Dead of Night (30 page)

I watched as he paused at the water’s edge, then took a long careful look before he stepped in. I could guess why. This was gator country. The big ones had been grabbing people lately. Their dinosaur coding makes no differentiation between modern primates and primates with prehensile tails. This was cottonmouth country, too.

“This section isn’t too deep,” he called to us. “Only a couple of places it might be up to our necks.”

Back in the 1960s, when the Corps of Engineers gutted the Kissimmee River to make a canal, they’d dredged it a hundred yards wide and thirty feet deep, then abandoned the name for the more sterile designation of “Canal 38.”

Fitting.

This section of water, though, was a drainage link to the main canal. It was a shady spur, fifty or sixty feet wide, and not deep, judging from the cattails. The water was clear but stained amber with humic acid, and dense moss grew on the bottom.

According to our map, they’d found Frieda’s SUV not far from the water. It was a good, private place to jettison incriminating evidence ... or to introduce exotic parasites.

 

 

As Reynolds moved into deeper water, I stood atop the bank and found two rocks similar in weight to the cell phone in my pocket. I lobbed one rock southward. Waited until it made a satisfying
thwump
in the middle of the canal, then lobbed the second rock northward.

“That’s our search area. Roughly. We can’t spend a lot of time, but it’s worth a shot.”

I’d already told my son he couldn’t get in the water, or even near it. No way, even if Reynolds’s tests were negative. When the boy protested, I told him that, one day, I might describe what it’s like to see a guinea worm exiting its host. But not now.

Something in my tone quieted him. So it was the three of us in the canal: the Tropicane biologist, Tomlinson, and myself.

While traveling, Tomlinson wears traditional clothing—traditional, anyway, compared to the robes and sarongs he prefers. I find the attention they draw distracting, which he’s empathetic enough to understand. Today he wore baggy red shorts; a white, long-sleeved GATOR SPOON T-shirt; and the style of Birkenstocks that remind me of wooden shoes.

I’d brought shorts and running shoes in case I got a chance to work out. I had something to wear in the water. Tomlinson didn’t. So, as I changed, he stripped down to violet boxer shorts decorated with ... yes, red Santas and golden stars. He was humming one of his endless, tuneless melodies that sounded like
Oo-hummm .... Oo-hummm.

“Tomlinson,” I told him, “purple holiday underwear is acceptable, but you need to wear something on your feet. There’ll be broken glass on the bottom, sharp metal, nails, and crap.”

“I’ll do the stingray shuffle,” he replied. “Also, I’ll do a special power med. It’ll temporarily transfer all the auric vulnerability in my feet upward to other parts of my body. How’s broken glass gonna deal with something like that?”

“Power med” was short for “power meditation,” one of the man’s new infatuations. When Reynolds asked about it, Tomlinson told him he’d developed a technique for brief but intense meditation that had many of the benefits of traditional meditation.

“It’s on our Web page, man. Which you’ve got to check out.”

“You have your own Web page?”

Tomlinson made the fluttering noise of a man who was powerless. “Fuckin’ A.”

“Shrewd,” I told him. “Bulletproof feet. How’s a doctor going to get a suture in when he tries to sew you up?”

I had my running shoes tied, and stepped into knee-deep water. I expected muck but found firm sand. Reynolds was to the south, slogging a slow zigzag route from bank to bank. He was squatting, letting the water support him, while his feet swept experimentally over the bottom.

A good technique. It made me lighter, more mobile when I tried it, and so I mimicked him, wading to the north, sliding the edge of my right shoe over the bottom, then my left, before transferring weight. There was moss, which quickly accumulated and had to be shaken loose. There were also sections of tree branches—easily identified by touch.

Behind me, I heard Tomlinson say, “Dr. Jason? I’m getting some vibes here. I think you’re working the right section of the ballpark. I’m coming your way.”

I turned to see him entering the canal, arms extended at his sides for balance, as if he expected the water’s surface to support his weight for a few moments before busting through. He looked like a naked scarecrow, rags and rope covered with skin.

I continued to search, sliding from bank to bank. When my foot found something that I couldn’t identify—something solid but easy to move—I would sink until the water was chin deep, then reach to retrieve it.

