Ford said, “Why is it I don’t believe you left my mail on the mailboat accidentally?”
“Ha-ha, you’ve got to appreciate the irony,” Tomlinson replied, a little nervous about what wasn’t a lie, exactly, but more a Freudian intermission. He knew what it was like to travel with a bummed-out biologist. The linear chill of the man, an emotional bottle rocket who, by god, refused to emote, let alone count down from ten.
“Guess so,” Ford said like it was no big deal. “On the bright side, I see you didn’t go off and leave your stash.”
Tomlinson’s hand leaped to his breast pocket. The biologist had the nose of a goddamn bloodhound. “I’m just helping the local economy, hermano. It was part of the deal I made for the boat—plus information we’ll need tonight. We don’t want the islanders to think we’re both pinhead screws, now do we?”
“I didn’t commit to tonight,” his pal countered. “Right now I’m more concerned with someone stealing my mail.”
Tomlinson assured him it would be okay. The clerk at Arthur’s Town had agreed to lock the letters away in return for another ten-dollar bill. “We’ll talk while you drive,” he said, and started toward the little Toyota he’d rented. “You’ll like the hotel. No TV, but there’s a bar.”
Not so fast, Ford said with a look. More time was needed to obsess about getting his seaplane situated in Joe Sound Creek on Cat Island’s leeward side. And more questions about the truant mail—had Tomlinson opened the letters?
“I don’t like what you’re implying. And the answer is no. Sorta.”
“I thought so,” Ford said. “Toss me a line when I’m ready. While you’re at it, tell me what was in the letters you didn’t read.” They were hip-deep in water, the bottom rough sand, with mangroves all around.
“Your son’s turning out to be a carbon copy of you—but otherwise doing fine. He got out of some scrape in Granada. The envelope was too thick to decipher details. Something to do with a girl and a guitar player.”
“Granada, as in Nicaragua?”
“Geezus, the island Reagan’s storm troopers invaded. No wonder you two don’t get along. Communication is key to everything, man. Let’s see . . . your daughter likes the Shimano racing bike. She flunked algebra but loved the class trip to Amsterdam, and both mothers still think you’re a bumbling nerd and an asshole. No surprises there. That’s a quick summary gleaned with the help of a magnifying glass and a light.”
Ford responded, “I want to meet the old guy, the preacher—Josiah Bodden, you said? Some of what he told you doesn’t make sense. I’m reluctant to kidnap a woman, whoever she is, until I know more.”
“What’s to make sense of?”
“Maybe I got the story wrong. The preacher sells fish on an island where people make their living catching fish? A fisherman’s co-op. That strikes me as odd.”
“He delivers to a private party who’s in the film business, supposedly. Nothing strange about that. I’m not clear whether the guy owns or rents. He’s a manipulative prick, that much I guarantee, and the woman is definitely in trouble.” The hipster paused for effect. “You didn’t ask about Hannah’s letters.”
Ford replied, “Is the guy’s name Efren Donner?”
“Who?”
“You heard me.”
“Efren, as in the movie producer? Where did you come up with that?”
“I have sources in Nassau who’re interested.”
“Then why ask me—unless it’s to avoid talking about Hannah?”
“Geezus, just answer the question, okay? They seem sure it’s him, but it would be nice to hear it firsthand.”
“Efren . . . hmm. I don’t know, I hope not. Wait, maybe I do. He hasn’t made a picture in years, but the name’s coming back to me. Yeah, Efren Donner. The biggest sleazeball in Hollywood. Or was. This could be a chance to stick his casting couch where it belongs—behind bars.” Tomlinson followed the Hollywood tangent a while before getting back on track. “You’re not curious about Hannah’s letter?”
“No need. You’ll tell me anyway.”
“That’s what you think, pal.”
They were in the rental, driving north, before Tomlinson finally caved. “I didn’t snoop. I was tempted, sure, then decided, don’t get in the middle of something that’s none of my business. Also, Hannah would be pissed if she knew. I’d lose her respect. A woman like her? No thanks. Doc, my advice is bang on her door and loop a ring on that finger like you never saw the letter. Which, thanks to my little oversight, happens to be the truth.”
“Did me a favor, in other words?” Ford smiled. “This from a man whose expertise on monogamy ranks with hamsters and lovebugs.” He laughed for the first time since finding a second mutilated corpse in a grove of what might be white torch trees.
It was a guess, still not confirmed.
Two nights ago, Tamara had accompanied him to the Consulate on West Hill Road in Nassau, where local police had deferred to a trio of national agency types. Now the woman was safely tucked away at an undisclosed hotel—Ford didn’t want to know—and he’d acquired a memory stick with information that allowed him to offer some advice of his own. “This isn’t about Fitzpatrick’s logbook anymore. It’s about you getting home while you’re still in one piece. Literally.”
“Because of Efren the film creep?”
“I didn’t say that. At least two men have been murdered in the last few days. More likely, three. Why? Because they were asking questions about Nickelby and Lydia Johnson. So I suggest we have a quiet beer, then you fly back to Florida tomorrow.”
“Can’t, man. The woman we’re liberating said my book saved her life. I promised I’d be there last night or tonight—you’ll understand when you see her. Karma involves all sorts of implicit debt. And what about Fitz?”
“Getting yourself killed won’t help either one. Fitzpatrick sent you into the cross fire of something a lot bigger than you realize. When I say murdered, I mean butchered. I found the bodies.”
“Like a revenge deal? I haven’t pissed anyone off.”
