The Heat Islands: A Doc Ford Novel (27 page)

Harry was at the El Jobean railroad bridge waiting for them at ten after six, which is when they pulled up in the skiff. She was standing in the bed of the blue Chevy truck, smiling in the freshening rain wind.

Ford said, "She is one attractive woman. Tomlinson. A classic." She was, too, with the long black hair and a face that held the light just right.

Tomlinson said, "Yeah, but don't let her catch you with your guard down."

"What?" Ford was holding the skiff at the tide break while Tomlinson climbed out.

"She thinks too much. And she knows where the equipment goes. Life holds no mysteries from that woman." Confused, Ford said, "I meant that she is physically pretty."

"Exactly!" Tomlinson said. "You spotted it, too. That's the first warning sign. Always is." Half joking, half not, confusing Ford even more. Then Tomlinson said, "Hey— you going to stay and have dinner with us?"

"If I'm going to outrun the squall, I need to scoot."

"Domestic life," Tomlinson said miserably. "In the old days, I'd be going with you. Getting soaked, all beat to hell on the run back, maybe killed. Man. I
miss
it! Shit, the days dwindle down, just like the song says."

Ford had already idled away, looking at Harry, who was waving at him from the driver's window of the truck as she turned out onto the road ... and then he suddenly understood what Tomlinson was telling him.

"Boy oh boy," he said to himself. "Boy oh boy!" To Harry he yelled, "You're pregnant?"

Grinning, she nodded emphatically.

Ford yelled, "You're going to marry that guy?"

Still grinning, she shook her head just as emphatically. "No way! I'd end up a—!" End up a something. Ford couldn't hear, with the sound of the motor and the waves.

Laughing, feeling good for the first time all day. Ford skipped his skiff onto plane, enjoying the way it handled with only him aboard—lighter, faster—and took it hard through the green chop, leaning as he banked southwest, putting the squall over his right shoulder. The sea was following, blowing him in the direction he wanted to go, so he opened the engine a little, cutting through the waves like a cleaver, blasting spray.

A mile past the canal to Miller's Marina at Boca Grande, Ford realized for the first time that he had badly misjudged the storm. Not the squall over his shoulder—that was the standard afternoon shower, and he'd already put it behind him. But boiling out of the east was a long bank of purple thunderheads moving like smoke from a fire, vectoring toward the barrier islands. This front was pushing a lot of wind, carrying a lot of voltage, probably dragging tornadoes behind. Ford could tell by the taut ribbon of light between sea and sky, as if air molecules had been compressed into an explosive vortex of iridescent green.

Ford slowed briefly, watching. He considered turning back to Miller's. Or sitting it out at Cabbage Key. But then he told himself he had already wasted most of a working day allowing Tomlinson to bring him up here. He told himself that the storm probably wasn't as bad as it looked, and his skiff was so fast, he could probably outrun it anyway. Both lies.

The fact was. Ford liked storms. In the right mood, and in the right boat, he liked being out in storms. He liked the intimacy of it. He liked having to deal with the elements— people so rarely had to deal with anything elemental. Wind, fire, water—it was all there. He liked being out and alone in the wind and wild light of a blowing rain squall; liked the way it focused his attention and reduced all the threads of his life to one gleaming filament. Not that he went hunting squalls. Nor would he have admitted it, if he did. But there were times when he had the option of sitting one out or riding one out. When he was alone, he nearly always chose to ride.

Ford rode now.

At 6:15 p.m., Dewey helped Walda stack two suitcases of clothes and one trunk of tennis equipment in the trunk of the rental car, and then they stood looking at one another, both of them uncomfortable with good-byes.

"I'll call you when I get to London. In the morning. Morning here, afternoon there."

Dewey said, "I'll be right here, closing up the house."

"You're certain you don't want me to stay and help?"

"Christ, Bets, you keep putting it off. You're a week late as it is. Just get on your damn plane. I'll be there Sunday."

"Monday morning," Walda corrected. "Don't forget the time difference."

"Like I've never traveled. Give me a break."

They both laughed. "I told you I'm staying at the Boar's Head?"

