In all other respects, this novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author would also like to thank the following people for research assistance and for providing valuable contributions to this novel: Captain Peter Hull and Dr. John M. Miller of Mote Marine Laboratories; Craig Watson, director of the Tropical Aquaculture Laboratory for the University of Florida, Department of Fisheries and Aquatic Sciences; Ms. Jessica Lewis of Panama; Ms. Sue Williams; Ms. Sara Weber Rea for her help with the Koreshan Unity; Dr. G. B. Edwards of the Florida Museum of Natural History; Dr. Thaddeus Kostrubala, M.D., for insights into the brain’s chemistry and effect on human behavior; Debra White for her unfailing support; and Ms. Laura Cifelli at Lee County Library. These people provided both guidance and information. All errors, exaggerations, omissions, or fictionalizations are entirely the responsibility of the author.
Randy Wayne White
Cypress House
Key West
1
T
he day I met the Bahamian woman who claimed to be my sister, and less than an hour before I was shot during the attempted kidnapping of a diplomat’s daughter, my eccentric friend Tomlinson said to me, “Know how desperate I am? I’m thinking of having Elmer Fudd tattooed on my ass. Seriously, the cartoon character. You know who I’m talking about? The chubby guy with the red hunting cap, the one with the shotgun.”
My eccentric, drug-modified friend Tomlinson.
I was lying in a hammock, leafing through a very old issue of
Copeia, Journal of the American Society of Ichthyologists and Herpetologists.
It contained an article on Gulf sturgeon, written back in the days when the occasional sturgeon was still caught in saltwater south of Tampa Bay. I paused long enough to straighten my glasses and stare at him. “You’re kidding. From the Bugs Bunny cartoons? Even a regular tattoo, I’ve never understood the motivation. Something like you’re talking about, I just can’t comprehend.”
“I told you about the . . . difficulty I’ve been having.”
Yes, he had. Over and over he’d told me. Which is why I thought:
Boy oh boy oh boy, here we go again.
“I
did
tell you, didn’t I?”
“Yes, and I don’t care to hear any more about your personal problems. It’s sunset. In your own words: The Mellow Yellow Hour. I’m trying to relax before I change shoes and run. Don’t screw with the molecular harmony—again, your words.”
“I know, I know, but this is serious.”
“So you keep saying.”
“
Anything
that concerns Zamboni and the Hat Trick Twins is serious. They’re just not theirselves, man.”
Zamboni and the Twins—my friend’s private name for his private equipment.
He explained, “The inflatable monster has finally turned all control over to my brain’s moral guidance system, which is like a stone cold downer.” He made a fizzling, whistling sound. “Sooner or later, it happens to every man, right? . . .
Right?
”
It was the fourth, maybe fifth time he’d asked me that question, but when a friend fishes for reassurance, you must reassure. “Of course. Very few exceptions.”
“Okay, so you at least have a minor understanding of the motive behind the tattoo. Picture it”—Tomlinson created a frame with his huge, bony hands—“Elmer Fudd on the cheek of my ass, aiming his shotgun toward the shadows, and he’s saying, ‘Come outta there you wascally wabbit!’ Lots of bold color, reds and greens, but still...
tasteful.
Something that lightens the mood but also makes a statement.”
I was nodding. “Yeah, choose the wrong shades, a tattoo like that could seem almost frivolous.”
“Sarcasm. My equipment hasn’t worked dependably in more than two months, yet my
compadre
offers sarcasm.”
“Only because it’s such a ridiculous idea. I still don’t understand the motivation. Or maybe you’re just joking.”
We were on the second-floor veranda of a tin-roofed house, eye level with palm fronds and coconuts. Looking downward through the palms, we could see clay tennis courts, a swimming pool, sugar-white beach, and bay. Florida’s Gulf Coast has a couple of exclusive, members-only islands. Guava Key is the one you read about occasionally, always associated with the very rich and rigorously private. The island is south of Tampa, north of Naples: a hundred acres of manicured rainforest and private homes centered on a turn-of-the-century fishing lodge built on an Indian mound. It is an island with no roads, no bridges, no cars, and no strip malls, so it has the feel of a solid green raft at sea—boat and helicopter access only.
