The Heat Islands: A Doc Ford Novel (12 page)

His brain seldom got a rest.

In the tumult of that time, he projected the many roles he played as the manifestations of a single truth. But even his belief in that single truth added to a growing confusion in him. Gradually, the horror dawned that he was just one more player in a generation of bad actors, and that The Truth was just another buzz phrase, not unlike "Where's your head at?" and "Get your act together."

This revelation came to him on a Wednesday outside Spokane when he should have been tending the commune's herb garden but instead had joined in a peyote feast with a sweating, naked teenager named Andrea and a Paiute Indian called Billy Three Fires. After eating six peyote buttons, the careful scaffolding of his own life collapsed in a haze of swirls and starburst colors, and he saw his theatrics for what they were. The realization was so frightening, so ripe with black panic that, by Monday, he was in a Chicago facility known as Elms, making billfolds and signing his letters "Sincerely as a Fucking Loon."

It was a painful time.

Yet the quest for wisdom did not die there. Indeed. Tomlinson's fledgling legs first found purchase on what he now thought of as The True Course during that period— the True Course being a personal compass assembled from his own knowledge, his own pain and the pain of others.

Like it or not, he felt what others felt; hurt right along with people in trouble, strangers or friends. It was the way he was; the way he had always been, like one of those strange plants with leaves that wilt at a human's touch. It was not a triumph of the intellect, though he had always been gifted in that way, too. Facts did not fall on Tomlinson's brain as snowflakes, they embedded themselves like diamond shards, and he could clearly remember the astounded looks of adults who listened as he. then in grade school, recited long passages of prose from memory, or solved complicated math problems in his head. This ability was what adults called genius, yet he sensed even then how wrong they were.

These days, his cognitive powers were not so reliable. Years of synthetic exploration and all that peyote had exacted their toll; had tom bits and pieces from the mental fabric, maybe even burned a few sizable holes.

It did not trouble him.

The ability to calculate the square root of seventeen was a feat, a trick, like someone who was born double-jointed. It was nothing like his intrinsic empathy for people. Tomlinson felt that was his true gift; his gift or his curse, for there were nights, even now, when the collective pain of the world settled upon him, and the old black panic threatened; nights when the very stars seemed to echo the screams of the anguished.

Suffering through such nights made all quests for wisdom contentious. Like the petty aspiration of someone who wanted to spy on a party but not participate, it was a way of remaining aloof. In fact, the quest for wisdom, he came to believe, was a form of escape.

Tomlinson no longer wanted to escape. Nor did he want to mislead, as he must have done in the days of his seeond decade. He knew he had the ability to influence, so he took pains not to influence. Which was probably why he felt so comfortable with Ford. Ford was one of the few men to whom he could say any damn thing that popped into his mind. With Ford, he could argue any cause, could assemble any chain of reason without fear of offending him or, worse, swaying him. Debating Ford was like arguing with the multiplication tables, for that was the way Ford saw himself—a man of cold reason—and while Tomlinson suspected there were warmer levels to the man. he had also learned to respect as reality another person's own self-image.

With anyone other than Ford, though, he took pains. He was careful. He tried to speak only the few true things he knew, really knew, and tried to say them so simply and clearly that there was no room for confusion.

Like with Jeth Nicholes now.

The two of them sat in the main salon of Tomlinson's old forty-two-foot Morgan sailboat; Tomlinson sitting on the settee berth, with the table collapsed, so that it was like a wide bed. Jeth sat eagerly across from him, his fingers interlaced, tapping his thumbs together as he said. "That's neat the way you do that, but I don't think I can." Meaning the way Tomlinson was sitting, his legs meshed in the full lotus position.

Jeth pulled his right foot up so that it touched his left thigh ...
Ouch. ouch, ooh...
then tried to fold his left leg over his right calf ...
Aw-w-w-w,
that hurts!
Untangling himself, he said. "Man. if I have to do that. I don't think I'll ever learn how to meditate. My legs haven't been working too well lately."

Tomlinson smiled. "Just takes a little practice, man; get the ol' joints loosened up. But it's not necessary right off. Just fold your hands like this, get your back straight; try to center yourself and let your eyes go soft. Yeah, that's it. Now just count your breaths, one to ten. Get to ten, start back at one."