"About a dozen times. God, the names they give hotels over there. You told me."

"And you're sure you don't mind just watching, not playing?"

"Are you kiddin'? I'm looking forward to it."

"Then I'll see you Monday morning."

"Monday morning at Heathrow. Right."

Walda put her arms out, and the women held each other briefly, then Walda got into the rental car and backed out onto San Cap Road.

Dewey stood in the lawn, watching her, then she looked at the sky.

The wind was blowing, scattering pine needles and leaves. Sand was blowing so hard off the beach that it hurt when it hit her bare legs. It was almost dark, because of the clouds, and Dewey knew a bad storm was coming.

She went into the house to check the windows, and before she'd even gotten to the bedrooms, the storm hit. Lots of rain pouring down. Coming down so hard, she couldn't even see out the glass. Lots of lightning, great big explosions that made the lights flicker.

Dewey put water and a tea bag in a mug, stuck it in the microwave, then went to the bathroom to check the windows there.

When the tea was ready, she found a notepad, pen, and sat at the kitchen table. She wanted to make a list of all the things she had to do before leaving for London.

She had to contact the yardman, the pool man, the plumber, the mailman, the newspaper guy. the island police. So damn much to do, but she'd probably be gone the whole summer, that's the way it looked. Spend the rest of the month in London, stick around for Wimbledon, then back to New York for the Open. Her and Bets.

I shoulda made Bets leave for the airport earlier. It rains every day in the afternoon; I knew that. Her out there driving in this mess.
..

Looking at the tablet, Dewey had the peripheral impression of something passing across the kitchen window.

Abrupt movement; a shadow. Something big.

She turned to look—and saw only a stream of rain blurring the glass.

Probably a tree limb. Or a pelican diving for cover.

She returned her attention to the list she was formulating. But then her mind wandered, and she thought about London, and she thought about Bets, and she thought about last night, the time she'd spent with Ford.

At the top of the tablet, she doodled,
DOC.

Not that she hadn't tried it before. She had. a couple of times. But never with a guy she'd felt so comfortable with. And. truth was, it wasn't bad. Not with Doc, it wasn't. In fact, it was kind of nice to think about the way he held her; just held her, nothing else. She and Doc. alone, and close, holding. That much of it. she'd like to try again. The rest, it didn't matter. Didn't do a thing for her. and she doubted that it ever would. Doc was right: She was the way she was. But it was too much to ask of him to keep it at just that.

Still, Doc was different....

Why'd I have to tell Bets I'd leave for London Sunday? It's not like I have to get there in time to play.

Dewey tapped the pen on the paper, thinking, considering her options. She could leave for London later in the week, but it wasn't the kind of thing she could explain to Bets. Not on the phone, anyway. Not without upsetting her. Which wasn't fair to do, with Bets getting ready to play the biggest tournament of the year.

Nope. I told her I'd be there, and I will.

Dewey took the tea mug in her hand and, as she did, she heard a faint electronic voice beyond the kitchen door which led into the carport:
"Back away from this vehicle
—
you are too close!"

The anti-theft system in her Corvette, probably warning that damn stray dog that he should find someplace else to piss.

But then Dewey had a thought. Maybe the weather was too bad, and Bets had returned. Or maybe she had forgotten something. With ten minutes to talk, face to face, she could explain it all and spend another week on the island. Spend some more time with Doc. Bets wouldn't mind that—she'd said so more than once.

Dewey stood and walked toward the door to the carport.

Then she noticed the doorknob, and she knew the neighbor's dog wasn't waiting for her out there. It had to be Bets, because the doorknob was turning.

The storm caught Ford just below Captiva Pass as he ran the inside passage from Cabbage Key. The first cold wall of wind slammed past him so hard that, for a microsecond, he thought the skiff might kite upward and flip. He regained control, then slowed long enough to put on his red foul-weather jacket.

Behind him, he could see the rain coming, making patterns on the water as it swept along.

That gust had to he fifty knots, and you're out here in an eighteen-foot boat. Coconut head!

