I explained to her that the trip wasn’t recreational, it was family business, and that we’d go another time. We talked for a little while before I asked her if she knew where her dad was.
She said, “He’s in Virginia. He’ll be back in D.C. tomorrow,” then I listened to her tell me about the skiing, how damn cold and boring it was up there when she wasn’t on the slope, and that she wished she had my bear paws to warm her, or was back in Florida, lying in the sun on some deserted beach alone with me.
Then she told me she had to run, Big Ben and Little Ben, her bodyguards, were outside in the Range Rover, waiting to take her back to the lifts. The two of them were a hoot, especially Big Ben.
I said, “I’ll call you in the morning before I leave Dinkin’s Bay,” making doubly certain she was clear about my schedule.
Twenty minutes later, I was inside South Trust Bank on Periwinkle. I made it just before they closed.
I found one of the managers, signed the log sheet, then went into the little room where she opened my safety-deposit box and handed me an old leather attache case, which I didn’t open until I was back in the lab.
Crunch amp; Des lay in the window watching me with disinterest as I opened the attache case and looked inside to make sure everything was there. I saw one folder labeled OPERATION PHOENIX and another with the words DIRECCION: BLANCA MANAGUA written on a label in red felt-tip pen, plus several others.
I returned all the folders to the leather case and put it in a garbage bag to keep it dry. Then I made myself busy readying my skiff for a long trip. I packed the starboard locker with water, ice, Diet Coke, and beer.
I packed the port locker with canned beans, corned beef, and a couple of tinned hams-enough food for several days, plus my stout Loomis bait-casting rod with a fine old ABU reel loaded with twenty-pound test. I carry it for stopping big-shouldered fish around mangroves when I need to put food on the table.
I didn’t know how long I’d be gone. I doubted if it would be more than two days, but I had no way of knowing for certain.
There is a saying I remembered from a month spent in Burma working with The King’s Own Gurkha Rifles: To catch a tiger, you must understand the behavior of goats.
After packing tent, mosquito netting, jungle boots, Navy issue crewneck sweater, watch cap, and miscellaneous camping gear, I reloaded Tucker’s old Smith amp; Wesson and placed it beneath the boat’s console beside my Sig Sauer.
Even though I hadn’t shot one in years, I’d have much preferred to have a rifle-something big bore with a first-rate scope.
I’d already spoken with Ransom. She’d seemed bubbly, almost giggly. She told me about their visit to the Koreshan Unity. Something Tuck never anticipated had happened: The place had become a state park, completely fenced in with a guard gate, so she’d had to distract the nice, handsome ranger man while Tomlinson slipped into the Music Hall and found the hidden papers, right where Tuck had said.
Interesting papers, which she described. There were personal notes and letters, all to Tucker, from enthusiastic fishermen and hunters he’d guided and introduced to Florida’s backcountry. The letters were signed by men such as Harry Truman, Dwight D. Eisenhower, Charles Lindbergh, Dick Pope, and Walt Disney. There were lots of photographs, too-all signed.
“Mr. Tommy, he tol’ me some of these papers might be worth more than our coins. Not that we’d want to sell them, ’course. I’m just pointing out how Daddy Gatrell thought of his daughter and took care of her.”
She also told me, if I didn’t mind, that she and Mr. Tommy had gotten a room at the Naples Hilton to celebrate. He’d been telling her about something called a massage, an herbal wrap, and a facial, womanly things she’d never heard of but wanted to try because, at her age, she said she wanted to try everything she could while she could.
She added, “If you not leaving for Shark River ’til tomorrow morning, why don’t you pull in here and pick us up? Mr. Tommy, he say Naples is right on your way. I don’t want you to make that trip alone, Doc. I got me a very bad feeling about what it is you doing. I touch my gris-gris bag, I touch my beads, and I get the really strong feeling someone gonna die.”
I told her that I wasn’t going to die no matter what her beads said-a subtle avoidance that she didn’t catch-and to please put Mr. Tommy on the phone.
After a moment, I heard Tomlinson’s voice say, “Doc? Wait ’til you see what it was the old bastard left for you two at the Koreshan Unity. These amazing letters and pictures. A handwritten letter from Lindbergh inviting Tuck to visit him in Hawaii. A letter from Walt Disney thanking Tuck for a great day fishing and his advice about where to build in Florida. There’s this other letter-you won’t believe who wrote it. This other letter-”
I said, “Hold it; be quiet for a second.” Tomlinson was talking about one thing, but the nervous quality of his voice told me he was thinking about something else, which is why I cut him off. I said, “Tomlinson? Tell me something. Are you planning on sleeping in the same room with Ransom tonight?”
“Well, because of the prices and all; it’s tourist season, you know… and we are at the Hilton. It was all kind of Ransom’s idea because she wanted to be closer to Mango so we can stop back there in the morning and really take a look around. She’s considering moving into Tuck’s old place-can you dig that?-which is why I thought-”
Yep, he was nervous alright.
I interrupted again. “Please, please… spare me, okay? I know what’s going on in that twisted and lecherous brain of yours. How many times have you told me that you’d never met an attractive woman in your life without immediately calculating the best way to get her into bed. Which is why you’re not-repeat, are not -sleeping with Ransom tonight, damn it.”
“Hey, amigo, as we both know, my you-know-what doesn’t work worth a you-know-what-”
“I don’t care about that. It’s just not right.”
Heard Tomlinson say, “Ransom? Would you excuse me for a moment?” Then, after a short pause, “Doc, I need to remind you of a couple of things. Ransom’s a grown woman-a lot older than some of the women you date, by the way. She’s been married and divorced. She’s a mother. Call me a hopeless bleeding heart feminist, but I think she’s capable of making her own decisions about who she sleeps with.”
“Absolutely not. The only reason you’re interested in her is because of the way she looks, that body of hers, and because you’re hoping she knows some kind of island spell, Obeah I’m talking about, that’ll make your equipment work. Which is bullshit, and I don’t want her to be a part of something like that.”
“Am I really hearing this?”
“You bet you are.”
“I don’t get it. Yeah, Ransom’s spectacular, but not just because she’s great-looking, man. It’s because of her age, her personality. It’s the whole far-out package. There’s like this truly karmic gig going on between us, not the least of which is that we’re both worried shitless about you. About what the hell kind of crazy, dangerous thing you are up to now.”
“I’m not going to listen to this, Tomlinson. You two are not sleeping together. You just met! End of story.”
“But why?”
“It’s not obvious? I don’t want you to sleep with her, damn it all, Tomlinson, because she’s my-” I caught myself. I’d almost said because she was my sister. Instead, I said, “Because she’s a blood relative, and the potential for complications is just too great. It would be like dating someone from the marina. And we both agree about the dangers of that.”
“I’m sorry, I really am, Doc, but no promises,” he said. “I just can’t. The attraction’s too strong, man. Very heavy vibes, which I think she feels, too. Ransom’s one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met; that’s just the way it is. But I’ll let you know.”
Which really infuriated me.
After I hung up, I worked around the lab. I got everything I could packaged and mailed off.