Ford was in the water when he saw Tomlinson coming down the hill. The expectation that Josiah would follow caused a gaggle of children to scatter—back to their bicycles, their chores, their gray book bags that matched neatly pressed school uniforms.
“That’s got to piss you off,” he said, wading ashore, mask tilted, fins in hand. Strapped to his leg, the shock cable trailed like a six-foot snake.
Tomlinson replied, “What do you mean?” but couldn’t wait to share the news. “They found the boy. He’s here, I saw him. Aside from a concussion, the resident juju woman says he’ll be okay. I don’t know why Josiah didn’t tell you.”
“Didn’t need to,” Ford replied. “The doctor I flew in three days ago said the same on our way back to Nassau. I was talking about school uniforms. A free spirit like you can’t approve.”
“Uniforms? Geezus, stick to the subject. Instead of letting me fret my ass off, you could’ve at least mentioned the boy was alive. And why are you here instead of the bridge? I left Josiah there half an hour ago, man, told him I’d find you.”
The biologist made light of it, saying, “And, by god, you did. Hold your horses while I pack my stuff.”
It was better not to reveal what he’d just seen. Not yet. Maybe ever. Ford had chosen this spot near the fish co-op after speaking with a woman who officially was still missing, and the old man who’d waited for him and the boy off Dolphin Head in a battered 28-foot Mako.
“Years ago,” the old preacher had told him the next morning, “some foreigner stuck a bunch of them mooring buoys along here like he was doing us a favor. Just appeared overnight. But guess how long they lasted before all them lines was cut?”
This was in response to Ford’s interest in several commercial-grade buoys, yokes still attached, that were piled among other junk near the warehouse.
Buoys—but no mooring weights.
“Do you remember the guy’s name?”
“The foreigner?” They’d been on their way to recheck the Mako, so the question was unexpected. “Hell if I know. Or care. Some rich fella trying to help us poor dumb natives, most likely. You want them marker weights, sir, they all yours. We ain’t got no use for ’em.”
This, in Ford’s mind, was proof that Josiah was unaware of what Jimmy Jones might have hidden in this sharky stretch of water.
For several very busy days the biologist had waited for a chance to dive the spot alone. Snorkel gear was all he needed to confirm the lines that had been cut were still there, but so heavy with barnacles the rope lay in coils twenty feet below. Six bounce dives later, enough sand had been fanned away to expose five mushroom-shaped anchors. A dozen or more remained covered, and would’ve stayed that way, even if Tomlinson hadn’t intruded.
Ford zipped his gear bag and was using a towel when his hipster pal retrieved a knife and scabbard left on the ground.
“Why didn’t you bring your good one?”
“My Randall? It’s worth about a grand and I don’t trust customs agents. I always pick up something cheap on the road—you know that.”
Tomlinson clicked the knife free. “Talk about cheap,” he said, inspecting the blade, “looks like they missed with the spray paint.”
“A throwaway,” Ford agreed, and took the knife. It was his way of ignoring flecks of gold on the blade that were not specks of paint. Then changed the subject as they walked toward the footbridge. “I’ve got a big decision to make, ol’ buddy.”
“Sure, pretend you’re in a good mood, then nail me when my guard’s down,” Tomlinson said. “Don’t blame me, hermano. I told that damn clerk at Arthur’s Town not to hand over your mail unless—”
“That’s not what I mean. But while we’re on the subject, she thinks jail’s too good for you and so do I.”
“Hannah?”
“Her and probably a lot of other women. The decision I have to make, though, has to do with Lydia Johnson. What did you think when you saw them?”
“Geezus, Doc, is there anything you don’t know? I can’t even comment. A blood secret kept in death and beyond, is how a certain Brotherhood might phrase it. But you didn’t hear it from me.”
“That’s what I’m asking you. Are those two safe here? No one cares about Dr. Nickelby, even his wife according to a talk I had with Fitz. She dropped the idea of pressing charges in return for scuba lessons, apparently.”
“No way.”
“The best revenge, I guess, is finding a way to stay happy.”
Tomlinson liked that. “There you go—the beauty of a broken heart is that fault lines heal no matter who’s at fault. Fitz called her?”
Ford dismissed the subject with a shrug. “Lydia’s the one I’m worried about. There are some high-tech people still looking for her. On the other hand, she could try to cut a deal with the Treasury Department. I can’t go into detail, but she’d have to . . . Well, let’s just say turn over some key information.”
“Trust the feds—are you high?” Tomlinson considered the idea absurd. “No one’s gonna find them here, man, even that prick Efren Donner. Why? Because Lydia and Leonard Nickelby no longer exist. Not as modern manifestations—a heavy concept for a guy like you to understand, I know. Think of it this way. If caterpillars can do the unexpected, so can people. Hell, you and Josiah are so tight suddenly, I’m surprised you didn’t attend the adoption ceremony a few nights back.”
Ford had, in a way—viewed it at a distance, from the porch of a coral pink villa that more often than not was used to lure enemies close enough to assess—and sometimes strike.
Sixteen mushroom-shaped mooring anchors weighted with gold lay in the shallows nearby. They were unknown, unsuspected by anyone but Ford, an underpaid biologist who had recently received good news in the mail. He’d already done the math. A conservative estimate based on Lydia’s best guess was one hundred pounds per anchor multiplied by the price of gold in troy ounces—about one-point-five mil apiece.
“That helps,” Ford said. “I’m going to stay another week or so and work on my shark project. It’s kind of nice here, you know? No Internet, no interruptions. Yeah, might even stay longer.”
Tomlinson gave his pal an odd look. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing. I’ve got Fitz’s logbook and the coin boxed on the plane. I suggest you stick them in your carry-on when you fly home, commercial. Oh, and give everybody my regards. And don’t let my damn dog run away again.”
The dude was repressing. The envelope containing Hannah Smith’s letter was thin enough to reveal a paragraph or two, thanks to a bright light and a magnifying glass.
“Drop the act, Marion,” Tomlinson said, and stepped closer to face his friend. “I didn’t snoop—not intentionally. Call it intuition, if you like, but I’m pretty damn sure Hannah dumped you for . . . what, like the third time? Suppressed emotion is a killer, hermano, so shallow up and talk to me.”
The biologist found that funny for some reason. “Let’s do call it snooping. But take it from a professional, you’re a half-assed snoop at best. Hannah didn’t dump me, she just doesn’t want to marry a man who, well, travels as much as me.”
“Disappears with guns and shit, you mean,” Tomlinson said in translation. “And you’re okay with that?”
“Can you blame her? You missed the part you’d have to open the envelope to read. She gave me a second chance.” Smiling, with the footbridge in sight—already a massive shark in the turquoise eddy below—Ford explained, “I’m going to be a father—again. And this time, I’m not going to blow it.”