Ford considered fighting his way back to Cabbage Key; pictured himself drinking hot coffee on the porch, talking to Rob and Terry while the rain roared down outside. The prospect was so attractive that he almost did it, almost swung the skiff around. Or thought about ducking into Safety Harbor; maybe the restaurant was open there.

But then the rain hit. Came thumping down on him, a great weighty haze of silver that isolated him from all land everywhere, and narrowed his focus to the water, the steering wheel, and his dripping hands.

Great. Now I've got no choice.

Which, in truth, was the circumstance he desired. To be in a storm without option was to be shed of all affectation and the risk of contrivance. It made an unreasonable action reasonable, so Ford welcomed it. He didn't want the luxury of a choice, because he saw himself as an unremittingly reasonable man.

I'll have to keep going. Wish I hadn't let Tomlinson take the six-pack. A beer would be something good right now.

He got the skiff up, but had to back off, the raindrops were smacking his face so hard. He couldn't go fast anyway, the waves were so ragged. Had to nurse the skiff along, timing the waves, jumping them or chopping through. With the rain and the spray, he was soaked. Even with the foul-weather jacket, cold water dripped down his back, down his arms.

The direction of the storm had changed gradually so that now it was out of the northwest, and Ford decided he could run along the bayside edge of the barrier islands, get a break in the lee. Problem was, he wasn't sure where he was, visibility was so bad, and there were old pilings and bars to worry about.

As Ford well knew, the makeup of all Florida, and all of its bays, was perfectly mirrored by the microcosm of each of its sandbars: a series of washboard swales and ridges on an incline that is pitted and creased by water current. If he could keep moving to the right, keep jumping bars, he would eventually get to the grass swale that edged the mangroves. Then he could follow that mangrove border home.

Which is exactly what he did. He banked west, keeping a close eye on the water beneath his skiff. He trimmed the boat bow down, tilted the engine up, and wallowed along. Kicked sand up on a bar that he guessed was a couple of miles off Tween Waters Marina, so he looked hard for the ruins of an old piling house—and found them.

Surprise, surprise
—
I'm not lost.

Pleased with himself, he turned the skiff shoreward, aware there were more bars, but the tide was up. and the closer he got to Captiva Island, the bigger the break he got from the wind. He was already past South Seas Plantation, so Buck Key and Wulfert Channel were ahead, then Blind Pass, which was near Dewey's home.

Ford considered stopping—he knew Walda was leaving, had probably already left. Which meant the two of them would be alone, just him and Dewey. He also knew Dewey had to make her decision whether to go to London or stay on the island and practice golf—though that decision seemed manifest. She would go. Yet, in some perverse way, that made the prospect of stopping all the more | fetching. Like being in a storm without options, Dewey was even more attractive when he knew there was no chance of winning her. Not just because of Walda, but because of the way Dewey was. That he cared deeply about her, there was no doubt. And that he could not lose his freedom to her made him want her even more.

Ford steered toward Wulfert Channel, going slow because there were so many bars. He kept expecting the rain and the wind to slacken, but it did not. He kept looking for markers ... looking for markers, thinking:
If I really did care for her. I'd leave her alone tonight. Let her call me if she wants....

And, gradually, he turned the boat away from Blind Pass, water dripping off his nose; turned away the moment the brain electrons formulated that thought—and instantly yanked back on the throttle because there was a boat only yards in front of him. A big boat; too big for water so shallow.

What the hell is that doing here?

About a twenty-eight-foot Pursuit with a cabin and a big golden Suzuki engine mounted on the transom. Seen through the scrim of rain, it looked like a ghost ship, banging bow high on the sandbar, hard aground.

Ford moved slowly past the boat, looking. He called, "Hello the boat! Anyone aboard?" Called several times, but no reply. He considered boarding the boat, just to make sure no one was hurt, stranded there. But then he thought,
Even if they were injured, they could wade ashore, it's so shallow.

So he pulled away, picking up speed, finding the rhythm of the waves again ... but something troubled him. Something about that boat—what the hell was it?

Then he realized: He knew that boat. It was ... Karl Sutter's—yeah! He'd seen it close only once, that night at Dinkin's Bay, but he recognized it. A boat badly chosen;