Felix said, "Three kind of rough-looking dudes. Fancy truck. I'd never seen them before, but they're like Nels's best friends 'cause they're all so drunk. The four of them come staggering up, and who they want to see? You, Doc. They're pissed off, in a mood to fight, and they want to see you. They're asking, 'Where's the goggle-eyed bastard?' " Felix had begun to laugh; was relishing Nels's discomfort. "What Nels had done was, he'd convinced them you're like a spy for the commercial netters, living over here in flats boat territory. A traitor. He was out there flapping his gums, yammy-yammy-yammy, and they all wanted a piece of you—"
"Would you shut up a minute so I can explain it?" Nels was tired of Felix provoking him. "Truth is, I said a lot of things to a lot of people that night. I hate a person who sneaks around and says stuff about someone else, so that's why I'm telling you. I didn't mean what I said. Hell, I can't remember most of the stuff I said. But that night, right or wrong, you just seemed a big part of what happened to my boat."
I said, "You can't remember anything about the guys in the truck?"
"Nope. They were staying on Captiva, so they must have money. All-pro sportfishermen to hear them tell it. I don't think I'd ever seen them before."
"You're sure this was Thursday night, not last night?"
Nels said, "Last night, I was still in bed with a hangover."
"So who patrolled the marina?"
Felix said, "Jeth, supposedly. But probably from his bed."
Nels interrupted. "The point is, I'm not the type to go around back-stabbing friends. You know that." He wiped a leather-dark hand across his wide face. "After Felix got me sobered up a little, we had a long talk about this whole business. Over the years, you've helped us, Doc, and we've helped you. Dinkin's Bay may be a weird-ass family, but it's still a family. The way I see it, we stick together. I don't agree with the way you voted—"
"It was a dumb-shit way to vote," Felix put in cheerfully.
"Yeah, it was. That's what I think. I'll say it to your face, but I'll never say it behind your back again. It's your business how you voted, not mine. And . . ." Nels shrugged. "That's what I wanted to tell you."
I asked, "When you came looking for me Thursday night, did you stop at my place before you pulled into the marina?"
"Yep. That much I remember. But you weren't home. I know you don't lock it, and you showed me where the key is if you do. I just knocked and left."
"The three men were with you?"
Nels thought for a moment. "One or two of them, yeah. But we didn't touch anything."
"You think they live on Captiva, or just visiting?"
"I think they live on the Keys. Marathon? Maybe Marathon." Nels was getting suspicious. "What's that have to do with anything?"
I was tempted to tell Nels that in all probability, his drinking buddies had returned to vandalize my house last night. Gave it some thought before deciding not to. Why add to his guilt? It hadn't been easy for Nels to come to me with his story. Most wouldn't have had the courage. It's easier to allow a friendship to fade away than to suffer the occasional awkwardness it takes to maintain it. And he was right about the importance of allegiances in a tiny community.
Felix said, "What I bet he does remember is getting sick off the dock, barking like a damn dog. I told 'im, 'Nels, just keep puking till something hairy and round comes up—that'll be your asshole.' Told 'im, 'You'll be needing that, so try to catch it before it hits that water.' "
Nels said, "Don't remind me." Tired of talking about it.
So, to seal and bury the subject, I changed the subject. Then, as we were returning to the party, I once again offered Nels and Felix the use of my flats boat. Why miss all those charters?
But Nels said very quickly, "Nope. I couldn't do that. Not now."
Which sealed that subject, too.
Chapter 10
I didn't hear from Tomlinson on Sunday, or on Monday, either. Tried to call him a couple of times. No answer. I didn't receive any more anonymous threats— Tell the hippie to get off'a our island—but that didn't mean that someone on Sulphur Wells wasn't targeting him, just as the sportfishermen from Captiva had targeted me. In any emotional debate, the first casualty is reason. Not that Tomlinson is a reasonable person—I had already warned him once, and there was no cause to believe that a second warning would convince him to return to his sailboat. He would stay on Sulphur Wells as long as he wanted; at least until his karmic mandate was fullfilled.
So, because he might be gone for a while, I hauled his Zodiac up on the deck, and tied it fast near the storage locker where, days earlier, I had already stored his little Yamaha outboard.
On Tuesday morning, I put off my run and swim until later, and I got to work trying the re-create Dr. Breder's and Dr. Shlaifer's tarpon procedure. What the two biologists had done was establish a control group of five immature fish in a small area, and observe how often the fish rolled. Then they charted the behavior in elapsed time, real time, and kept careful notes on how frequently a solitary rolling fish appeared to catalyze the same behavior in the other fish.
I already had my control group of immature tarpon, and I had a contained area—my big fish tank. It wasn't as large as the tiny pond Breder and Shlaifer had created—ironically, they had dug it on what was then Palmetto Key, now Cabbage Key—but the water in my tank was clear. Their pond was not. The clear water would give me the added advantage of being able to identify individual fish. To make it easier, I had already tagged my six fish with tiny color-coded tags.
It was not exciting work, sitting there in the January sun, watching tarpon drift to the surface, breach, then bank off in descent. But the marine sciences are seldom exciting-—unless you happen to be fascinated by the quirks and oddities of animal behavior. Few are; I am.
During a break, I saw Janet Mueller on the docks, and told her what I was doing. She insisted on stopping by to have a look. Within an hour, she had read the Breder-Shlaifer papers, and had a clear grasp of what I was trying to accomplish. Not long after that, she had taken my place in the cane-backed chair beside the tank, and was using the stopwatch, making fastidious notes in a tiny, spidery hand on a log sheet attached to a clipboard.
It is said that the human eye cannot show emotion. That is true in a specific sense, but false in general application. When a person becomes consumed by a project or a thought sequence, it shows in their eyes. The eyes seem to glaze and radiate light at the same time. Janet was consumed by what she was doing, sitting there lost in the world of precise time and the strange behavior of those silver-bright fish. For the first time since I'd met her, she seemed free of her introspective burden, free of whatever it was that had created her expression of chronic shell shock.
The lady was happy in her work, so I went off and let her work. Did my run—four cheerful, bikini-studded miles in which my damaged toe didn't hurt at all, and only bled a little bit. Did a lazy mile swim, and I was only half finished with my daily assault on the pull-up bar, when the phone rang. It was Tomlinson.
I picked the phone up to hear, "Doc? Sorry, brother; sorry I didn't call you back, but I am having one of the most un-damn-believable experiences of my life. I mean, it's like I've been invited to explore the inner sanctum; the workings of a whole, tight traditional society. Seriously."
I said, "You sound serious."
"Oh man, if you only knew."
"You're talking about the commercial fishermen."