There were lots of beer and liquor bottles—Tomlinson was correct about drunks loving roads that dead-ended near water. The first time my foot touched and moved a pint whiskey bottle, I got excited. It seemed the right size. I’d just retrieved my fifth or sixth pint bottle when, from the bank, I heard my own cell phone begin to ring.

Lake called, “Do you want me to get that, Doc?”

I was about to tell him yes—maybe it was Dewey returning my calls—but I was interrupted by a hoot from Tomlinson. “Hey! Lookee-lookee what I found! What’a you think, Dr. Jason? Everything’s got its own magnetic aura, man. I followed a tractor beam straight to this one.”

I turned to see that Tomlinson was about midway between Reynolds and myself. He was standing on one leg, arms extended for balance, as he slowly lifted his right foot from the water. He stood storklike, looking at his toes. Tomlinson has freakishly long toes—the guides kid him about being part monkey. Between his toes was a cellular phone.

The Tropicane biologist said, “I’ll be damned! Is that the one?”

When we were in Kissimmee, I’d seen Frieda use her phone several times. It was a Nokia in a black leather case, one of the old models with an external antenna. This looked similar.

I felt a chill. The sons of bitches murdered her.

I said, “It’s a hell of a coincidence if it’s not Frieda’s,” before I told Tomlinson, “Careful of fingerprints. If you touch it, use two fingers on the antenna. Wait until I get there to take a look.”

Grinning, very pleased with himself, Tomlinson touched his right foot to his left thigh, resting the phone there—a classic tai chi figure 4. “I can hold it like this for as long as you want. But it might be better if I use the two-fingered technique and meet you on the bank. It’s time for me to offer some gold to the water gods.”

Tomlinson-talk for “urinate.”

“Bring the phone with you,” I said. “That way, I won’t have to stand here while the water level rises.”

My son and I were listening to Jason Reynolds tell us that he’d worked for a branch of EPOC for two years as a college volunteer, then spent a year on the organization’s payroll before getting hired by Tropicane.

“It wasn’t the money. I felt I could do more good as a scientist with a company known as being antienvironment than with a group of far-out environmentalists.”

I said, “‘Far-out’?”

“‘Far-out,’ as in good. EPOC is real conservative, starched-suit types who file lots of lawsuits. It drives state governments and big-business nuts, which is cool. But I worked for a branch organization that has a more holistic approach. The Albedo Society. More progressive. We accept the Gaia theory: the earth as a single organism. The guy who founded them both is a veteran hipster like your pal, but he’s also made megabucks.”

Desmond Stokes again. The vitamin empire recluse.

“You’re a member of the Albedo Society? Tomlinson went to a rally they held a few months back in Coconut Grove.”

Reynolds’s grin said, I shoulda known. “I was there, man! A bunch of us EX-sters turned out. But, as I was saying, I didn’t go with Big Sugar just for the cash. Although that’s part of the Albedo philosophy, too: Wealth is power. The surest way to protect land is to own it—” Reynolds stopped abruptly, interrupted by Tomlinson, who was still in the water.

“What’s wrong with him?”

Tomlinson had begun to hoot again—but this time, a harsh falsetto. The shrill sound of pain and shock.

“Ohhh ... Hahhh! Whoa-a-a-a-a! What the
hell?
”

The three of us turned to see that he was on the other side of the canal where we’d left him. He had his back to us, but was now bent at the waist, jumping and thrashing, creating small shock waves in the hip-deep water.

“Holy cripes ... Oh my God ... Whoa, Mamma, that hurts!”

He swung his head toward us, turning, and I could see his wild eyes, and that he had both hands clamped over his genitals.

Lake panicked. “Hey—he’s hurt! What’s wrong? Tomlinson?” As Reynolds yelled, “Jesus, what was he doing? Get out of there!”

No response from Tomlinson, who continued to jump and thrash, moaning.

Automatically, we were all three sliding down the incline. Before we got to the bank, I grabbed Lake, put a finger in his face, and yelled, “No! I’ll get him,” then lunged into the water, my brain searching for an explanation. Tomlinson had been peeing into a thicket of cattails and somehow managed to hurt himself. How? If he’d stepped on a broken bottle, why was he holding his genitals?”

