That was bad enough, but I had begun to feel mildly sick ... a little woozy and dazed, probably from lack of sleep. I'd been up since, what? before three? Not that I was sleepy. After four or five glasses of Hannah's strong tea, sleep was out of the question. All that caffeine had my heart pounding; created an unpleasant roaring in my ears.
Every time I stopped to rest, I could hear the murmur of voices. Tomlinson and Hannah were still up on the porch, chattering away.
For some reason, that infuriated me.
Both of them way too involved to lift a finger to help me get my boat ready to run back to Dinkin's Bay. Probably talking about mystic revelations. Karmic spirits. Voices from the grave. Space creatures who inhabited the walking dead and blew up boats. Who the hell knew? Or cared?
Well. . . the two of them were a perfect match. A drug-addled, draft-dodging hippie peacenik and a superstitious, manipulative, domineering twenty-five-year-old sex commando who netted mullet for a living when she wasn't busy marrying any sadistic Hottentot who happened to show up on her porch step, just to qualify for her inheritance.
That's what I was thinking. Mean thoughts to go with the roaring in my ears.
When I had the stern of the boat out deep enough, I plunked the anchor into the water, took two steps toward shore . . . and nearly knocked my toe off on something beneath the surface. I reached down and yanked out what proved to be about a five-pound horse conch shell. Looked at it, shook it at the sky, then threw it savagely out into the bay. Son of a bitch!
Which is when I caught myself. Made myself take a deep breath and review just exactly how I was behaving. Reminded myself that, woozy or not, irrational anger—like jealousy—was the province of the forever adolescent. Stood there in knee-deep water, actually feeling a little drunk because of all that tea.
Thought: That's just the way I'm acting. Like a drunk.
I checked to make sure the anchor was holding, then splish-splashed my way back to the mangroves, toward the road. Saw a silhouette ahead. Realized it was Tomlinson, so I waited for him to come down the path. When he was close enough, I said, "Did you bring my shoes?"
"Got 'em, man."
I took the shoes and began to put them on. "I nearly severed my toe, getting that boat out. Spend an hour listening to Hannah, you feel obligated to walk around barefooted. I should have known better."
"Isn't she something?"
"She's something. I'm just not sure what."
Tomlinson can communicate through the tone of his laughter. The sound he made now was one of understanding . . . but also condescension, which I found irritating as hell. He said, "You don't like her."
"It's not that I dislike her. It's just that I think I see her a bit more objectively than you."
That laugh again. "You know what it is? Hannah and I talked about it. What it is, you and she have the same linear qualities, the same drive to be independent. You and Hannah are both . . . extreme people. See what I mean? In that way, she's like you in a woman's body. Just as smart, too. Which may get into a whole male ego thing . . . but the point is, you are also emotional opposites, man. She's a Gemini, but she's got Leo rising—"
"No more astrology lessons," I said. "Astrology lessons I can do without.
"You're sounding a tad grumpy. Come on . . . let's see a smile. Who's your buddy—?"
"Damn it, Tomlinson, I'm not grumpy Judging from the blood and the swelling, my toe may be broken, but I'm not grumpy."
He remained silent while I finished tying my shoes. Then: "You felt it, didn't you? That's what's troubling you. The lady has some very serious juice, and you felt it. When she'd touch me, it was like . . . zap."
"Nope. No zaps."
"Like electric. I could feel it in her hands, man, her fingertips. A higher level of consciousness. And her lips—my God."
I stood abruptly. "Her lips? What the hell were you two doing up on that porch—?" I stopped myself I didn't want to hear it. Used my hands to wave him along, and said, "Get in the boat. The tide's so low we'll have to run the channel all the way back to Dinkin's Bay. Which will take two hours, unless I stop at Cabbage Key for a beer. Which I plan to do."
"On a Thursday night? You're the one keeps reminding me you don't drink—"
"They're my rules. I can break them when I want." I turned toward the bay, took a few steps before I realized that he wasn't following along. "You forget something?"
"Well . . . see, Doc, it's like this—"
"Nope, I'm not waiting. You want to talk to her, call her on the phone. Or drive over. You've fulfilled your karmic obligation ... or the directive from Mars—whatever it was. I'm leaving."
"Yeah, well, I think I'm going to stay."
"You mean . . . stay here. Gumbo Limbo."
"She asked me. I said yes." He was stroking his goatee, pleased with himself.
"Sleep in her house."
"We've got so much to discuss, man. All these avenues to explore. Meeting Hannah has been . . .just the impact of it. Jesus. She wants to learn sitting meditation. Do a sort of zazenkai, just her and me . . . only as an ordained monk, her Roshi, I have to give serious thought to the moral limitations that would put on our relationship. Then there's this book she wants to write. It could be an important historical document."
I started walking toward my boat.
"Doc—before you go."
I turned.
"Can I ask you something?" Tomlinson stepped close to me, very close. For an uncomfortable moment, I thought he was going to give me a brotherly hug. Instead, he said, "Can I borrow maybe ten bucks? Or a fin? If we go out for breakfast, I'd like to at least offer to pay—"
I took out my wallet, handed him a twenty. As I did, I heard familiar bell notes of amusement; then a woman's voice called, "I'll stick him in my boat and bring him home. Don't you worry, Ford." Looked up to see Hannah standing in an orb of streetlight, the long, lean shape of her, hands on her hips, pelvis canted to the left like a bus stop floozie, loose blouse and black hair catching the sea breeze.
I got in my boat and headed out the channel.
Chapter 6
Normally, I enjoy running a boat at night. I like being out there alone in the darkness, suspended above the water, going fast. Like gauging my progress by the shapes of islands, by the positions of distant lights. Like the way the wind washes past, a force so steady that, at times, it seems as if my boat is being held motionless by a jet stream of black air.
It's nice and private: dark water, bright stars. But I didn't enjoy the long run back to Sanibel. I was preoccupied. My mind kept wandering. It had plenty of opportunity to wander. Running the Intercoastal Waterway is like running a well-marked ditch. You leapfrog from flashing light to flashing light, from a red to a white, from a flashing white to a red or green. The lights become hypnotic and soon reduce the brain to little more than a dependable autopilot.
So it wasn't as if navigation required a lot of thought.
What I was thinking about, and what I couldn't seem to stop thinking about, was Hannah Smith. I'd lied to Tomlinson—of course I'd been affected by her. Not on some fanciful telepathic level, but on a marrow-deep physical level. Powerful people are attractive people. The whole process of natural selection is based on the allure of strength. For a species to remain successful, the best genes must be passed on. The gauge is always emblematic: the largest horns, the loudest mating cry, the brightest display of plumage, the lushest body, the biggest bank account. But there are other indicators of power: self-confidence, intellect, humor, independence. Combine these characteristics with long legs, lean hips, and heavy country-girl breasts, and you are dealing with a powerful woman indeed.