After collecting more than a hundred horseshoe crabs and depositing them in a holding pen near my stilt house, we ran east across the bay to Pine Island, where we had two or three beers at the Waterfront, and ate a bucket of local clams. Then we sped back-country to Pineland and the Tarpon Lodge, where we had more beer, and a spectacular portabello stuffed with fresh oysters.
By then it was close to sunset, so we made a straight shot between Patricio Island and Bokeelia to Boca Grande, and tied off at Mark Futch’s seaplane dock. We walked to the Temptation Restaurant where Annie, behind the bar, served us drinks, but refused to read the tarot cards for us.
“Not when you two are together,” she said. “I done it once, and once was too much.”
Weaving only slightly, Tomlinson told her, “I remember when you did the reading. But you didn’t tell us what the cards said. What’s our fate?”
He was grinning.
Annie wasn’t.
“I didn’t tell you for a reason,” Annie said cryptically. “So please don’t ever ask me again.”
The next mental snapshot I have is of us pulling into the Palm Island docks, off Lemon Bay. We had ribs with Swamp Sauce at Rum Bay Restaurant, then borrowed Jill Beck-stead’s golf cart and drove around Don Pedro Island with a tin bucket filled with ice and beer, feeling a dark, sea-oat wind, smelling Gulf air off the beach.
On the way back, we stopped at Cabbage Key-two more beers with Rob and Terry at the bar-then we were at the Green Flash, drinking Rogerita Margaritas with Andreas, the owner. I remember getting into an intense discussion with a tourist lady from Seattle-her name was Gail-about the important role horseshoe crabs play in cancer research.
As scientists around the world have discovered, I told her, the blue blood of the horseshoe crab, Limulus polyphemus, reacts dramatically when endotoxins are introduced. Endotoxins, which are dead cell walls and bits of bacteria, cause horseshoe crab blood to clot immediately. The blood is an excellent diagnostic tool.
I told her, “It’s actually an arthropod, not a crab at all. It’s more closely related to ticks and scorpions. Fascinating, huh?”
Gail was an attractive redhead with lively green eyes. Turning away from me, she said, “Not really.”
Moonrise that Wednesday night was a little after ten, and by the time Tomlinson and I idled into the Dinkin’s Bay Marina boat basin, it was adrift above the mangrove rim, a gaseous orange mass in a sky that was weightless, black.
“The paschal moon,” Tomlinson said. “The first full moon before Easter Sunday.”
When I told him it was a couple of days past full, he said, “Details. It’s still the Passover moon.”
We’d both sobered on our trip back. Comfortable silence is one of the barometers of friendship, and we rode most of the trip wordlessly, watching the moonrise, enjoying the familiar bay nightscape of strobeing channel markers, hedgerows of mangrove shadow, pocket constellations of light on island enclaves such as Useppa, Safety Harbor, De mery Key, South Seas.
As I banked through the mouth of Dinkin’s Bay, Tomlinson finally spoke, mentioned the moon and then said, “If I haven’t told you already, I’m embarrassed about the way I behaved at Sawgrass. It makes me want to scream, the way that wicked bastard manipulated me. I feel embarrassed. Weak and guilty as hell.”
I said, “I can relate,” in a tone so bitter that the intensity startled even me.
“That’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about, man. Doc, there’s something been chewing you down to the core. You’re not yourself, and we all know it. A couple of days ago, I walked into your galley. You weren’t there. There was a gun lying out, bullets on the table. A square black pistol. Why?”
I waited for a moment before I said, “Cleaning it. That’s all.”
“Cleaning a gun for no reason.”
I didn’t reply.
Tomlinson said, “I don’t buy it, my brother. That’s why I want to tell you this. I’m drunk, but not too drunk to say what’s true. I’m aware that you have blood on your hands. But so do I. You know it now, you’ve always known it. Since we met, you’ve always known what I really am.”
I said, “Yes.”
“And you were assigned to take care of me. Right? Right? Like you took care of Jeff Ruben at the Slope Bar in Aspen.”
I said nothing.
“Well, guess what, man. I’m guilty. Guilty as sin. But not you. Guilt requires malicious intent. You were an employee. A messenger. ”
I chuckled. “Tell that to Amelia Gardner. Or about fifteen other people.”
Tomlinson put his hand on my shoulder. “Billie Egret called me yesterday. We talked about Shiva. We also talked about you. Because of her father, what you meant to Joseph, she takes her relationship with you very seriously.
“Know what she told me? She said that balance and equilibrium are the central elements of the Maskoki universe, the Seminole world. Reciprocity, she called it. If you give bad, you get bad in return. If you take, you have to give.
“Doc, you give as much as any person I’ve ever met. There’re a bunch of us who depend on you, count on you. Goddamn it, you’re the strong one. It’s scaring us that you’re acting weak. You’ve given back a hell of a lot more than you’ve taken.”
I steered silently, the stainless-steel wheel cool beneath my fingers, seeing a sprinkling of lights in the mangrove lake darkness: Dinkin’s Bay Marina.
Tomlinson said, “Billie told me to tell you that. I don’t know why. Something else I’m supposed to tell you, too: After that little tremor on Sunday, water level in the marsh around Chekika’s Hammock dropped. Remember James Tiger saying they could only find Lost Lake when the water’s down? Well, the lake’s visible now. The tarpon have shown up. She wants you to come with me Sunday, and see it.”
I said, “I’d like that. It’s something I’ve always heard about. A hole in the Everglades that opens out to the ocean. Maybe take some dive gear if there’s any visibility.”
Then I said, “Hey, why Sunday? The traffic will be a pain in the ass, and we can’t go by boat.”
Tomlinson said, “I don’t know. A strong woman like Billie, she didn’t leave much room for discussion.”
“But we’ve got a game. Baseball at Terry Park.”
“Not this Sunday,” Tomlinson reminded me. “This Sunday, we’re off because it’s Easter.” chapter twenty-four izzy
On the morning of April 18th, Good Friday, Izzy Kline took a cab to E-Z U-Haul Rental Center off Powerline Road and S.W. 10th Street, Deerfield Beach. He used a postal money order, a Social Security number he’d lifted from the Internet and a newly counterfeited driver’s license to rent a truck.
He’d already given them his assumed name, a credit card number and expiration date over the phone.
What he chose was U-Haul’s four-wheel-drive, five-ton “Thrifty Mover,” a medium-sized diesel with a fourteen-foot cargo trailer built over the back. Its maximum load capacity was three thousand pounds. That was more than enough for what Izzy needed.
As he left, the clerk said, “Thanks, Mr. Tomlinson. See you on Monday.”
Izzy, wearing a baggy, knitted Rasta hat, and an expensive theatrical goatee, waved to cover his face, and replied, “Save the Earth, brother! Fight the madness!”
The hat and goatee were in a 7-Eleven trash Dumpster before he got back to the Interstate.
After that, he went straight to his condo in West Palm Beach, and moved the last of his personal items-a DVD player, a big-screen TV, similar electronic stuff-into the truck, and drove to Port of the Everglades. He paid three Mexican illegals to pack it all in boxes alongside his Astro van, his Suzuki motorcycle, all his furniture and clothing, in a semi-sized container that was already loaded on a cargo ship. The ship was scheduled to leave tomorrow, Saturday, for Central America.
With the truck empty, Izzy drove south on I-95, headed for Sawgrass. He had the speakers turned loud, playing one of his favorite CDs, World’s Most Beloved Waltzes.