CHAPTER ONE:
The day I met the Bahamian woman who claimed to be my
sister, and less than an hour before I was shot during the
attempted kidnapping of a diplomat's daughter, my eccentric
friend, Tomlinson, said to me, "Know how desperate I am?
I'm thinking of having Elmer Fudd tattooed on my ass.
Seriously, the cartoon character. You know who I'm talking
about? The chubby guy with the red hunting cap, the one
with the shotgun."
My eccentric, drug-modified friend, Tomlinson.
I was lying in a hammock, leafing through a very old
issue of Copeia, Journal of the American Society of
Ichthyologists and Herpetologists. It contained an article
on Gulf sturgeon, written back in the days when the
occasional sturgeon was still caught in saltwater south of
Tampa Bay. I paused long enough to straighten my glasses
and stare at him. "You're kidding. From the Bugs Bunny
cartoons? Even a regular tattoo, I've never understood the
motivation. Something like you're talking about, I just
can't comprehend."
"I told you about the . . . difficulty I've been
having."
Yes, he had. Over and over he'd told me. Which is why
I thought: Boy oh boy oh boy, here we go again.
"I did tell you, didn't I?"
"Yes, and I don't care to hear any more about your
personal problems. It's sunset. In your own words: The
Mellow Yellow Hour. I'm trying to relax before I change
shoes and run. Don't screw with the molecular harmony -
again, your words."
"I know, I know, but this is serious."
"So you keep saying."
"Anything that concerns Zamboni and the Hat Trick twins
is serious. They're just not their selves, man."
Zamboni and the twins -- my friend's private name for
his private equipment.
He explained, "The inflatable monster has finally turned
all control over to my brain's moral guidance system, which
is like a stone cold downer." He made a fizzling,
whistling sound. "Sooner or later, it happens to every
man, right? . . . Right?"
It was the fourth, maybe fifth time he'd asked me that
question, but when a friend fishes for reassurance, you
must reassure. "Of course. Very few exceptions."
"Okay, so you at least have a minor understanding of
the motive behind the tattoo. Picture it-" Tomlinson
created a frame with his huge, bony hands. "-Elmer Fudd
on the cheek of my ass, aiming his shotgun toward the
shadows and he's saying, 'Come outta there you wascally
wabbit!' Lots of bold color, reds and greens, but
still . . . tasteful. Something that lightens the mood
but also makes a statement."
I was nodding. "Yeah, choose the wrong shades, a tattoo
like that could seem almost frivolous."
"Sarcasm. My equipment hasn't worked dependably in more
than two months, yet my compadre offers sarcasm."
"Only because it's such an ridiculous idea. I still
don't understand the motivation. Or maybe you're just
joking."
We were on the second floor veranda of a tin-roofed
house, eye-level with palm fronds and coconuts. Looking
downward through the palms were clay tennis courts, a
swimming pool, sugar-white beach and bay. Florida's Gulf
Coast has a couple of exclusive, members-only islands.
Guava Key is the one you read about occasionally, always
associated with the very rich and rigorously private. The
island is south of Tampa, north of Naples: A hundred acres
of manicured rain forest and private homes centered around
a turn-of-the-century fishing lodge built on an Indian
mound. It is an island with no roads, no bridges; no cars
and no strip malls, so has the feel of a leafy green raft
at sea. Boat and helicopter access only.
We were on Guava Key as guests of management.
Tomlinson, an ordained Rinzai Zen Master and Buddhist
priest, was there to teach a moneyed few members a course
called "Beginner's Mind" which, I knew from our long
association, has to do with Zen meditation and breathing
techniques. I have no interest in meditation, nor do I
feel the need to take vacations. Life in my little Sanibel
Island stilt house, collecting marine specimens to study
and sell, is sufficiently satisfying. Plus, I tend to fret
about my fish tank and aquaria if I'm gone for more than a
few days. In them are delicate creatures that interest me,
such as immature tarpon, sea anemones and squid.
Fascinating animals that require a lot of care. Even so,
he'd pestered me about tagging along until I finally lost
patience. I told him enough was enough. Unless he came up
with a good and practical reason for me to leave my work
and go to Guava Key, drop the subject, damn it!