"That's it?"

"For starters, yeah."

"Just count."

"Uh-huh."

"Like damn grade school, you ask me. But I'll try." Jeth did try, taking deep breaths.

Watching, looking at Jeth's face. Tomlinson was reminded of one of those American film characters, the simple country kid destined for glory. He knew Jeth was not simple—no one was. But Tomlinson, who believed in the glory of the individual, thought the last part might be right. One never knew.

Jeth sat motionless for no more than a minute before saying. "Ah ... Tomlinson?"

"Yes?"

"What if you have an itch?" A little embarrassed, like he didn't want to break any rules.

"Itch all you want. Then concentrate on your breathing."

"I can do it now, if I want? Scratch, I mean."

"Sure."

Jeth scratched his nose, his crotch, then another two minutes passed before he said, "There's a lot of stuff I've been wondering about lately. That's why I want to learn this."

Tomlinson did not reply.

A few more seeonds passed. "It's just that, sometimes, nothing in the world seems to make sense."

Tomlinson stirred. He said, "I hear that," agreeing. "You told me this meditation stuff helps you see things more clearly."

"For some, it does. Even if it doesn't, it's a good way to relax."

"That's what I want—to understand things." Tomlinson said patiently, "Relax and count your breaths," as his own breathing took control, sitting there with his legs folded, back straight, feeling the earth absorb him. But then he jumped as Jeth unexpectedly bolted from his seat and smacked his hand against one of the galley lockers.

Bang!

"Cockroach," Jeth said in explanation, wiping his hand on his sweatpants. "Big fucker."

Tomlinson winced.

"I hate those things."

Tomlinson said gently, "I don't want to put you off, man, but killing something during meditation is a bad deal, karmically speaking."

"Oh." Nervous, like he might start stuttering again. "Like respect for all living things, you mean."

"Pretty much."

"Like that business about how, after we die, we come back as cows and bugs and stuff?"

"Some people believe that."

Jeth was staring at the cockroach, worried. "Christ. I hope this guy wasn't an American. It's stone-dead, not even wiggling."

"It's done, man. Live in the present, not the past."

Jeth was nodding. "I'm not going to kill no more again. I see exactly what you're saying. Hell, I wouldn't want to get smashed like that. Poor little roach. No more, ever. Not even fish."

Jeth became quiet, and Tomlinson disappeared once again into cerebral nothingness, feeling himself, at once, shrink and grow.

More minutes passed. Then an hour. Then maybe two hours. Tomlinson wasn't sure; he never was. He kept no clocks.

After a long time, Tomlinson stirred, then unfolded his legs, stretching himself. He felt clear. The bulkheads of his boat, the books on the shelf, the incense burner smoldering on the hanging locker, and the brass barometer seemed to sparkle with the vibrating structure of their own molecules. He stood and took a bottle of water from the icebox, tasting the water. Good. Clear. Real. Outside, something thumped against the hull. An owl spoke,
Hoo-hoo-hoo.
maybe the one that had been dropping pellets on his boat. Ford would know what kind of owl it was. The voice of night.

Tomlinson turned and looked at the settee berth, where Jeth sat, head back, snoring softly.

Jeth had fallen asleep almost immediately.

Tomlinson took a towel from the water closet and spread it across the big man's chest, feeling, as his hand brushed Jeth's shoulder, an abrupt jolt of darkness, of confusion, like an electrical shock.

He stepped back quickly, wondering for a microseeond if he had
been
shocked—that's how strong the sensation was.

He stared at the man's peaceful, sleeping face, but felt no peace there.

Tomlinson went up the companionway steps and urinated into the bay, making slow circles in the water beneath the drifting moon. Then he lay down on the cockpit locker. The stars above moved and moaned, and he could not sleep.

In the morning, before the guides left, MacKinley came out in one of the little yellow rental boats and told Tomlinson to wake Jeth; the police wanted to talk to him again.

Later that same morning, MacKinley told Tomlinson the police had handcuffed Jeth while arresting him for the murder of Marvin Rios.

