Captiva

I accelerated until I was even with him, then fell into step.

"Nice day for a little jog," he said.

"Not too hot, not too cold," I replied, fighting to restrain my breathing; keeping my voice nonchalant.

"No humidity," Jackson said. "Humidity, that's what kills you."

"Yeah, humidity's the worst."

"But now—like Arizona. Great place to run, Sanibel."

"A day like this," I said, "it's perfect."

"Good surface, too." He was talking about the bicycle path. We were headed northwest toward Captiva. Coconut palms and oaks; egrets spooking—everything moving past in a blur. He said, "Makes me want to stretch it out a little bit."

"Stretch it out all you want," I told him, hoping like hell he wouldn't— but he did.

That's the way it went for the next three miles or so. Ran way too far, way too fast, each of us pushing the other. We didn't talk. I didn't have air enough to speak, and my throat was too dry had I tried. I had the strong impression that it was equally painful for Jackson, but the stubborn little bastard wouldn't quit. And just when I was beginning to wonder which would fail first, my lungs or my courage, Jackson said in a raspy wheezing voice, "So it's kind'a like the tree-falling-in-a-forest deal. If we both keep this up, will anyone be around to hear our hearts explode?"

I broke stride, laughing. Began to walk in a slow circle, hands clasped and overhead, sucking in air. Jackson was doing the same. After a minute or two, when I was able, I said, "Uncle. You win."

He grinned. "Bullshit. I can't even remember the last quarter-mile or so. I died way back there."

"Nope. That was a stupid kid's stunt I pulled. You gave me exactly what I deserved."

"You?" He seemed honestly perplexed. "It was me. I was trying to run you into the ground. Soften you up a little so we could talk. I mean, no offense, but you don't exactly look like a runner. I figured you for a nine-minute-mile guy. The way you're built. One of those 'Oooh, look at the birds' or 'Oooh, aren't those flowers pretty?' types."

I said wryly, "And you're such a wispy little bit of a thing. Lucky for me I'm not the kind to judge people by their body types."

Jackson was nonplussed, wearing an expression that read, Damn. He said, "Three years playing defensive back at Maryland, four years in the Marines, and very few people ever stuck me like you just stuck me, Ford." He placed hands on hips, bent deeply at the waist, sucked in a little more air before extending his right hand. "So call me Ron from now on."

"Okay . . . Ron." I took his hand. "But tell me one thing: Why soften me up before talking? What's the point? I've told you everything I know."

"I don't doubt it. But I've got a problem." He had begun to walk along the bike path, back toward Dinkin's Bay. "The problem is, I drove up to Sulphur Wells yesterday. About my sixth time just for this case, trying to talk to people, make a few contacts. What do I find? I find your buddy Tomlinson. The guy never called me for an interview, by the way. So I spent half an hour or so talking to him there. He's kind of an . . . unusual person."

"Unusual" wasn't strong enough—Tomlinson, the dope fiend, had just spent ten minutes with me on the phone, pondering everything but the air quality on Sulphur Wells, but he couldn't take the time to tell me he had been questioned by the police?

"I have to admit," Jackson said, "the connection kind of surprised me. Jimmy Darroux's widow, your buddy. Knock on the door and there they are. Less than a week after the husband gets fried at your marina. Mrs. Darroux is a real looker, your buddy's there smiling at me. But kind of nervous. Both of them living there under the same roof."

I stopped. "All cops make Tomlinson nervous. I think he took one too many shots to the head back in the sixties. He was the draft card-burning, protester type. So if you're still thinking that I or Tomlinson had anything to do with the explosion last Thursday—"

He made an impatient hushing motion with his hand. "Relax. Don't be so damn touchy. If I thought either one of you had anything to do with it, you wouldn't see me until I had the cuffs ready. No—it's kind'a strange, you can't argue that. That's all I'm saying. Your buddy and the widow. If I hadn't already checked both of you out pretty closely, I might come to a different conclusion. But I did, so that's not the problem. It's something else. I figure, maybe you can help me with it, maybe you can't."

I began to walk with him again. Said, "So tell me about your problem, Ron."

Ron Jackson's problem was that residents on Sulphur Wells wouldn't talk to him. Weren't being very helpful at all. Not just the people of Gumbo Limbo, either. Same was true of the island's other small settlements: Barrancas, Key Lime, Rancho, and Curlew.

The Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco, and Firearms was assisting in the investigation, Jackson told me. Which meant the A.T.F. would do the lab work, all the intricate, complicated tracing of evidence, while he and one other detective did the local legwork. But after half a dozen trips to the island, Jackson had yet to assemble much more than was already in Jimmy Darroux's police file.

"It's getting embarrassing," he said. Judging from the rueful tone of his voice, he meant it.

One of the reasons the job was so tough, he said, was that his department didn't have a single cop who had roots on the island. There were a couple who lived on Sulphur Wells, yes. One had grown up there. But none were from the commercial fishing community. Because of that, he said, the normal sources for gathering information weren't there to cultivate.

We were still walking along the bike path. I did most of the listening; he was doing most of the talking, explaining how it was. "I told you I once worked in D.C.? You go into one of the projects there, one of the housing slums, it was like that. Code of silence. Never tell the cops anything. In a way, I didn't blame them. They're practically living under siege. Nothing much good had ever come from the outside, so why help? I'm starting to think it's the same sort of thing on Sulphur Wells."

I was thinking: Is he telling me this for a reason? But I said, "Could be some similarities. The fishermen have spent the last couple of years under attack. The attacks have come from some sophisticated sources; sources they were never equipped to deal with. The state government, newspapers, regional publications. Probably people who live on their own island. Not everyone's a commercial fisherman up there. They've got a few retirees, a few businesspeople. People who probably see themselves as sportfishermen. They got it from all sides. That would make anyone defensive."

"See?" Jackson said. "Already you're helping me get things clearer in my own mind."

I thought: Quid pro quo; you'd better give me an explanation in trade. But I said, "There's an additional element you wouldn't find in the projects. A reason they probably don't want to talk to you. The commercial fishing community can't afford any more bad publicity. One of their outlaws torched some boats and was killed in the process. There's a good reason they want it to stop right there." I explained to him about the injunction the commercial fishermen had filed, and about the economic relief they were soliciting from the state. Then I said, "The point of your investigation is to find out who helped Jimmy Darroux build a bomb, right? So you can add some more commercial fishermen to the list. More bad publicity. Or else you wouldn't be talking to me."

Jackson became noncommittal. Evasion is always couched as innocence. "I'm just trying to collect what I can, see where it takes me. Hell, I don't know much more than you do, Ford."