Also, I wanted to necropsy the snook I had brought back from Useppa.
But that was spare-time work. Sanibel Biological Supply, my small company, presently had an order on the books for two dozen sea horses. Eighteen were to be shipped alive, six were to be dissected, their circulatory and reproductive systems injected with contrasting dye. It would take me a whole day, maybe two, to collect that many sea horses. The dissection work would be precise, tricky, and demanding.
I was looking forward to it.
It was after midnight before I finished in the lab, showered beneath the cold-water rain barrel, then switched off the lights. I padded barefooted across the plank flooring. Found my portable shortwave, a Grundig Satellit, on the table beside the reading chair, then flopped into bed, holding the radio on my stomach. Used the autoscan button to surf the bands, and discovered Radio Vietnam at 7.250 MHz, all programming in English. Drifted off to sleep listening to a woman's silken, accented voice, live from Hanoi, telling me about the noble Communist party's legalization of capitalism, a celebrated event called Doi Moi.
Then I was awake again. . . . Groggy. Confused. The radio was no longer on my stomach. Apparently, I had set it aside when I covered myself with the soft wool navy-issue blanket. Looked at the phosphorus numerals of the alarm clock beside my bed: just after three a.m. Why was I awake?
I had heard something. What? I lifted my head, listening. Lay there motionless for what seemed a long time, all senses straining. Could hear the wind blustering against the windows; once heard the primeval squawk of a night heron. Nothing more. Had just about decided that I'd been dreaming, when I felt the slightest of tremors vibrate through the wooden scaffolding of my house. Then felt another . . . and another. It took me a moment to identify the rhythm . . . then I knew: Someone was coming up the steps.
I turned my head just enough to see the gray scrim of window by the door. Saw the sillhouette of a human head materialize, then grow larger, distorted, as a face pressed against the window. I remained motionless, the face peering in, me staring at the face. The face was unrecognizable; a black smear that was magnified by the glass, its hot breath illustrated by a vaporous fog on the windowpane.
I wondered what those unseen eyes could decipher from my darkened room. Not much, I decided. Wondered if the face was that of a friend ... or a foe ... or some late-night wanderer who, perhaps, thought my stilt house was part of the national wildlife preserve. A taxpayer had the authority to inspect government property any time of the day or night, right?
I waited. Watched the black shape drift across the expanse of window and disappear. Expected to hear a knock at the door; expected to hear the voice of some troubled friend saying, "Sorry to bother you so late, Doc, but I need your help." Boats break down. Boats get stranded. It had happened before.
But there was no knock. Instead, I felt the rhythmic tremor of careful feet on wooden steps. My visitor was returning down the stairs.
I swung out of bed, found my glasses, and went to the window. Saw that my visitor was a man: big, heavyset man in a dark shirt. It was too dark to make out facial features. Watched him stop on the lower platform, glance back at my cottage, then study the sleeping marina—the behavior of someone who doesn't want to be seen. Watched him move along the dock toward the mooring area where I keep my boats. Thought about trying to spook him off by hitting the deck lights. . . decided that would be too kind. He seemed to have burglary on his mind, and I don't share the sympathies of some for the economic quandary of thieves. Yet I didn't want to confront him. Maybe he had a knife. Or a gun. Or a knife and a gun, plus a head full of drugs. It is the unwise citizen who challenges a late-night prowler. That's what cops are for.
Still watching the man, I picked up the phone, planning to dial 911. As I began to dial, I saw him go to my fish tank and lift the lid. Saw him reach down into the tank, as if attempting to find the water pump. My visitor, I decided, wasn't a thief, he was a vandal. In a minute or less, he could destroy the whole circulatory apparatus of a very delicate system that had taken me a lot of very frustrating hours to build.
So much for playing the roll of respectable citizen. I didn't have time to wait for the cops. Furthermore, I no longer wanted to wait for them. Stealing was bad enough, but attempting to damage my aquarium was, in my mind, a hell of a lot worse. This bastard had crossed the line; deserved my personal attention.
I reached for the door, then remembered the squeaky hinges that would telegraph my approach. Instead, I moved the reading chair, then quietly opened the big trapdoor through which the fish merchants had once hoisted crates of fish and blocks of ice. I lowered myself through the floor, grabbed a crossbeam, then hung there suspended above the water, wearing nothing but my glasses and old khaki swim shorts.
My visitor was still hunched over the fish tank.
I grabbed the next crossbeam, and the next, moving hand to hand beneath my house, away from the tank. My house is built of old Florida heart pine. The beams creaked, but not much. It was a noiseless way to move. When I was close enough, I reached out with my legs, got my feet onto the platform, and stood. Turned to make sure the visitor was still on the front deck—he was—then I went belly-down on the dock and slid into the January water. Staying beneath the dock, I sculled my way around the house, then under the main platform. I could hear my visitor above me: the gentle shifting of weight a few inches from my head. I continued onward until I was out from under the platform; then I laced my left arm around a plank in the boardwalk that leads to shore. The water was shallow—only about four feet deep—and I had firm footing on the muck bottom.
I tapped the dock with my knuckles, then snapped my fingers a few times, hoping to get my visitor's attention.
Heard the lid to the fish tank creak closed . . . then silence.
Snapped my fingers twice more. Heard the scuff of shoes on damp wood: my visitor had heard the noise and was coming to investigate.
I stood beneath the dock, knees bent, head back, only my face out of the water, looking up, waiting. Heard a whispered voice say, "Is that you?"
Thought: Who the hell is he talking to?
Snapped my fingers once more, then heard a dull thud above me—my visitor was getting down on his knees—and then watched the dark shape of a head extend out over the dock, looking for the source of the noise, my visitor's face only a foot from mine. There wasn't enough light to see his expression. ... I knew it would take a moment for his brain to interpret what his eyes were seeing . . . lunged up out of the water before he had time to react, grabbed him by the throat and swung him into the water with me.
My visitor's first terrified instinct was to flee—maybe a gator had grabbed him. He came up spitting water, throwing elbows, struggling to get to shore. But I got my legs threaded through his legs so he couldn't move, still had a good grip on his throat, tilted his head back and said into his ear, "Hey . . . hey! Talk to me, you won't get hurt. Fight me, you'll drown."
He decided to fight. Tried to find my eyes with his fingers; elbowed me hard in the ribs... so I took him under. Took him down to the bottom and waited until his movements became panicked, frenzied before allowing him up to take in air.
"Quit fighting!"
More elbows. Then he lunged backward, ramming me into the dock. So I took him under one more time; waited on the bottom with him until the thudding of my eardrums told me my own lungs were empty, then hoisted him back to the surface . . . only to be clubbed hard above the ear by someone behind me. Stupidly, I turned to look . . . and just had time to get my arms up as a man standing on the dock swung at me with a long plank. Took a glancing blow off forearm and head . . . disentangled my legs from those of my visitor and lunged underwater, swimming hard. I wanted to put some distance between myself and the guy with the board.