A friend of mine once made me stand back and look at a wall map of the United States. "Do you see it?" she kept asking. "Do you see the subliminal message? Students grow up staring at a map just like this." Her theory being that the testicular and penile shape of Florida caused those students, as adults, to suffer a feverish subconscious libido on their Florida vacations. Over the years, I had observed enough tourist behavior to believe that her weird theory had merit. Maybe Farrah was another example. Or maybe hers was a drive more complicated.
Whatever Farrah's reasons, they weren't good enough—that's what I told myself. I had no interest in one-night stands—right? Why intentionally diminish myself—right? Nor did Farrah strike me as the type to engage in that kind of destructive behavior. She had been drinking, I told myself. Her reasoning was fogged—right?
Well. . . right.
Even so, I sat there debating it, wanting to stay, trying to ferret out an acceptable excuse. . . . Then I didn't have to debate or rationalize anymore because Farrah came stumbling, naked, out of the head, a towel clutched in her hands, her face as pale as her milkmaid breasts, saying, "I . . . feel . . . sort'a sick."
Then she was sick. Not just once, either. I helped her as much as I could. Helped her get cleaned up and into bed; then I sat there patting her back, making comforting noises, feeling old and far more chivalrous than I actually am. I also felt relief. . . and a curious sadness, too. Farrah was one of the winners. Her employer had acknowledged that. She had a nice car and nice apartment. She had the dental and medical and retirement plans. She had a fitness program and vacation getaways. She had joined the team, so the corporation was providing for her every need. Lately, I had been meeting more and more team members—but fewer and fewer individuals. It was beginning to worry me.
When her breathing became a steady series of soft poofing sounds, when I could feel the involuntary muscle-twitch of legs and hands, I stood and found a blanket. Covered her from toe to head, tucked her in tight. Leaned to kiss her forehead and, as I turned out the light, said, "Have a good life, lady."
Then, as I snuck out of her stateroom, I nearly collided with what turned out to be Charlie. He was in the process of sneaking out of his stateroom, headed for the main salon to get a snack. I followed him up the companionway, prepared for the chummy locker room winks and nudges that he would offer. Hey, we got laid, buddy! The aloof brunette was none of my business, but I felt an unreasonable animus toward him because of her.
Instead, Charlie said, "These corporate junkets, they can wear you out, you let 'em. Lot of craziness down here in Florida."
I said, "Yeah, Charlie, it's just a crazy mixed-up world."
He seemed a little surprised by my tone, but pressed on. "So what I did this time, I had the wife fly down. Just. . . missed her, I guess. So I called her up, had her book first-class."
Wife?
Charlie was beginning to think me dense. "You didn't meet her? The brunette I was sitting with. My wife!'
I left berating myself for being presumptuous and judgmental and cynical, but heartened that, for some, maybe the world wasn't such a crazy place after all.
Chapter 8
The next morning, late Friday morning, the phone woke me. I was talking into the handset before I was even conscious of being out of bed: "Sanibel Biological Supply."
Silence.
I said, "Hello?"
No reply—but there was someone on the other end, listening to me. I could hear a distant strain of music, an old song: "Everyone's Gone to the Moon."
Was just about to hang up when a gravelly, muffled voice said, "You asshole, you tell the hippie to get the hell off'a our island. He snoops around, we'll cut 'is nose off."
Click.
I stood looking at the phone dumbly, then replaced the handset. Like everyone, I get my share of crank calls. Usually from kids having fun while Mom and Dad are away, dialing randomly, acting tough. But this call had a specific message, and the voice—though obviously disguised—had an edge of crazed intensity that cut to the animal core. I crossed the room, heart beating faster than normal, and checked the clock: 10:17. Very late in the day for an early riser like myself. Even so, I felt as if my body needed a few more hours of sleep. My eyes burned and my head throbbed. I had a hangover that seemed out of proportion to the seven or eight beers I'd had. Felt more like a minor bout of the flu. My stomach was making gaseous rumbling noises. Each rumble produced the residual taste of Hannah's sulfuric tea.
Not a nice way to start the day.
I turned on the stereo and spun the scanner until I heard the last, fading refrain of "Everyone's Gone to the Moon." It was a local FM station. I turned it up a little before lighting the propane stove and putting coffee on. As I did, I made a mental list of people who knew that Tomlinson was on Sulphur Wells. I came up with only two who had an obvious reason to make threatening calls: the mullet fishermen, Julie andJ.D. But why call me? And how could they have gotten my name?
As the coffee perked, I got the phone book and found the listing for Sulphur Wells Fish Company. Dialed the number and, when an unfamiliar voice answered, listened carefully for music playing in the background: Garth Brooks. My station was now playingjohn Lennon.
No match.
I asked, "Is Julie or J.D. around?" The unfamiliar voice said, "Nope, and they ain't gonna be around, neither," and hung up.
I found Raymond Tullock's number, dialed it, and got an answering machine. I found Tullock Seafood Exports in the business pages, dialed the number, and got his answering service. I didn't leave a message.
The only other people I could think of who might have a motive were the marina s two guides, Nels Esterline and Felix Blane—but they couldn't know that Tomlinson had remained on Sulphur Wells. Also, I'd known both men for several years. Angry or not, they weren't the type to make anonymous calls. Even so, I tried their home numbers, listening for music in the background as I told their respective wives, "Sorry, wrong number."
No match.
Finally, I tried to find a listing forjimmy Darroux. There was none. Had to leaf my way through a couple of pages of Smiths before I finally found H. S. Smith, Gumbo Limbo. Dialed it, let it ring and ring before Tomlinson finally answered. He told me he wasjust on his way out—Hannah was in her truck waiting for him. "Can't talk, man! When she wants to go, she goes. Innocence without patience—can you imagine that combination?"
"She's going to have to wait," I said, and I told him about the call I'd gotten.
"Cut my nose off?" Tomlinson said. "Why would anyone want to cut my nose off? I'm not one to brag, but I think I've got a pretty nice nose."
"He was talking metaphorically, for God's sake. It was a threat. Maybe it was a crank, maybe it wasn't. But you need to be careful. Have you been out this morning, met anyone new?"
"Yeah, bunches of people. Hannah s had me all over the island already. I stayed up till three reading her notebooks; then she had me on the road at six, visiting the fish houses. Completely screwed up my meditation schedule. But she said I needed to get to know the place before I start work on her book. I agree. The ambience—you know? Tone? This island has a whole different feel."