We were on Guava Key as guests of management. Tomlinson, an ordained Rinzai Zen Master and Buddhist priest, was there to teach a moneyed few members a course called “Beginner’s Mind,” which, I knew from our long association, has to do with Zen meditation and breathing techniques. I have no interest in meditation, nor do I feel the need to take vacations. Life in my little Sanibel Island stilthouse, collecting marine specimens to study and sell, is sufficiently satisfying. Plus, I tend to fret about my fish tank and aquaria if I’m gone for more than a few days. In them are delicate creatures that interest me, such as immature tarpon, sea anemones, and squid—fascinating animals that require a lot of care. Even so, he’d pestered me about tagging along until I finally lost patience. I told him enough was enough. Unless he came up with a good and practical reason for me to leave my work and go to Guava Key, drop the subject, damn it!
I should have learned by now never to refuse one of Tomlinson’s invitations by invoking a preferred alternative. He’s probably right when he says that I’m obsessive. I’m almost certainly right in my belief that he’s manic. When the man becomes fixated, nothing can untrack him.
What he did was hunt around until he came up with a gambit that was professionally compelling and made too much sense for me to say no. It turned out that the state required Guava Key Inc. to file periodic fish counts from adjacent waters, all data to be assembled by an accredited marine biologist—something to do with past zoning variances. As owner and lone employee of Sanibel Biological Supply, I am an accredited, independent biologist for hire. He’d contacted management, and management had offered me a generous figure, all expenses paid, for myself and a guest. Jeth Nicholes had already assured Tomlinson that he and his girlfriend, Janet Mueller, would keep an eye on my stilthouse and feed my fish, so I had no choice but to accept.
Finding an appropriate guest, though, turned out to be more difficult than you might imagine.
The first person I called was Dewey Nye, the former tennis star. Dewey and I are old friends. For a time, we were on-again, off-again lovers. On-again, off-again until we both realized that the chemistry was wrong, quite literally. Mostly, though, she is my all-time favorite workout partner. By telephone, we agreed that, after the holiday season just past, a couple of Spartan weeks on Guava Key was just what we needed to shed a few pounds and cleanse our systems.
“Every morning,” she told me, “we’ll do a long swim, then a kickass run. Really push the envelope. Finish everything at P-squared.”
I had to ask. “P-squared? What’s P-squared?”
“I keep forgetting what an out-of-touch old hulk you really are. So I’ll be delicate. It’s jock for ‘Upchuck pace.’ Only, the first P doesn’t stand for upchuck.”
“Ah.”
“They’ve got a health club? So we lift weights heavy every other day, then limit ourselves to two, maybe three cocktails in the evening. Our own little basic training retreat. After New Year’s in New Jersey—it’s been gray and sleeting for like twenty damn days in a row—after a couple weeks of this, shut up indoors with Rita, her poodle and her aluminum Christmas tree, I’m not sure who or what’s gonna die first: my holiday spirit, or that damn yapping dog. What I need is a serious dose of Florida heat.”
But five days before she was to fly in from Newark, Dewey’s roommate, Rita Santoya, suffered an all-too-familiar bout of jealousy. Latin men are said to be possessive. It’s an unfair generalization, yet Latin woman, apparently, can be just as bad as their clichéd counterparts. After a series of quarrels, Rita issued an ultimatum: If Dewey visited me in Florida, there was no need for her to come back.
As always, Dewey acquiesced.
“Maybe next time, Doc, when Rita feels a little more secure in our relationship. Don’t worry, we’ll get together again.”
I told Dewey, any time, lady, any time, knowing there would probably never be a next time.
Male or female, the possessive ones never feel secure. Nor do their mates.
So I went through the short list: Dr. Kathleen Rhodes, but she was back in the Yucatán, doing field work. Nora Chung was available, but now had a romantic interest in a solicitous, sympathetic physician and didn’t want to risk burdening the relationship so early in the game. Erin Bostwick was already scheduled to work the late shift all month at Timbers; Sally Minster (formerly Sally Carmel) was in the process of divorcing the neurotic abuser she’d married, but didn’t feel right about slipping away with me until the legalities were complete.