I should have learned by now never to refuse one of
Tomlinson's invitations by invoking a preferred
alternative.
He's probably right when he says that I'm obsessive.
I'm almost certainly right in my belief that he's manic.
When the man becomes fixated, nothing can untrack him.
What he did was hunt around until he came up with a
gambit that was professionally compelling and made too much
sense for me to say no. Turned out that the state required
Guava Key Inc. to file periodical fish counts from adjacent
waters, all data to be assembled by an accredited marine
biologist. Something to do with past zoning variances. As
owner and lone employee of Sanibel Biological Supply, I am
an accredited, independent biologist for hire. He'd
contacted management, and management had offered me a
generous figure, all expenses paid for myself and a guest.
Jeth Nicholes had already assured Tomlinson that he and his
girlfriend, Janet Mueller, would keep an eye on my
stilthouse and feed my fish, so I had no choice but to
accept.
Finding an appropriate guest, though, turned out to be
more difficult than you might imagine.
First person I called was Dewey Nye, the former tennis
star. Dewey and I are old friends. For a time, we were on-
again, off-again lovers. On-again, off-again until we both
realized that the chemistry was wrong, quite literally.
Mostly, though, she is my all-time favorite workout
partner. By telephone, we agreed that, after the holiday
season just past, a couple of Spartan weeks on Guava Key
was just what we needed to shed a few pounds and cleanse
the systems.
"Every morning," she told me, "we'll do a long swim,
then a kick ass run. Really push the envelope. Finish
everything at P-squared."
I had to ask. "P-squared? What's P-squared?"
"I keep forgetting what an out-of-touch old hulk you
really are. So I'll be delicate. It's jock for 'Up-chuck
pace'. Only, the first P doesn't stand for up-chuck."
"Ah."
"They've got a health club? So we lift weights heavy
every other day, then limit ourselves to two, maybe three
cocktails in the evening. Our own little basic training
retreat. After New Years in New Jersey-it's been gray and
sleeting for like twenty damn days in a row-after a couple
weeks of this, shut-up indoors with Rita, her poodle and
her aluminum Christmas tree, I'm not sure who or what's
gonna die first: My holiday spirit, or that damn yapping
dog. What I need is a serious dose of Florida heat."
But five days before she was to fly in from Newark,
Dewey's roommate, Rita Santoya, had suffered an all too
familiar bout of jealousy. Latin men are said to be
possessive. It's an unfair generalization, yet Latin
woman, apparently, can be just as bad as their cliché
counterparts. After a series of quarrels, Rita issued an
ultimatum: If Dewey visited me in Florida, there was no
need for her to come back.
As always, Dewey acquiesced.
"Maybe next time, Doc. When Rita feels a little more
secure in our relationship. Don't worry, we'll get
together again."
I told Dewey, anytime, lady, anytime, knowing there
would probably never be a next time.
Male or female, the possessive ones never feel secure.
Nor do their mates.
So I went through the short list: Dr. Kathleen Rhodes,
but she was back in the Yucatan, doing field work. Nora
Chung was available, but now had a romantic interest in a
solicitous, sympathetic physician and didn't want to risk
burdening the relationship so early in the game. Erin
Bostwick was already scheduled to work late shift all month
at Timbers; Sally Baum (formerly Sally Carmel) was in the
process of divorcing the neurotic abuser she'd married, but
didn't feel right about slipping away with me until the
legalities were complete.
She was disappointed. "I've had a crush on you since I
was, what?, eight-years old? Since the days you were
living with your crazy uncle Tucker Gatrell, the dear sweet
man, on that funky little mangrove ranch of his. So now
you call."
Here's one of the ironies of male-female association:
With women of sufficient character and humor, it takes only
a few weeks to forge an intimate relationship, yet their
well-being remains a matter of concern even years after
parting. Their dilemmas still squeeze the heart.
One night, I found myself in my little lab, sitting
beneath the goose-neck lamp, making a list of desperate
last-minute replacement ladies. Thankfully, I caught
myself. I've reached a stage in my life in which the
little social interaction I have is guided by a simple
maxim: I'd rather be alone than with people for whom I feel
no emotional connection. That includes women.