MacKinley said the cops didn't have to tell him, but they did: There had been an eyewitness.

The woman on the phone told Ford that visiting days at Glades Detention were Tuesday. Wednesday, Saturday, noon to four, so there was no way he could see Jeth Nicholes today.

A man at the clerk of courts office told him Nicholes was scheduled for his first court appearance tomorrow, Tuesday, a bail hearing.

"If he doesn't have an attorney," the man said to Ford's question, "the arresting officer's probably already contacted the public defender's office to get one appointed. If they didn't, the judge will see to that tomorrow, too."

Sitting in his stilt house, looking at the black plastic telephone on the hatch-cover table, Ford considered making one more call. He had grown up in South Florida, had played high school baseball and football before leaving at age eighteen for the navy, then government service, and had not returned to the region for nearly fifteen years. As a result, he had former friends in the area whom time and absence had reduced to distant acquaintances. One of those was Lester Durell, who had graduated from high school before him. and was now a major with the Sanibel/Fort Myers Police.

Finally, Ford picked up the phone, dialed, then waited to be transferred. He recognized the voice that answered, and he said. "Hey. Les, Marion Ford. How's it going?"

There was a short pause at the other end. then Lester Durell said. "Oh shit, what now?"

"Maybe I caught you at a bad time."

"Before you even get started. Marion, just tell me one thing. Does this have anything to do with official police business?"

"In a way. Maybe."

"Uh-huh. You recognize that noise?"

"Yeah, you're taping the call. You just turned it on. That's fine."

"Thought you might recognize it. Or maybe you have one of those resistance meters hooked up so you can tell when a line is bugged? Working for the CIA and all." Durell was having fun with this.

Ford said. "I don't work for the CIA. I never did."

"Sure. Now maybe you can tell me what it is you want."

"A small favor, that's all. A friend of mine, a man named Nicholes, was arrested this morning by your people and I—"

"For what? What was he arrested for?"

"Ah. murder."

"It figures."

"You know the Nicholes family, out of Coconut below Hendry Creek? A few in Everglades City. too. They've lived around here forever. Jeth Nicholes."

"I know the family, so what? I've heard of Jeth; supposed to be a hot fishing guide. It doesn't make any difference."

"I know that, Les. But one of your guys, a Detective Fuller, is working the case, and I was wondering—"

"Wondering what? If I could tell Fuller you're a good guy and to open his files to you? Tell Fuller you don't think the guy is guilty, so to lay off 'cause we used to play on the same football team? That's what this is about, isn't it? Your buddy's not guilty, same old shit we hear about every murderer that comes in here—"

Raising his own voice, Ford said. "I don't know if he did it or not. I just want to know can you get me in to see him today."

Durell waited for a moment before saying. "That's it?"

"That's it."

"But today's not a visitation day—unless they've changed the schedule."

"I'm aware of that."

Durell said. "Sorry. If the prisoner puts you on his visitors' list, the days are Tuesday, Wednesday, Saturdays. If you're not on the list, you've got to file a written request."

"Come on, Les, this is such a small thing—"

"And being familiar with our line of work. I know you wouldn't want me to break any rules."

Ford started to stay something else, but Durell cut in with official formality: "Anything else I can help you with, don't hesitate to call," and hung up.

From outside came the miscellaneous noises of a marina workday: the rhythmic grating of someone scraping barnacles off the bottom of a boat, the whine of a drill, an occasional voice lifted above the noise of a running outboard motor. Ford went out the screen door and made a contemplative tour around his porch. Beneath his house, he could see mangrove snapper wheeling around the pilings and pods of mullet darting past. He checked the fish in his tank. The sea anemones were all packaged, ready for UPS and the trip to Bowling Green State University, but he had left three anemones in the tank, and they looked very delicate and pretty there beneath the water.

The sun was up now, a vast white glare that leached all color from the sky, and already hot. hot, hot.

Finally, he went back inside, turned the fan on his face, and found his address book on top of the little refrigerator. He dialed the Two Parrot Bight Marina number and was glad that a young man answered, no one he knew. Speaking in what he hoped sounded like a prim, official tone, Ford said, "My name's Johnson, from the county census office. I hate to trouble you, but I'm afraid we need a couple of Social Seeurity numbers right away to get our records straight."