She was disappointed. “I’ve had a crush on you since I was, what? Eight years old? Since the days you were living with your crazy uncle Tucker Gatrell, the dear sweet man, on that funky little mangrove ranch of his. So now you call.”
Here’s one of the ironies of male-female association: With women of sufficient character and humor, it takes only a few weeks to forge an intimate relationship, yet their well-being remains a matter of concern even years after parting. Their dilemmas still squeeze the heart.
One night, I found myself in my little lab, sitting beneath the goose-neck lamp, making a list of desperate last-minute replacement ladies. Thankfully, I caught myself. I’ve reached a stage in my life in which the little social interaction I have is guided by a simple maxim: I’d rather be alone than with people with whom I feel no emotional connection. That includes women.
Solitude is much preferred to the more disturbing isolation of sharing loneliness with a stranger.
I made no more telephone calls.
When I told Tomlinson that Dewey’d backed out, he lost none of his enthusiasm. “You’re batching it? Perfect! Two weeks of island living. Fresh air, fresh fruit, plus lots and lots of cold, clean alcohol. It’s just what the doctor ordered. We’ll each have our own cottage, so the vacation ladies can choose for themselves. With the problem I’ve been having, escape may be the only sure salvation.”
Even then he was obsessed with his perceived problem.
Now he was sitting in full lotus position, balanced strangely on the roof next to the veranda where the hammock was strung between rafter and rail. We’d been there for nearly an hour in silence, listening to the ambient bird-and-breeze sounds of a day so warm, during a winter so tropical, that jacaranda trees were already flowering bright as lavender parasails on this late February afternoon.
“Joking about having Elmer Fudd tattooed on my ass?” he said. “I wish to hell I were joking. You refuse to hear the details, even though I’ve made it clear that I need to vent. I’ve got feelings, man. Listening is one of the things that friends are supposed to do.”
“I’m not a psychologist, for God’s sake.”
“You think I’d waste any more of my time with shrinks? Hey, let me tell you something, amigo . . . no, let’s put it this way: If psychiatrists gave frequent flier miles, I’d have my own charter service to Fumbuck Egypt. Half my shrink friends call
me
for advice. The other half worry about the possibility that I snuck off and slept with their wives—which I did in way too many cases. People in the mental health professions? They’ve got the horniest wives in town. Not that I’m in a position to help them these days.”
Tomlinson was pulling at his stringy hair, biting it nervously. I noticed that his hands, which often had a slight tremor, were shaking more than usual. “It’s not a physical problem. That much I know. The other morning, I woke up with a piss hard-on, and the damn thing nearly knocked the wind out of me when I rolled over too fast. My problem’s spiritual, man. The fucking wheels are coming off my Dharma nature and my
daishinkon
faith is way back on its heels. I need to talk.”
I had no idea what he was saying, but his tone told me it was important. I sighed, folded the magazine, and swung my feet onto the deck. As I did, I had a peripheral awareness of two young women below, jogging the footpath southward. One was blonde in a heavy blue sports bra and white tank top. The other was all legs and long chestnut hair, ponytail swinging like a flag.
I glanced at my watch, even though I knew the time: 5:30 P.M. plus or minus a few minutes, on a Wednesday, seventh day of February.
Every day for six days straight, an hour before sunset, I’d watched these two pass beneath our veranda, always headed the same direction. I’d seen them often enough to know that the blonde would be on the left, ponytail to the right and a half-step ahead. Blonde was the chatty one with a cheer-leader stride and the bold, dominant voice. Ponytail was stoic, tomboyish, quiet, the apparent subordinate member.
I’d never exchanged a word with them, yet I knew their pace and I knew their schedule, just as I knew that half an hour later, near the island’s grass landing strip, I’d see them once again on the little dock at the end of the nature boardwalk that trailed through mangroves.
The girls would be standing at the rail in a citrus-colored afterglow. They would watch the sun vanish before turning homeward, offering me the vaguest nod of greeting as I clomped up onto the dock, completing my second run of the day.