Solitude is much preferred to the more disturbing
isolation of sharing loneliness with a stranger.
I made no more telephone calls.
***
When I told Tomlinson that Dewey'd backed out, he lost
none of his enthusiasm. "You're batching it? Perfect!
Two weeks of island living. Fresh air, fresh fruit plus
lots and lots of cold, clean alcohol. It's just what the
doctor ordered. We'll each have our own cottage, so the
vacation ladies can choose for themselves. With the
problem I've been having, escape may be the only sure
salvation."
Even then he was obsessed with his perceived problem.
Now he was sitting in full lotus position, balanced
strangely on the roof next to the veranda where the hammock
was strung between rafter and rail. We'd been there for
nearly an hour in silence, listening to the ambient bird-
and-breeze sounds of a day so warm, during a winter so
tropical, that jacaranda trees were already flowering
bright as lavender parasails on this late February
afternoon.
"Joking about having Elmer Fudd tattooed on my ass?" he
said. "I wish to hell I were joking. You refuse to hear
the details, even though I've made it clear that I need to
vent. I've got feelings, man. Listening is one of the
things that friends are supposed to do."
"I'm not a psychologist, for God's sake."
"You think I'd waste any more of my time with shrinks?
Hey, let me tell you something, amigo . . . no, let's put
it this way: If psychiatrists gave frequent flier miles,
I'd have my own charter service to Fumbuck Egypt. Half my
shrink friends call ME for advice. The other half worry
about the possibility that I snuck off and slept with their
wives-which I did in way too many cases. People in the
mental health professions? They've got the horniest wives
in town. Not that I'm in a position to help them these
days."
Tomlinson was pulling at his stringy hair, biting it
nervously. I noticed that his hands, which often had a
slight tremor, were shaking more than usual. "It's not a
physical problem. That much I know. The other morning, I
woke-up with a piss hard-on, and the damn thing nearly
knocked the wind out of me when I rolled over too fast. My
problem's spiritual, man. The fucking wheels are coming
off my Dharma-nature and my daishinkon faith is way back on
its heels. I need to talk."
I had no idea what he was saying, but his tone told me
it was serious. I sighed, folded the magazine, and swung
my feet onto the deck. As I did, I had a peripheral
awareness of two young women below, jogging the footpath
southward. One was blond in a heavy blue sports bra and
white tank top. The other was all legs and long chestnut
hair, ponytail swinging like a flag.
I glanced at my watch, even though I knew the time: 5:30
p.m. plus or minus a few minutes, on a Wednesday, seventh
day of February..
Every day for six days straight, an hour before sunset,
I'd watched these two pass beneath our veranda, always
headed the same direction. I'd seen them often enough to
know that the blonde would be on the left, Ponytail to the
right and half-step ahead. Blond was the chatty one with a
cheerleader stride and the bold, dominant voice. Ponytail
was stoic, Tom-boyish, quiet, the apparent subordinate
member.
I'd never exchanged a word with them, yet I knew their
pace and I knew their schedule, just as I knew that half an
hour later, near the island's grass landing strip, I'd see
them once again on the little dock at the end of the nature
boardwalk that trailed through mangroves. The girls would
be standing at the rail in citrious afterglow. They would
watch the sun vanish before turning homeward, offering me
the vaguest nod of greeting as I clomped up onto the dock,
completing my second run of the day.
I am a creature of routine.
So, obviously, were they.
From old habit, though, and having once lived a life
that required necessary wariness, I still practice a very
simple precaution: I always vary my route and my routine.
You never know who might be out there watching, logging
your movements, waiting. I was never officially attached
to any branch of the military, but I endured enough
military training to have certain behaviors stamped so
deeply that they have become part of the autosystem.
More than once when I saw them, that same ambient
awareness noted the rich-girl genetics, knew the wealth
that membership on Guava Key implied, and a secret little
room in my brain sounded warning bells. It was an ancient
alert, warning how easy it would be for a predator to
become aware of these two women, track their movements,
isolate them and take them.
As it turned out, I wasn't the only one who'd
noticed.
There seem to be more and more predators these days.