Captiva

this thing that's been on my mind . . .'

I sensed what was troubling Jackson and decided to help him out. 'The bomb that killed Hannah Smith had nothing to do with me gathering information on Sulphur Wells, Ron.'

'I wish I could be as certain of it as you are. I'm the one who asked you to do it. I'd feel terrible—'

'I've already told you why that bomb was there. I think Kemper Waits probably made it, but I think Raymond Tullock put it there. You seem reluctant to believe that.'

'Oh bullshit, Ford.' He made a noise of friendly exasperation. 'It's not that I'm reluctant, we just don't have anything on him. Waits played dumb about him; even Claypool said Tullock wasn't involved—and Claypool was squealing on everybody but his mother. Everything you told me makes sense. Yeah, I believe the guy's a flake. Do we have our suspicions? Damn right. Tullock flies off to Asia the night before the bomb explodes. Did I tell you he cleaned out his bank account?'

'No, but I'm not surprised.' It was true. I wasn't surprised; had, in fact, already anticipated it.

'He cleans out his bank account, yeah. And his corporate account. Closes up his apartment and gets on a plane to Singapore.' Jackson looked at me to emphasize his point. 'I'll tell you one thing: The guy screws up in Asia, he'll wish he'd never left home. Some of those places, they still beat you bloody with a cane. Or worse. Like that American brat who spray-painted those cars?'

'Asians are pretty tough,' I agreed.

'When the right paperwork comes through, the A.T.F. boys and I are going to have a look at Tullock's apartment.' Jackson reached over and gave me an amiable slap on the shoulder. 'If we find something good, we'll go to work on extradition. A week in one of those rathole dungeons would put a new bounce in Tullock's step. Or we'll be at the airport waiting on him if he's got the balls to come back. The computers show he's got a return ticket out of Singapore for the twenty-fifth.'

I said, 'Singapore, huh?' But I was thinking: Raymond Tullock isn't coming back.

I spread the word around Dinkin's Bay that I was flying off to Nicaragua. Told them I was going to watch a few ball games at Mad Monk Stadium in Managua, then drive clear down to the San Juan River—old Contra country—to do some research on the bull sharks that live in Lake Nicaragua. Or at least had lived in Lake Nicaragua until the Japanese fin merchants exterminated them.

I told my friends I needed a change of scenery. Told them that a month or so in the jungle would help me adjust. I didn't mention that in a world of tele-linkage and information highways, the only way to travel anonymously anymore is through one of the few remaining outlaw countries.

Cuba would have been okay, but I couldn't get the direct flight to Mexico City I needed. If I was late to Mexico City, I'd miss my Thai Airline connection to Fiji. Which meant that the rest of my itinerary—Fiji to

Manila, Manila to Singapore, Singapore to Medan, Sumatra—would all fall through.

But the afternoon Managua—to—Mexico City flight would work out just fine. So I spread the story about Nicaragua. Told it so many times that I was actually beginning to believe it myself. Wide-eyed and a little breathless, Janet had asked me, 'Isn't it dangerous in the rain forest? All those animals? You, all by yourself?'

I wondered if it was her shy way of hinting that she would like to accompany me.

I shook my head, telling Janet, 'The rain forest is the safest place I know.'

My last day in Florida—my last for many years, I suspected—was Friday, January 20. It was the kind of winter-gray day that one associates with snow peaks or midwestern industrial cities. There were heavy rain clouds to the north. The weather added a sarcastic edge to my mood. I looked at the sky and thought: Perfect.

In the morning, I made the long, long drive to Sulphur Wells. Had to pick the lock at Hannah's house to get in. She and Tomlinson had set up the typewriter on the breakfast table. There was a sheet of paper still rolled into it. The incomplete manuscript—Hannah's book—lay neatly in a box on the table. Tomlinson had finished nearly eight chapters. Not seven, as Hannah had said.