“Lordy, shitzkee! Doc! Get over here, Doc!
Marion!
”

“This is what’s wrong!” he screamed. He was slapping at his groin as if he were on fire. “Something’s inside me. I saw it!” He looked down before yelling, “Come outta there, you little bastard. Goddamn it, I’ll wring your neck. I’ll drown you in cheap whiskey, if you don’t come out!”

It sounded absurd—until I saw blood on his hands and legs, blood coming from his penis. There was too much blood, and too much pain, not to be serious.

I ran high-stepping through the shallows into deeper water. When I got to him, he let me support his body weight, though he continued to writhe in pain as I asked over and over, “What happened? Why are you bleeding?”

He repeated himself, groaning, “Ohhh ... I got something up me, man. Came out of the water and swam up the tube. Holy hell, it hurts.”

“I’ve got something inside me! I saw it. Like a little eel, or fish, or something.”

The young biologist came splashing up. Tomlinson was in so much distress, Reynolds spoke to me. “He’s freaking, man. What’s wrong? Did he say?”

“No. Something must’ve bit him. He’s incoherent because of the pain.” I was levering Tomlinson’s arm over my shoulder, steering him toward shore.

Reynolds said, “Jesus, look at the blood. What happened to his shorts?”

I said, “I guess he pulled them off,” as Tomlinson yelled. “I’m not incoherent. I
saw
the thing, damn it. I was taking a piss, and it swam right up my tallywhacker!”

I told Tomlinson, “Okay, okay, take it easy, and we’ll get you to the hospital.” He was sweating, face pale. “I’m calling an ambulance.”

“No—no sirens,” he said quickly. “I hate sirens, too many bad memories. We go in the Magic Bus. I’ll soak my nuts in ice water. Maybe the little son of a bitch will think it’s time to migrate south.”

Reynolds had Tomlinson’s other arm, helping me guide him. “I’ve got a first aid kit in the truck, but I doubt if there’s anything for pain.” After a few more moments, he said, “The
phone.
What happened to the woman’s cell phone? Did he give it to you?”

Tomlinson moaned, “Ohhh, what a putz I am. I dropped it when the fish attacked. Forgot all about it, Oh hell ... let’s go back and get it.”

I said, “No. I’ll call the sheriff’s department. It’s better if they recover it, anyway. I’ll call from the road.” I looked at Reynolds, interested in his reaction. “Do you mind if I give them your name and number? You could help.”

“Sure,” he replied. “You need to get him to the hospital.”

 

 

Twice, on the fast drive to the Bartram County Hospital, I had to stop so Tomlinson could vomit. Pain can do that. Most of the trip, he stayed balled up in a fetal position, moaning.

At one point, I said to him, “Would meditation help? To help block the pain, I mean.”

“Oh-h-h-h ... no way. Mr. Zamboni would never get the message. He and my brain stopped communicating years ago.”

Zamboni and the Hat Trick Twins—the man’s nickname for his private parts.

Because I was, driving, Laken called Rona to tell her that we’d found what was probably Frieda’s cell phone. I figured she’d get faster action out of the local sheriff’s department. But the lady was still on Sanibel having fun. Didn’t answer. Among the contact list she’d given us, though, was the name of a department captain. Lake dialed his number, then handed me the phone.

The man’s name was Detective Ken Picking, special crimes division. I used Rona’s name, then told him I’d been at Jobe Applebee’s house the night he died, and that I was a friend of the man’s sister—the woman who’d been found dead on Thursday, hit by a car.

A veteran state patrolman once told me that a cultivated sense of skepticism has saved the lives of more cops than body armor. It has also nailed more unlikely criminals than DNA testing. I expected Picking to be suspicious, and he was. It’s not uncommon for perpetrators to try to find out how a case is progressing by presenting themselves as helpful citizens.

The detective’s Cracker heritage was in his cow-hunter accent, his hard-ass manner. I listened to him say as if he were joking, “Okay, you knew the victims, and now you’re calling me either to confess or to find out if we know you did it. Isn’t that the drill? So tell me where you are and I’ll come put the cuffs on.”

His tone was breezy, but he wasn’t humoring me. He’d thrown it out there to see if I got flustered. If I’d stammered, or laughed just a little too loudly, I had a feeling that Detective Picking would’ve dropped everything and come looking for me.