“I seriously doubt that,” Ford said. “A cross fire—three or more factions all after the same thing. And it’s not a logbook and a few stolen coins. Did you find out anything new about Nickelby?”
“That’s why I’m not worried. Between Nassau and here, I must’ve spoken to a hundred people. Nada, is what I have to report. Well, except that a few days ago an American dived off the tower of a ship and rescued a couple of local boys. A hell of a swimmer, apparently. Doesn’t sound like a government dweeb to me.”
“Just asking questions about those two puts you in their sights. This is business to the people I’m talking about. They won’t sympathize with your tales of friendship and woe when they grab you some dark night.”
“If Fitz has nothing to do with it, why would they give a damn about me?”
“I just told you and you need to pay attention. There’s a fourth player who doesn’t fit the business template. That’s who you need to worry about. Night before last on Andros, I got a look at him after I’d found a guy who’d been hacked to death like in some satanic ritual. He would’ve tried the same thing with me if I hadn’t . . . That part can wait. You know those biohazard suits? He came dressed to kill, so he’s either a psychopath or wants police to believe he’s part of a cult. If that doesn’t scare you, I’ve got pictures. So why not book a flight as a favor to me?”
Nope. Tomlinson only shrugged and said, “Maybe later when we get to the hotel. Josiah’s waiting, so take the next left. The boat’s all fueled and ready.”
Ford continued straight. “Forget the damn boat and listen to reason.”
“Right, man, like I’m gonna start now.” Said it in a cheery way, as if to say, You’ve got to be kidding.
They went back and forth. Finally, Ford got frustrated. “Okay. But I’m not going anywhere until I meet the preacher who sells fish to an island that’s already ass-deep in fish. You don’t think I asked the cops when I was in Nassau? They’d never heard of a minister named Josiah Bodden. But the island? Oh yeah. And their advice was stay the hell away because—”
“Because cops are xenophobic assholes,” Tomlinson cut in, “judging people by the way they look. It’s what they do, man.”
“Wrong. I spoke with the regional commander. The island is under something called IPA jurisdiction, not his. He got pissy when I asked if he meant India Pale Ale, so I looked it up. Indigenous Protected Area—it’s a designation similar to the Australian model created in the 1990s to preserve aboriginal culture. In other words, don’t expect help from the Bahamian police.”
“That’ll be the day.” Tomlinson chuckled. He had his arm out the window, steering the wind into his hair. “Indigenous—very cool, man. The Marl people—that’s what they’re called. They wouldn’t talk to me, just went about their business like I was invisible. You’re gonna love them. I still can’t believe I haven’t seen an article or something.”
Ford caught himself before embarking on a discussion of the Taino Indios, not the Marls, and DNA evidence that suggested the Caribbean tribes were long gone. “There’s nothing to read because IPA policy prohibits exploitation of any kind,” he said. “No journalists, no Efren Donner types, and no sightseers, which includes us. Modern charts don’t show the island’s name because that’s the way they want it. The islanders are the IPA. Are you following me here?”
“Marl Landing, is what I was told,” Tomlinson replied, unimpressed. “They’re a lovely agrarian people. We’ll pop over, grab the girl, and be gone—with enough evidence to put Donner, or whoever the schmuck is, in jail. It’ll make a good story down the road”—he grinned—“to help convince the grandkids you’re not a nerd-slash-asshole.”
“It’s going to take more than sarcasm to convince me,” Ford said. “White Torch is the actual name, if you’re interested.”
“Whatever, man. How about sharks?”
“What about them?”
“The day I was with Josiah, I saw the biggest sharks I’ve ever seen—ocean-going white tips twenty feet long. Aren’t you working on some kind of repellent based on how sharks respond to sound?”
Ford didn’t buy it. “Oceanic white tips don’t get that big.”
“They do around Marl Landing.” Tomlinson watched wire-rimmed glasses tilt with interest before continuing, “The island’s like a plate on a spindle—that’s the way Brother Josiah described it to me. We’re both thirty-second-degree Freemasons, by the way, so he wouldn’t lie. We took the same oath about certain obligations, so your cop buddies got it all wrong.”
This was a rare opportunity for Ford to respond, “Whatever.”
“You’ll like Josiah. Interesting guy, and he’d be a good source for your research project. Big-assed ocean-going white tips the size of canoes, they zoom up out of the blue within a few yards of shore.”
The rental car slowed. “How close? Oceanic white tips are rarely found in water less than forty meters deep.”
Tomlinson tried not to smile. His pal was like a security camera, clicking away without emotion until something pissed him off or interested him. “Close, man. I saw them with my own two baby blues. Josiah didn’t even need to chum. Just stomped his feet like he was dancing. A Pavlov’s dog sort of deal.”
Ford, of course, wanted more details, before he conceded, “They’re conditioned to respond to sound—I’ll be damned. A wooden footbridge . . . makes sense. Wood conducts sound in the low-frequency ranges that sharks can hear, humans can’t. To them, two octaves below the lowest note on a piano is the equivalent of a siren.”
“Dude, you should’ve seen them. But if you’ve made up your mind, no worries, I’ll go it alone.”
The biologist didn’t hear the last part. He was somewhere in his head for a while, then decided, “Guess it wouldn’t hurt to take a ride out there—but now, not tonight.”
Walking toward the old preacher, he added, “You didn’t talk me into this. If I get a boat, you’re booking a flight out tomorrow. That’s the deal.”