“About those particles,” I said. “Funny thing, your float seems to have transferred some grains into the rub rails of two boats. The Outcast and the Sea Spray.”
Flynn said, after a long moment, “First I've heard of it.”
“Really? Small town gossip and all that? But now that you've heard, any idea how it could have happened?”
“Floats float.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning I towed the seeding floats behind my boat. Experimenting with phase two.”
“Floats, plural?”
“A bouquet of floats, Ms. Oldfield.” He gave me a sly smile.
Was he mocking our azalea breakthrough? Didn't matter, he creeped me out.
“One float could have broken loose,” he continued. “Your boats could have come along at a later time and impacted the detached float.”
“Up at the rub rails?”
Flynn shrugged.
“And why would those boats be there, at your bloom, in the first place?”
“It's a free ocean.”
I shook my head. “So your detached float somehow impacted two boats, and then it was found by Joao Silva?”
“Floats float. People find and collect them. Marine stores sell them as curios. Maybe your Mr. Silva was doing a recreational dive and found the float.”
“This is the diver who was found poisoned at the Keasling beach.”
“So I understand.”
“It's a bit of a coincidence, don't you think? He was poisoned by eating anchovies contaminated with domoic acid. Which is, coincidentally, produced by your algal bloom.”
“It's a big ocean. There are other blooms.”
“But this diver found your red float. From your bloom. Maybe you wanted to prevent him from telling people about your project.”
“I just told you all about it.”
Tolliver said, “We just pressured you into telling us.”
“I'm a savior. Not a poisoner.”
I said, “Or a throw-somebody-overboarder?”
“A what?”
“Robbie Donie. The fisherman.”
“I didn't know him.”
“Funny thing,” I said, “the fisherman you didn't know found a yellow float that appears to have come from a monitoring instrument array on the reef beneath your algal bloom.” I added, “I'm referring to the setup Doug told you about yesterday at sea. The setup you claimed to know nothing about.”
“I wasn't prepared to tell my story yesterday.”
“But now we've encouraged you.” I smiled. “So, the yellow float?”
“Of course the bloom is monitored. As a matter of fact, we did lose a yellow float from the recovery package. A faulty attachment. So that fisherman found it? Floats float.”
“We?”
Flynn folded his arms again. “I see what you're doing. You think you're tricking me into telling you who I work with. You take me for a fool? Of course, we. It's not a one-man job. I do the development, the brain work. I hire people to do the grunt work. So when I say we I am referring to the hirelings, a company called Dive Solutions.”
Walter and Tolliver and I exchanged a look. Two plus two equals four. Of course.
Tolliver said, “We were just chatting with Fred Stavis about the red float. He claimed ignorance.”
“He follows orders. He signed a confidentiality agreement. My work is proprietary. I've made a provisional patent application. If my invention gets leaked at this point, an opportunist could steal it.”
“Lanny too? Did he sign?”
“Lanny?”
“Lanny Keasling, works for Fred Stavis.” Tolliver added, “The same Lanny Keasling you rescued five years ago when he hit his head and nearly drowned. You recall?”
“Of course I recall. So does he.”
Tolliver studied Flynn, as if he'd just met him. “How does that work with you, Oscar? You save his life, he owes you?”
“He pays me back.”
“Oh? You mean, working for you?”
“I mean he makes me a hero.”
Tolliver did not seem to know what to say. Nor did Walter. Nor did I. We stood there mired in wonder. I searched Flynn's face for a hint of a smile, for some sign that he was joking, but I realized that Oscar Flynn did not joke.
“And no,” Flynn added, “the Keasling boy didn't need to sign — Fred's signature covered all the hirelings.”
“All right, Oscar.” Tolliver raked his pompadour. “I still want to have a look at that paperwork you mentioned. Tie up loose ends. Why don't you bring it into the department tomorrow?”
Flynn sighed. “What time?”
“Let's say ten in the A.M. If that works for you. No earlier, for me. It's been one hell of a long day and I plan to sleep late.”
“Ten,” Flynn agreed. “I never sleep late.”
I planned to return to the lab and try to make sense out of Flynn's story — kick around some scenarios with Walter. Then grab dinner and get to bed early and, please, sleep until eight tomorrow morning, at the earliest.
I trailed Walter and Tolliver toward the glass doors. Along the way I skirted the balcony rail and glanced down into the water.
“Flood tide.”
Flynn's deep voice, way too close, almost in my ear. I would have jumped if I hadn't been weighted with fatigue.
“Look there,” he said. “One's riding the incoming.”
I saw it then, delicate little moon.
He said, “No way to tell, is there? Could be a humdrum. Could be a bad boy.”
CHAPTER 35
“I'm not home!” Lanny's voice blared through the phone.
Sandy Keasling threw back the covers and sat up straight and switched the cell phone to her other ear, the ear that wasn't ringing from Lanny's shout.
“Pipe down,” she muttered into the phone. She was barely awake. What time was it? She glanced at her bedside clock. The glowing numerals said 6:05. Six in the friggin' morning.
Lanny lowered his voice to a whisper.
Wherever he was there was noise in the background and she couldn't make out what he'd whispered. “Where are you?” she said. “What's all that noise?” Engine noise, she thought. “Speak up.”
“I want you not to worry,” he said, in a softer shout.
She shook her head. She was up now, standing barefoot on the cold floor. She glanced out the window. Foggy morning. She shivered. She slept in the buff. Standing here now buck naked. “Hang on,” she said. She set the cell phone on the bed and fumbled into her fuzzy robe. She picked up the phone. “This better be good.”
“I'm going to make you proud.”
Now he was talking in a soft voice, his shy voice, and she could barely make it out but it was better than being shouted at. “Make me proud?” She headed out her door, down the hallway toward his room. “Where are you?”
“I can't tell you.”
She flung open his door. His room was empty. His bed was neatly made.
“I have to go now.”
“Wait.” Now she was shouting. “You can't call me at six in the friggin' morning and tell me don't worry you're going to make me proud and then go on your way. Where the hell are you?”
There was only the engine noise. And his rapid breathing. His upset breathing.
She recognized the engine noise now. Not cars. “Are you on the Sea Spray? Did you take my boat?”