I found that interesting, so pressed Tomlinson to expand on it. "Arlis Futch," he said, "is one of the main players. If he gets some cash from Tallahassee, maybe he can convert his fish house into a little marina. If not, he'll go out of business. Mr. Futch is like: Screw it, pay me, don't pay me. What's he care? He's no kid and he owns it free and clear—that's what Hannah told me. That, plus some acreage across the road where he keeps cattle. Another one's this guy, remember the guy we met? Raymond Tullock? He's part of the picture too, trying to pick his shots. Comes on very smooth, you know—'Hey, I'm just here to help out'—but he puts off very bad vibes. Hannah, she doesn't care. Nothing bothers her. Far as she's concerned, Tullock's just another guy who's got a terrible set of the hots for her. And let's face it, man—who doesn't?"
From outside, I heard Janet's voice call, "Doc? There's a man here to see you." She sounded preoccupied—all her concentration still on the tarpon.
Looked out to see Detective Ron Jackson standing on the deck, as Tomlinson rattled on about Hannah shipping Jimmy's remains off to New Orleans—she wouldn't even let him say a few words over the coffin—and how he, mostly, was just keeping the ol' nose to the grindstone. Death of a traditional society. That was the theme.
He was talking about the book again.
I said, "Anything else you want me to do with your boat?"
"What I wanted," he said, "was to sail it up here. But there's not enough water to get a boat that size into Gumbo Limbo. So what I guess I'll do, Hannah's fishing tonight. She won't let me go because I won't help her pick mullet out of the net—no way will I kill a fish. So I told her, she gets down to Dinkin's Bay, you'd have my clothes in a bag, and you'd help her rig a towline for my dinghy. That way, at least, I'll have some transportation."
I resisted the urge to offer to deliver his gear to Gumbo Limbo.
Tomlinson said, "One more thing. About Hannah?"
Detective Jackson was standing on the deck, trying to make conversation with Janet. Janet was being polite about it, but she was also trying to concentrate on the tarpon. "Make it quick," I said.
"Hannah is, like . . . her own woman, man. She thinks of something? She does it."
What the hell did that mean? "So?"
"No restraints, man," he said. "Hear what I'm saying? She won't play the role. It's Hannah's way or the highway. Hell, I hinted at it, and she sat me right down. Made me see I was behaving like a typical male goof. She was right, too."
I said, "Huh?" Was he talking about sex . . . the book . . . what?
"She's free. That's what I'm saying. She'd be pissed if I let you think anything else . . . which is a scene I genuinely choose to avoid. Like, no strings attached."
I said, "Tomlinson, if I'm supposed to understand anything you've said—"
"Can't make it any plainer, man. And, Doc? Don't forget about those fish fillets, okay?"
Jackson was wearing the standard uniform of the five-day-a-week county-salaried detective: inexpensive brown sports coat, dark stay-pressed slacks, and comfortable wing tips. He was so thick and bulky that everything he wore appeared to be a size too small. . . and he was still trying to talk to Janet when I appeared outside. He looked up and fixed me with a thin, formal smile. Said, "Seems like I'm always interrupting your workouts." Meaning my running shorts, Nikes, and sweaty T-shirt. "Are you all done? Or just getting started?"
I said, "Just finishing up."
He seemed disappointed. "Too bad. I brought my running clothes just in case. I was hoping we could maybe go for a jog and have a little chat. You know—mix business with pleasure."
I wondered if he was bluffing. Also wondered why he wanted to waste my time and his with more questioning. I had already told him everything I knew. Looked at him standing there—two hundred or so pounds loaded onto short, stubby legs—and thought about him hanging around my fish house while I tried to shower. Pictured him trying to pass the time with Janet while she was attempting to work. The woman was just sitting there watching fish, couldn't possibly be doing anything important, so why not talk to her?
I shrugged before saying with measured indifference, "I guess a couple more miles wouldn't hurt. If you're serious."
"You feel like it?"
"Go ahead and change your clothes. Use my house."
Jackson went loping off to his car and returned with a gym bag. As he disappeared into the house, Janet said, "Thanks. He was starting to irritate me." As she spoke, she never took her eyes off the fish tank.
I said, "They're interesting animals, aren't they."
"They're . . . gorgeous. Those big silver scales, the way they seem to change color."
"They're mirrors," I said. "A tarpon's scales? So they reflect the color of their environment. Brown sand, brown tarpon. Gray bottom, gray tarpon. See? It's an uncomplicated but effective method of disguise."
"Right. I hadn't even thought of that." One of the tarpon—a red pellet was attached to its tail—drifted to the surface, gracefully breached the water's film of surface tension, then flashed a brilliant silver as it rolled toward the bottom. It was followed by two more fish: yellow and blue.
Janet took up the clipboard and made careful notes.
I said, "Janet, I appreciate you helping out. But I'm starting to feel a little guilty about taking up so much of your time—"
"Don't you dare try to run me off now. I'm just getting to know these fish. That's the—" She lifted the clipboard as if to look, then decided against it. The fish might roll again. "I can't tell you right now, but that's at least the fourth time that Red has been the first to roll. Always followed by one or more of the others. You think that could mean something?"
I said, "I think it's way too early to tell."
"Oh, I know that. But I was just thinking—"
"Never theorize in advance of your data. It can cause you to manipulate your own observations."
She had a pleasant, gusty laugh. "I know, I know—that's exactly what I used to tell my students. My kids, wouldn't they love it if they could see me making the same mistake? I used to take them on all these crazy field trips, all these mini-research projects I'd set up. That was the first rule: Record first, interpret later."
I decided the kids at her small high school had been very lucky students indeed.
Jackson was coming down the steps. He wore black running shorts, no shirt. The man was as hairy as a Kodiak bear. More muscular than I'd suspected too.
I touched Janet's shoulder. "We won't be gone long."
She nodded, her attention already back on the tarpon.
"Nice life," Jackson said to me. "You've got an assistant to do all your work."
I found the familiarity of that grating. I replied, "Actually, Dr. Mueller is my associate, not my assistant." Which caused Janet to roll her eyes and smile. Then, without waiting for Jackson to follow, I walked down the fifty yards of wobbly dock, then charged off.
My plan was childish. If Jackson could catch up with me, fine. And if he did catch up, I'd run his stubby little legs off before he could find breath enough to ask a single question. It was his idea to run and talk at the same time. Mix a little business with pleasure, he had said. I wondered just how much pleasure he'd get out of collapsing like a winded bull.
So I was pushing it. Running at a pace slightly faster than I normally run on my very best day. Trying to put some distance between myself and the pushy detective. When I lost him, when he was so far behind that he had to strain to see me, I would then stop and patiently wait. Let him know that next time—if there had to be a next time—he would be wise to simply question me over the phone.
Less than a minute had passed when, behind me, I heard a heavy crunch of shell, ka-thump-ka-thump-ka-thump, getting closer, growing louder . . . heard the flesh-slap of swinging arms. Heard the comfortable rhythm of controlled breathing. Then saw the bear shape ofjackson out of the corner of my eye. Heard him say, "Mind if we pick up the pace a little?" as he strode past me.