“Want a hit?” he asked several times, cupping the joint. “This shit’s so strong, you won’t have another headache until your next incarnation- then only if some quack grabs you by the head with forceps.”
The drugs were beginning to do their work.
Gradually, his focus rotated inward, attuned to some gathering cerebral momentum that he hid outwardly with sly jokes and articulate sentences. But now he wanted to enjoy the drug-crest in private. Either that or he needed a booster. Because my disapproval would cause unease, he wanted to be alone. Or he would wander beachside-somewhere near the Mucky Duck or Jensen’s-and seek the sanction of bleary-eyed kindred.
Another sign he wanted me gone was that he refused to let me look at the bite he kept scratching. Or discuss it-even when I told him he could lose his leg if he’d been bitten by something with venom that caused necrosis. A brown recluse spider, for instance.
His decision. I didn’t argue. I was exhausted, hungry, and I still had work to do before my new supervisors arrived to evaluate my work. So I was going. But not yet.
I had stowed the night-vision monocular, but took it out as Tomlinson said, “We could’ve bought the farm tonight, compadre.”
He’d repeated that over and over, too, choosing a different cliche each time-kick the bucket, hit the high trail, pushin’ up daisies, like shit-through-a-goose. Maybe the homey idioms mitigated the terror of what had almost happened.
Focusing the monocular, I replied, “We’re born lucky-maybe they wouldn’t have attacked. We’ll never know.”
I was looking through the green-eye at my stilt house a hundred yards away. Supported by pilings, braced like a railroad bridge, the place looked like a nineteenth-century woodcut.
“Everything hunky-dory? Or maybe there are a couple of fins circling?”
He chuckled as he said it, but wasn’t joking. A few minutes earlier, idling toward No Mas, he’d startled me by breaking into my thoughts, saying, “Sharks are your totem. Predators attract.”
At the same instant, I was brooding over two previous encounters with aggressive sharks, both recent. As a biologist, I knew they were statistical anomalies. But why were the statistics suddenly askew? Fact was, I’d had more close calls in the last few years than an entire lifetime at sea.
Same was true of predators of a different sort.
I’d replied, “I thought opposites attracted. But there I go again being linear, bringing up the laws of physics.”
“Physics applies,” he countered. “Quantum physics. There’s a theory that whatever we envision becomes reality. I think those hammerheads zeroed in on a distress call. But it wasn’t the whales who were calling.”
“Ahhh. So they were coming to rescue me.”
“In a way. Maybe. You weren’t exactly turning cartwheels when you got the news from your neurologist.”
I replied, “No, but it could’ve been worse.” Which was true. I’d been diagnosed with cerebral vasculitis, an unusual disorder with numerous possible causes. A life spent banging around the tropics had probably contributed. The disease can be treated with corticosteroids, which may delay the inevitable. Sooner or later, most of us will listen to a physician speak the name of our killer.
I told Tomlinson, “Have I seemed upset? Truth is, I like the certainty of knowing.”
“Then your distress signals are job-related. You’ve been restless as a cat since cutting your old ties. Free to hole up and live a safe little life? Definitely not you, man. Sharks are totemic. They recognize your scent.”
Now he was joking about it, hoping I’d react. But the concept of animal totems was something I didn’t want to explore. Not now.
“No sharks circling,” I said as I slid the monocular into its case. Then I added in a voice loud enough to be heard across the water, “I thought I left the lights on, but I was wrong. You ever do something stupid like that?”
“Damn,” he said, recoiling. “What’s the deal? I’m not deaf.”
He put his hands over his ears as I said even louder, “I’m not going straight home. I have things to do at the marina.”
He looked at me like I was nuts. “Never raise your voice to a man who may or may not have recently eaten peyote. Jesus Christ! Especially out of the fucking blue. It’s like getting hit in the temple with ice balls.”
He was suspicious when I waved him closer, but I spoke softly. "We’re being watched.”
Someone was inside my stilt house, standing at the kitchen window. A man, not a woman.
I came through the living room, switching on lights that didn’t work, swearing aloud as if I didn’t know someone was in the house. Whoever it was had found the breaker panel in the utility closet, and offed the master switch. Had to be, or the generator would be running.
Maybe that’s where the man was hiding. Or men-in the utility closet.
I had a brilliant little Triad LED flashlight in my pocket, but didn’t use it because I was wearing the green-eye. As long as the power was off, I had the advantage. No way my visitors could know.
In my hand, I had a chunk of axe handle, wrapped with manila cord. My friend, Matthiessen, gave it to me years ago, nicely weighted for dispatching fish. I would’ve preferred to be carrying a handgun-the SIG Sauer, or the little Colt. 380-but they were in the hidden floor compartment beneath my bed.
I hadn’t used the fishbilly in a long time. I was eager to use it now.
My house had been ransacked. Books, drawers, clothes were scattered. Maybe he’d done the same in the lab-I hadn’t looked yet. Just the thought of it made my stomach turn, but I had to check the main house first. It was because of the smell.
Kerosene.
It had spilled somewhere. A lot of it. When you live in a house built of yellow pine-pine so dense with resin you can’t drive a nail-the smell of flammable liquids registers like an alarm. That’s why I’d rushed up the stairs instead of taking it slow, using my night vision to surprise the guy. I’d followed my nose, moving incrementally faster as the smell grew stronger.
The petroleum stink had brought me here, to the kitchen, where the pilot light of my propane stove glittered like a sparkler. Not much risk of an explosion, but dangerous. On the counter was a kerosene can on its side, top off, near a heap of towels. The pine floor was stained black.
I had to shove the reading chair out of the way to get into the kitchen where I stood for a moment, alert. There was a rustling sound, then a metallic clack. The lights came on, compressors started, ceiling fans began to rotate overhead. My telephone answering machine came on, too, its message light blinking rapid-fire. Lots and lots of messages-unusual.
I focused on the utility closet as a man stepped out, holding a gun. Not one of mine-a shiny little derringer, so small that maybe it was a lighter instead.
"you’re him, right? Ford. The one the girls call ’Doc.’ ”
I’d taken off the monocular and was adjusting my glasses, looking at a man, late twenties, short, with bulked-up chest and forearms. He was wearing sweatpants and a crew-neck T, but expensive. A guy who spent time in malls, and in front of the mirror.
It was Corey’s husband. I’d seen photos.
He’d been a firefighter, I remembered, before he was canned for misconduct. Something about making a scene, losing his temper. One steroid drama too many. But I was blanking on his name. Last name was Varigono, but his first name was… Vince? Lance?
I said, “That’s right, Ford. The one who’s going to introduce you to the cops in a few minutes, then testify in court before they put you in jail for ten years.”
“No way. Even if you suspected, you wouldn’t call the cops. Shay told us about you.” He was trying to be cool, but his face was twitching as he crossed the room toward the stove. “You never call the cops, ever, because you can’t. It’s because of what you do. Some kind of illegal shit-Shay never figured it out.”