The young man said, "What? Oh, you'll have to call back; the manager isn't here right now."

Ford wondered who the young man considered the manager to be. Sutter, maybe? He hoped so; hoped Sutter wasn't there. Sutter might recognize his voice. He said, "I'm afraid we're in a hurry. You must have some kind of pay schedule in one of your files with the numbers. We need them for a Mr. Rios and a Mr. Sutter, Karl Sutter." The young man said, "But Mr. Rios's ... no longer; I mean, he died a couple days ago. The funeral's right now, today. That's why the manager's not here, his wife, neither. Mrs. Rios, I mean."

'That's exactly why I need the information now." Giving it some urgency, as if they couldn't bury Rios until the county census office had the Social Seeurity numbers.

The young man said, "Oh!" and put the phone down. Ford could hear customer noises in the background, someone asking why they couldn't pick out their own bait shrimp, someone asking was this all salt water? Then the young man was back and gave him both numbers, which Ford noted on a yellow pad.

"But why do you need Captain Sutter's number?" the young man asked.

Borrowing Les Durell's tone and style. Ford said, "For our records, of course," and thanked him.

Ford took up his address book again, and dialed a number with a Washington, D.C., area code, and left a message on the recording machine he knew would answer.

To the recorder, he said, "Sally, this is Ford," now looking through the thin Sanibel phone book as he spoke. "I need information on two men. One, a guy named Marvin Rios, ah ... I don't have a middle initial, sorry, but he lives here, on the island. You know which island, the one where you said you had so much fun last September. The other is Karl... Karl B. Sutter, same place. Antecedents unknown, probably the Midwest. Probably no military background, but I'm not sure. I have both Social Seeurity numbers..."

For the recorder, he matched the numbers with the names, then went outside and stepped into his flats boat.

Ford could see Dewey grimace slightly each time she brought the racket around, giving the ball wicked top spins, blasting it across the net into impossible comers of the opposite court where the electric server
whoofed
fluorescent green tennis balls at her.

At shaded tables, spectators sitting over drinks beneath umbrellas at the exclusive Punta Rassa Tennis Club didn't notice; about twenty people and at least two reporters watching Dewey Nye, once ranked thirteenth in the world, in her first full tennis workout since having elbow surgery. But Ford saw the slight involuntary grimace and knew that she was in pain.

At the refreshment bar, he bought a bottle of Coors Light, and, as he turned to find a scat, a man wearing a shirt bearing the club logo touched him on the arm. "Excuse me, sir. Is that your boat parked at the dock?"

"Tied at the dock, yes."

"Are you a member here? Your boat doesn't have a sticker."

"No, I'm waiting for Ms. Nye."

The man's cool tone dissipated. "Oh, you're a friend of hers?"

"That's right."

His smile became magnanimous. "In that case, excuse the inquiry. We have to be careful, you know."

"Absolutely," said Ford, who had never belonged to a tennis club—or any club—in his life. "Can't be too careful."

There were no empty tables near the court, so he sat on the grass in the shade, drinking his beer, a whole complex of courts to his right, most of them in use. Tennis courts, he decided, had an odor different from any of the sports facilities with which he was familiar. An odor of damp chalk—clay, he guessed—and neatly trimmed grass with just a hint of rubber; nothing cloying like the perfume worn by some of those women at the tables, but with a subtle tang to it, maybe like the interior of one of the Porsches baking in the heat out there in the parking lot.

Dewey caught his eye, grinned, and held up one finger—almost done. Her white knit shirt was soaked with sweat, hanging limp on her wide shoulders; her hair a dark gold now, as if she had just climbed out of a swimming pool. He watched her making shots near the net, forehands and backhands, grunting with the effort of each stroke, a low guttural noise with an animal intensity. Something about that noise did not fit here; the quality of brute determination created an off-chord sound quickly deflected by these neat surroundings, all these neat people watching.

We have to be careful, you know....

