“You known damn well she conned me. Got me to agree to try and make lots and lots of money. Live like some fat-ass Daddy Warbucks, then blow it on crap that’s useless but establishes social status.”
“I’m aware you decided to change your lifestyle.”
I was expecting him to tell me, once again, that I appeared in the dream. I was the man who used what he described as “a staple gun-looking thing” to shoot him in the heart.
Another reason I didn’t want to hear details.
Tomlinson and I have a convoluted history that goes way, way back. Years ago, before we’d met, a government agency accumulated evidence that a group of underground activists had committed murder. Members of the group were declared a clear and present danger to national security. Agents were sent to track them down.
As Harrington put it, “Our team can do what others can’t.”
I’ve never admitted that I was the agent sent to hunt him, but Tomlinson has hinted that he knows.
It was no surprise I’d appeared in his death dream. He’d been making weird offerings ever since.
I turned toward the house. Swung open the door as he said, “I want to share the wealth, because I have the feeling it’s going to come true. I’m going to die within a few months.”
I looked at him, shaking my head. “No, you’re not.”
“You seem so sure.”
“I am.”
There was subtext in Tomlinson’s inflections. Mine, too.
“Guilt is a patient sword, man. It’s gotta happen.”
“Maybe. But not this year, not the next. Besides”—I paused to look at the board again—“I don’t think you’re guilty. I haven’t for a long time. When the time’s right, we’ll find out for sure.”
When he started to protest, I interrupted. “Tomlinson? Thanks for the surfboard.”
“Pretty cool, huh?”
“Yep. Very gnarly.”
“Doc?” I stared at him, hoping my pained expression would tell him I was done with it. “The only friend you don’t take good care of is yourself, and the only friend I think you’re capable of hurting. I want you to know I’m aware of that.”
“People can consider themselves as friends?” “Lots do. And you should.”
I remembered a blind carney telling me I’d one day take the life of a friend. Suicide? An unlikely new interpretation.
“Thanks. I think.”
The house phone began to ring. I let the door slam behind me, went inside, and checked caller ID.
It was Frieda Matthews on her cell phone.
I listened to Frieda say, “I’m still in Kissimmee, but Bob called a few minutes ago. Guess what a UPS truck just delivered to our house?”
Bob was her husband.
“Something from your brother?”
“His laptop computer. The one missing from his home. In the note, Jobe said to keep the computer until he asked for it back. That’s all. ‘Dear 6-6-4, please keep my computer.’ ”
I waited a couple of seconds. “No mention of why he sent it?”
“No. I had Bob open the laptop and take a look, but our seven-year-old son knows more about computers than my dear, nonconformist hubby. He even refuses to get cable TV”
I said, “There’s another reason why I like the guy.”
“Uh-huh. But he did find a folder on the desktop labeled Tropicane Sugar—slash—EPOC. As in Environmental Protection and Oversight Conservancy. Both names on the same folder.”
“Same organizations Jobe called the night he died.”
“Exactly. I walked Bob through how to use a mouse to double-click on an icon. There was only one document that he could open and read. It was a copy of a contract sent to Jobe as an Acrobat file. Tropicane and EPOC had hired him jointly to collect and test water samples over a two-year period in areas where Tropicane diverts water into the Everglades. If I remember right, diverting water to keep their fields dry is a common practice in the sugar industry.”
I said, “They all do it. Fields would be flooded half the year if they didn’t. But why would a big sugar company hook up with an environmental watchdog group to hire your brother? Organizations like those two, they’re usually at each other’s throats. Unless ... unless the sugar company voluntarily invited EPOC to participate. They’d only do that if they were confident test results would be favorable.”
Frieda said, “That’s what I was thinking. We both know the ecobusiness. Corporate America doesn’t invite independent oversight unless the news is sure to be good.
“Bob read me some of the contract details. Jobe was making decent cash. Basically, his job was to collect water from various areas, test it, then deliver the results independently to both organizations. Contractually, the data sheets were due every Monday morning.