The last entry was in Hannah's handwriting: 'The Yeaters and the Treadwells had a yard sale yesterday, selling out. Mr. Yeater said he might be able to get work in Detroit. Him and my daddy fished together when I was a litde girl, so . . .'

The note was unfinished. Wondered if Tullock had interrupted her at the writing desk.

I took the manuscript, and collected Tomlinson's personal effects in his old brown leather suitcase. I then made a slow tour of the house. There were still signs of Tullock's last confrontation with Hannah: the arrangement of dried flowers that had once been on the mantelpiece was now scattered across the floor in front of the fireplace. One of the green glass spheres lay shattered on the floor, though one remained unbroken. One, perhaps two were missing. I remembered Hannah telling me that they were heirlooms; the only thing she had of her Great-Aunt Hannah's. I took the sphere that remained, then searched her bedroom. What I wanted was a photograph of her; something else to remember her by. Could hear Hannah say, He was stealing little pieces of me. I wanted a few pieces for myself.

I finally found the scrapbook. It was a cheap blue imitation-leather binder. Leafed through it. Saw a tintype of a very tall woman in a long print dress and a white sun hat. She was standing by a team of oxen, holding a coil of rope in her left hand. Written on the back of the photograph in fountain pen was: 'Hannah 'Big Six' Smith, Homestead, Fla. 1907.

I removed the print, then selected two photographs of Hannah. One was of her in a basketball uniform: stork legs; black, glittering eyes. The other was of her sitting beneath a tree, holding a book. A more reflective pose. Her hair was longer, parted in the middle and combed straight to her shoulders. She looked young and at ease. Very pretty.

I took the things, locked the house, and drove to a print business that was on the way to the hospital. It was called Kopy Kat. One of the big chains. I gave the woman at the counter the partial manuscript and two of the photographs. I told her how I wanted it done: printed book form, good quality paper, nice cover. I told her to print enough copies to send to every library in Florida. I paid cash in advance.

My going-away present.

When the clerk asked what should go on the cover, I took the order form and wrote: The Hannah Smith Story.

Since the explosion, I had visited Tomlinson only once. Seeing his shrunken body, hearing the flatline hum of the electroencephalogram was just too unsettling. The man was gone, so why leave the plugs in?

I had arranged to meet Dr. Corales and two representatives of the hospital's Human Subjects Panel at a private room off the intensive care unit at eleven a.m.—less than an hour before my flight to Miami. She arrived slightly late, her hair and clothes soaked from the rainstorm that had rumbled and threatened all morning. We shook hands as she told me, 'I appreciate you tracking down Mr. Tomlinson's brother. We received his telegram yesterday afternoon. It's ... a little strange, but it's sufficient.'

I wasn't surprised in the least. On the phone, from halfway around the world, Norvin Tomlinson had sounded vague, distracted, cynical, and desperately mercenary. Even in Burma, a drug addict's life required some income.

She handed me the telegram. I read it, then smiled at Dr. Corales. She looked less businesslike, more attractive because of her wet hair. 'Isn't it odd,' I said, 'how siblings can be so different?'

Norvin Tomlinson's telegram had read: 'KILL HIM, KILL THEM ALL!'

Dr. Corales returned my smile, agreeing, then took the telegram from me before saying, 'Are you ready?'

I was ready. I was holding Tomlinson's hand when they disengaged the respirator. His hand was already cool. His face was the color and texture of a very, very old mushroom. I waited there alone with him for a minute or so while the thunderstorm whoofed and rumbled outside. I sent telepathic messages. I received no messages in reply. Then I exited the room and I handed Dr. Corales a brown paper bag. Tomlinson's sarong was in the bag and I instructed that he be wearing it when he was cremated. I also reminded her that the ashes were to go to Mack at Dinkin's Bay, so that they could be spread by boat following the little Buddhist ceremony I had already arranged.

The last thing I did before taking a cab to the airport was hand the doctor my truck's registration and keys. I told her to make a present of the truck to Janet Mueller, who would arrive later.