In that instant, Ford sensed what it was that attracted him to the woman, though it was difficult to pinpoint. Were it not for her skills, she would not be at this place— that was part of it. Not only would she not be on the court, she would not be at one of those shaded tables, watching. But it was more than that. Along with the innocence, there was a displaced quality about her, too—the strange quality of one who would have fit more comfortably into a different time, into a different place; a person who achieved, who prevailed, yet never quite meshed with the circumstances of her own life. Screens shielded her—her humor, her gruffness. Shielded others as well as herself.

It was a quality familiar to Ford. Why, he wasn't sure. There was a woman tagging along with Dewey; a tall woman, brown hair cropped short and brushed back, with wide brown eyes in a lean European face. The woman wore standard tennis dress—trim green shorts and a dark-blue designer shirt that had a sweeping burnt orange stripe across the back and chest. Long arms and longer legs, yet she moved fluidly, everything easy and relaxed, as if conserving energy; an athlete, physically sure of herself, and oddly attractive because of it, with her plain outdoor face.

Ford studied her a moment, considering the woman's wrists, her calves, the sunburn flush, the patched shoes, the charm bracelet, the style, the smile, and he thought:
East German or Eastern European. Is politically aware. A tennis player. Right-handed, likes gold jewelry. Isn't married; probably hasn't been in Florida more than a day or two.

The woman had been the first to Dewey's side when Dewey finished her workout, helping her zip rackets into their cases. Then she had produced an ice pack and was now seeuring it to Dewey's elbow, wrapping a flesh-colored athletic bandage round and round while Dewey sat on a folding chair inside the screened court, talking with the few spectators who had come in to meet her, and the two reporters, one with a notebook, the other with a tape recorder.

Like some kind of trainer, but she wasn't dressed that way. Didn't have the earnest professional look. Plus, she and Dewey were exchanging too many grins; laughing a lot together, and the reporters were talking to the taller woman, as well. A pro tennis player, probably, and Dewey's friend—though Dewey hadn't mentioned a friend visiting, or any female friends in the area. Which was just like Dewey.

Ford waited in the shade until they came through the gate, the two women together, and Dewey called to him, "Hey, Ford, I got someone I want you to meet. Just flew in yesterday, my old buddy Bets," meaning the tallwoman, who held out a firm hand, her expression friendlier than Ford had expected, but nothing shy about it, looking him right in the eye.

Dewey was chuckling, nudging Bets like a kid in school. "I told you he wouldn't know who the hell you were." Bets said. "Yes, it is kind of nice; I see what you mean," with an Eastern European accent that had lost the thudding
dahs
and
vhats.
probably abraded smooth by many years of speaking English.

Her amusement at not being recognized was real, but Ford still felt obliged to apologize, saying, "I don't follow sports like I should. I'm sorry—"

But she was already laughing it off, listening to Dewey say, "The guy doesn't even have a television. Still listens to records. Doesn't have a microwave!" The two of them looking at him like he was a zoo oddity, someone who had just crawled out of a cave, but putting him at ease, too, by cutting through the awkwardness usually present when a new friend meets an old friend.

Bets said, "You had better have a shower before you become chilled."

Dewey was flapping her shirt like a bellows, still wearing the ice pack. "My God, it must be ninety in the shade. But, yeah. I'm going to start stinking pretty quick." Checking for Ford's grin, and getting it. "Did you drive over?"

"I came by boat."

"Hum, that's a problem. Bets and I drove, so—I know!" Her face brightened. "You lake us for a spin in the boat, then drop us back here. Then we meet tonight for dinner ... at the Lazy Flamingo. Raw conch salad and beer." Making them a threesome, just like that.

Ford was still grinning, but now at the way she took complete control. "Sure, but on Monday nights—"

"Damn, that's right." To Bets, she said, "On Mondays, Doc boats up to Cabbage Key—that's a little island; a neat little hotel there—and watches Monday-night baseball on the tube. A real guy thing to do. You know, male bonding at the bar."

Bets said. "That sounds like fun."

Dewey said, "Bets loves boats. She grew up on the— what sea was it?"

"The Black Sea."

Ford thought,
Romania,
and knew immediately who the woman must be as she said. "When I was a little girl, only the fishermen and the party people had boats, everyone was so poor. So, yes, I enjoy boating now."