Heard Tomlinson's voice say: You and Hannah are both extreme people.
Which is when I threw the covers back and dialed Hannah's number. On the push-button phone, her number sounded like an abbreviated stanza of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."
I let it ring and ring. No answer. There was another thing I liked about her: She was one of the two or three people remaining in America who did not use an answering machine.
I dressed and went outside. I used my mooring pulley-system to haul my flats skiff close enough, then mounted the White Shark trolling motor on the bow—just in case I needed to move quickly and silently through the night. Afterward, I idled over to the marina to top off the fuel tank; then I got in my truck and drove into town to visit Tomlinson.
Something new had been added to Tomlinson's retinue of tubes and wires: an electroencephalogram monitoring system. While I listened to the respirator do his breathing—keesh-ah . . . keesh-ah—and listened to the heart monitor echo the pulse of his heart—bleep . . . bleep . . . bleep—I could now watch Tomlinson's brain waves track across a green CRT screen. They had wheeled him over beneath an oblong window. Light from the window washed over him, and he looked very tiny, paper-thin, and frail.
I stood there for an hour or more watching the screen, eyes fixed to the monotonous flow of oscillations. For long stretches of time, the waves drifted along incrementally. Small, even bumps that were widely spaced. But every now and then the man would reward me with a fast series of snow-cone shaped peaks, letting me know that he was still in there, still alive beneath all the gauze and damaged skull bone.
Hang in there, Tomlinson. Fight your ass off and dream good dreams.
Dr. Corales wasn't around, but I ingratiated myself with a pretty little red-haired nurse who had runner's legs and killer green eyes. Her name was Debbie. Debbie checked the chart for me, and her reluctance to pass along information told me that the prognosis still wasn't good. She told me, "You never know with head injuries. People can recover in a few weeks, or . . ."
I finished her sentence without speaking it: Or a few years... or they never recover, ever.
She said, "Please don't tell anyone I told you, but I think Dr. Corales is planning another surgery for him tonight, or maybe early Thursday morning. She believes head injury patients do better if she operates at midnight or later. Some people say she's cold, not very emotional—not much of a spiritual side, I guess—but she's still about the best around, so you don't have to worry about that."
I told Nurse Debbie that I was certain Tomlinson was getting excellent care.
Rhonda Lister arrived. The Dinkin's Bay people were visiting Tomlinson in shifts now. I went off and tried to call Hannah again—still no answer—before returning to the intensive care unit, where Rhonda and I stood and watched the EEG screen, not saying much. Rhonda left and Nels showed up. He was doing his charters in an old Suncoast that he was renting. The deck was trampoline-soft with age, but it had good bait wells and he was making money again. We made no mention of the explosion that had ruined his new boat, but neither was there any awkwardness between us. Tomlinson—his condition—had leached away any lingering and private bitterness that remained.
Jeth showed up at five. Took one look at Tomlinson and got weepy again. We took the elevator down to the cafeteria. One of life's great ironies is that hospitals, despite their staffs of professional nutritionists, produce the world's worst food.
I didn't care. I didn't want to eat. I wanted to remain lean and light. I didn't want digestion to slow my thinking processes.
As Jeth wolfed down pasty mashed potatoes, he looked at me and said, "You're gettin' those black things under your eyes, Doc. Like circles? You don't need to stay here no more. Mack's gonna be in around suh-suh-suh-six.
I told Jeth I'd stay a little longer. What I didn't tell him was that I wanted to keep my mind occupied until well after dark.
Hannah was right. The nautical charts did not show Copper Rim. But I knew it was north of Gumbo Limbo, some vacant stretch of mangrove fringe, and that was all I needed to know.
At just after ten p.m., I left the wooden channel markers at the mouth of Dinkin's Bay and pointed my skiff into a thumping, blustery northwest wind that seemed to blow down out of the stars. Dark night with scudding clouds and rolling black seas. I banged along at half throttle, bow trimmed high, trying to sense a rhythm to the waves so that I could find the driest, most effective speed.
But there was no rhythm, no order. Just the ice-gray combing of breakers that I could not see until they were on me. Each time I miscalculated, my boat would slam belly-hard into the trough and the hull would vibrate like a wounded animal. I thought about using the Starlite goggles, but didn't want to risk getting them soaked. So I took it easy. Pounded along, taking the occasional wave over the bow-quarter. Considering the conditions, the skiff powered me comfortably enough. Sweet-riding boat on a nasty, nasty night. There was no rush. None at all. I wanted to give the squatters at Copper Rim plenty of time to finish the night's fishing— or the night's drinking—and get back to camp. The more men there, the better my chances of singling out the ones who had attacked Tomlinson.
When I was below Blind Pass, I angled in close to shore. With the exception of Sanibel, the barrier islands of Florida's west coast run north and south. Now those islands provided an effective windbreak. I got the engine trimmed high and fast. There was still some chop, but not enough to soak me. Reached beneath the console, removed the night-vision goggles and strapped them over my eyes. Darkness was transformed into pale green dusk. The charcoal smear of islands became hedges of mangrove trees, singular and distinct. South of Redfish Pass, there were unlit mooring buoys. Picked them up well in advance, no problem. Using the goggles was like viewing the world through a jade tunnel that was hazed with glitter. Off to my left, the house lights of Captiva ascended star-bright into view. To each incandescent bulb, the goggles added the illusion of a streaking meteor's tail; created a glowing arc of fire that shocked the eye and penetrated to the brain.
I looked away.
Thought about Hannah; the story she had told me. Prior to leaving my house, I'd tried to call her once more. Still no answer. She was probably out in her boat, maybe not far from where I was now. Maybe working in the lee of some nearby island, picking mullet, alone.
The thought of that created an odd surge of emotion within me, the sensation of the heart being squeezed. But it was not useful to linger over such thoughts or feelings, so I turned my mind to other things.
It took more than two hours to get to the northern tip of Sulphur Wells. I'd taken off the night-vision goggles by then—didn't need them in open water—and resealed them in their case. I did an experimental run along the perimeter of the island, standing a mile or so off shore. To the south was Gumbo Limbo. Inland and to the north was the village of Rancho: a glimmer of yellow windows. Between lay the unbroken darkness of mangrove swamp . . . and then I saw what I knew had to be Copper Rim: a golden swash of campfire light.
I took my time. Didn't want anyone there to suspect a boat was approaching. An ideal night water insertion reauires that at least two people be aboard. One drives past the point of insertion at full speed while the other lies on the gunwale . . . does a quick push-up . . . then rolls into the water holding his mask in place. The method is silent and also strategically advantageous: A boat sped past in the night. Big deal.
But I didn't want anyone with me; couldn't risk it. And I had done this sort of thing, alone, before.