Yet the man was also easily manipulated.
A Tomlinson quote: “I’m prone to exaggerate when I’m sober.”
Accurate. It was also unsettling if he had information that should not be shared.
My home on Dinkin’s Bay is a pair of weathered gray cottages on stilts fifty yards from shore. Tomlinson secures his sailboat, No Mas, on nearby moorings. When his mood is monastic or he’s dodging a jealous husband, Tomlinson anchors far from the marina. Usually, though, No Mas sits just beyond the channel within hailing distance of my porch.
I was looking for the boat’s sun-bleached hull as I made my way through the mangroves, walking quietly on the boardwalk that leads to my home and lab. I’ve installed a gate at the water’s edge to discourage unwelcome visitors. One of the fishing guides made the sign that hangs there: SANIBEL BIOLOGICAL SUPPLY MARINE RESEARCH STATION
The sign is hand-routed teak. Much nicer than the plywood tag some comedian or activist had nailed beneath: KILL IT amp; STUDY IT-THE WHITE MAN’S WAY
I disengaged the alarm system, closed the gate and could soon see Tomlinson’s boat, moored where it was supposed to be.
As I walked toward the house, I thought about the surest way of surprising the man. I could borrow a canoe. Or swim?
No, stealth wasn’t necessary. I wasn’t going to accuse him. My e-mail about Tenth Man might, hopefully, key the retrieval of similar code names from his unconscious, which then would be left to ferment in his short-term memory. I wanted Tomlinson’s unedited reaction, then maybe a brief talk before I collected my gear, got another taxi and headed back to the airport.
As I approached the house, though, a voice called, “Hey, compadre! Didn’t think you’d get here for another hour. Delta added a new direct from Newark?”
I stopped at the stairs. Tomlinson was on the upper deck on a beach chair in the sun using two pie pans as reflectors, holding them near his face.
So much for surprising him.
As I climbed the stairs, I said, “I chartered a private jet,” expecting him to laugh and he did. I stowed my computer and satchel in the lab, then stepped outside. “You were expecting me?”
Tomlinson didn’t open his eyes, but he moved the pie pans enough so I could see his face: stringy bleached hair hanging over one shoulder, bikini underwear, bony toes visible over the rims of his Birkenstocks.
He said, “I was expecting you or the cops. Maybe both. I spent most the night in the lab waiting. Think I ought to get dressed?”
I was thinking, Cops because of the abduction?, but knew better than to rush to assumptions with Tomlinson. I said, “This is possibly a new record. Four seconds and you’ve already confused me.”
“Kidnapping and murder, man. Don’t kid a kidder. Cops still make house calls for that sort of thing… don’t they?”
“I’ve heard the rumor.”
“Good. I neatened up the place just in case.”
I stepped closer. “You’re admitting it?”
“Why shouldn’t I admit it? The house was a mess-well, a little messy after some tourist ladies stopped by last night for refreshments
…”
“Not that,” I said, “the kidnapping. You’re telling me you were involved? The driver was stabbed to death, for godsakes.”
Tomlinson opened his eyes. “Huh?”
“Isn’t that what you’re talking about? Now you’re lying around, soaking up rays, while you wait to be arrested for an abduction that-”
“Arrest me?” He sat up. “Marion Ford, are you high? They’re not gonna arrest me. I keep an emergency stash in the lab over one of the rafters. Just because you never found it doesn’t mean the pigs won’t. Now it’s gone-that’s all I meant.”
Stash. Even after all the years I’ve known the man, my brain took a moment to translate. Drugs. Marijuana for sure, and God knows what else.
He said, “Not that there was much left after the tourist ladies visited. But what there was, I took and put in a nice safe place. So the cops won’t pin it on you when they show up with a search warrant.” He looked at the sky, recalculating the sun’s angle, then moved the beach lounger a few inches, his dreamy expression telling me the women tourists were a lot of fun, I should’ve been there.
“Search warrant,” I said, trying to be patient. “We’re not all telepathic, Tomlinson. A lot of people might expect, you know, some sort of explanation. The reason you think the police are coming to search my place.”
He lay back in the chair, looking at me. “You know what I’m talking about.
You’re the one they’re gonna arrest, not me. Marion, the kimchee is about to hit the fan. You don’t think I know who killed that mutant?”
Mutant -Tomlinson’s nickname for Bern Heller.
I thought, Uh-oh.
He said, “That’s why I came to get rid of evidence. A murder charge will cause some gossip, no doubt. But Doc Ford taking a fall for drug possession? Your whole image would be screwed. Next stop, Freaksville. Once again, marijuana will get a bum wrap for being a gateway drug.”
The man made a weary sound, getting serious. “You used to claim Tucker Gatrell was the twisted seed in your family. But this thing you’ve got for killing bad guys-whew, Doc, it’s risky karma all around. I’m starting to feel like the loyal sidekick, a Caucasoid Joe Egret. Not as noble, but much hipper of course.”
“Oh, for sure,” I agreed.
He was referring to an Everglades legend, also a friend. Joseph Egret had been devoted to my crazed uncle and had a strong influence on me when I was a kid. Both men were dead now. The state had given special permission to bury Joe in a Calusa Indian mound in the ’Glades. The mounds had been built by contemporaries of the Maya, a tribe that predated the Seminoles by several thousand years.
“Joseph Egret,” Tomlinson added, “that’s exactly who came into my mind as I neatened up after the recent homicide. I’ll stick by you, Doctor, but, man, you’ve got a demon in that noggin of yours that psychotropics just might help. Seriously.”
Never rush to assumptions with Tomlinson. Abso-damn-lutely right. Staying quiet was the way to deal with this.
If I didn’t play it right, instead of looking for the kid I’d end up like him: a prisoner, or worse.
10
When the black Chrysler skidded into the driveway, Will Chaser gave up pounding on the farmer’s door and sprinted toward the barn. Tried to anyway. The broken rib was like a razor in his chest.
Headlights swept across him. He heard a door open and the Cuban with the freaky horn hollered, “Stop, you little goat turd!” But the smaller man, the one with metallic eyes, was smart. He yelled in pretty good English, “Your parents are worried! We want to help you.”
Already explaining why they were chasing him in case someone in the house was listening.
Adults could say anything. Tell another adult that a kid was a runaway or the cops wanted him for stealing a horse or selling pot, they would believe it. Didn’t matter a goddamn what a kid said, adults listened to adults. Will had lived it.
Fact was, he was screwed either way. If the Cubans didn’t catch him, cops could jail him after contacting Minneapolis. Police there had a couple of reasons to lock him up, particularly if they’d discovered why his ninth-grade English teacher, Mrs. Thinglestadt, had written the award-winning essay that got him into this mess to begin with.
“You’re blackmailing me!” she had complained to Will.
“Laws about buying weed and screwing students got nothing to do with asking a little favor,” he’d replied.
What if the good-looking older woman had squealed?
Will popped the barn-door latch, stepped into the warm odor of hay, leather, horses, and then banged the dead bolt solid. Security lights outside were bright enough for him to know he was in the fanciest stable he’d ever seen. A dozen stalls, polished hardwood everywhere, doors with brass bars and carved name placards for each horse. Bricks on the floor were soft, like rubber. Glass chandeliers were suspended from a beam that ran the length of the barn. Like a whorehouse for purebreds.