Sanibel Flats

because it goes up the Zambezi River into fresh water.' Ford tapped the fish he was working on. 'This is the Zambezi shark. Our bull shark. The same species. Then I was in Central America. In Lake Nicaragua and in a Masaguan lake they call Ojo de Dios, God's Eye, there's a freshwater shark that is extremely aggressive. Attacks on people are so common that the natives won't even bathe in the lakes. The Maya considered the shark a deity; some still do. Used it in their glyphs, their carvings. They still refer to the sharks as El Dictamen, The Judgment. You'll see an occasional boat on the lake, but that's it. Natives consider swimming out of the question. '

'And those are bull sharks, too? All the same fish, right?' Tomlinson was combing his fingers through his hair, getting into it.

'Right. So I'm interested in the bull shark for a couple of reasons. Why is it more prone to enter and live in fresh water? Why's it so aggressive off South Africa and in Central America, but not here? It's one of our most common sharks, but this area has had only four recorded shark attacks in the last hundred years, none fatal. Those attacks may have involved bull sharks, no one knows. Even so, with all the people who swim here, the chance of shark attack is statistically insignificant. Why?'

Tomlinson said wasn't that always the stumper, why? 'But what a great way to make a living, man. Catching stuff and selling it. This is what you've always done?'

Ford said, 'No. Just now.' Still using the scissors, he clipped away the fish's spleen, then sections of the pinkish-white pancreas and the long rectal gland at the posterior end of the intestine. He was going slower now, using a probe to reveal the shark's urogenital system, pushing apart the cloacal opening with his fingers, then using the probe again to see if the abdominal pores were closed. They were not. He said, 'I got my degree when I was still in the navy. When I got out, I couldn't get a job in marine biology, so I went to work for a company that could send me to the places I wanted to go. I worked for them and did my research on the side.'

'Like some kind of international corporation?'

'International, right.'

'World conglomerates, man. You don't have to tell me. They recruited us heavy back at Harvard. Once I got in the wrong line and almost ended up working for IBM. LSD and IBM—that's a business trip for you. I was messed up. Thank God I couldn't remember my Social Security number, or I'd probably be in New York right now. Paris maybe, wearing a tie.'

Ford looked up from the shark. 'Harvard? You went there?' It was the first he'd heard of that.

'For seven years, man. Seven long years. And I don't mind saying, toward the end, morale was at an all-time low. You go for a doctorate at the university, you better expect to take a written test or two.'

'A Ph.D.?'

'Eastern religions. My master's was in world history, but I figured what the fuck, why not shoot for enlightenment? Sometimes you got to go for broke.'

Ford said, 'I'm going to segment this shark's brain, then weigh the parts. How about a couple more beers?'

'I've got a number all rolled and ready ... in my pocket here someplace if you're interested. ' Tomlinson was patting his pockets, searching.

'A number?' Ford knew what it meant, but it didn't register right away.

'A joint . . . someplace.'

Ford said, 'I thought you said you don't do that stuff anymore.'

Tomlinson was smiling, suddenly sheepish. 'Can't find the damn thing anyway. Maybe I did quit.' He was still patting his pockets. 'Yeah, I guess that's what happened. I musta quit. How about another beer?'

'Good idea.'

Ford used a fillet knife to remove the skin from the shark's head, then a scalpel to scrape away the cartilage that protected the brain. There were blood clots from the clubbing Jeth had given it. Ford washed the clots away and found the cerebellum, neat as a walnut above the optic lobes. Tomlinson watched while Ford segmented and weighed the brain, and then they sat out on the dock for another hour, talking, listening to the music and the noise of the party at the marina. Ford established that Tomlinson did, indeed, know a lot about world history; probably even enough to have majored in it at Harvard. When Ford went to bed at 1 A.M., he looked toward the mouth of the bay to see if Jessica's porch light was still on. It was . . . and it was still on when he awoke at three, made a trip to the head, then lay awake thinking. . . .

FOUR

Ford had found an old number for Harry Bernstein, so he got the operator, clunked in a pocketful of quarters, and listened to a distant, distant recording in Spanish: line disconnected, muchas gracias. He hadn't much hope for it anyway. So he waited around the pay phone, hoping Bernstein would call him. As he waited, Ford took out the photograph of Rafe's son. Jake Age 5. What was it in the faces of children, he wondered, that created the impression of innocence and keyed in some adults—himself, to name one—the urge to shield them from all harm? It was more than bone structure and the absence of facial lines. It had to be more than an experiential judgment, too, for children sometimes demonstrated the capacity for great cruelty. Perhaps the source of the emotion was some deep coding in the DNA, evolved during speciation to protect the young from marauding adults; a built-in check for the preservation of species. It would be a good one to bounce off Tomlinson some night. Whatever it was, the boy's photograph communicated that innocence: the slight, shy smile and the wide brown eyes staring out as if waiting for something; eyes that trusted and expected only good things.

Ford wondered what the expression on the boy's face would be if photographed now, this moment; wondered if young Jake still had access to that expression of trust, of pure expectation. What would it be like to be an eight- year-old boy in a strange country, unable to understand the language, stolen from his father by strangers? The child was getting the adult course in terror, and the sense of urgency Ford felt wasn't alleviated by the fact that Bernstein didn't call.

At noon, he ordered a fried conch sandwich from the marina deli and went in to talk to MacKinley. MacKinley was sitting behind the cash register reading a magazine called This Is New Zealand.

'Have I gotten any phone calls, Mack?'

'Had one this morning, but they didn't leave a message.'

'A man?'

'Nope. A woman. Might have been that artist friend of yours out on the point.'

'Oh.' Ford nodded toward the magazine MacKinley was reading. 'You getting homesick, Mack?'

'Homesick? Don't think of the islands as home anymore. Left when I was sixteen, and haven't been back.' Speaking with a New Zealand accent, MacKinley added, 'Still have a fondness for the place, though. Like to look at the pictures—but that's as close as I care to get. All those sheep, you know. And the women aren't as pretty. Unless you go to Australia. The women in Australia are something.' He put down the magazine. 'You missed quite a party last night, Doc.'

'It sounded fun.'

'I met a lady urologist. Good dancer, as I remember.'

'Hmm ...'

'Two of the women turned out to be speech specialists. About midnight, they got into an argument about the best way to treat Jeth's stutter. Somehow the three of them ended up in Jeth's skiff, out there in the bay all alone. He made it back just in time to take his morning tarpon charter.' 'Was he still stuttering?'

'Between yawns. The lady doctors were happy. Getting on quite well together. Jeth looked a bit drawn, though. Rather pale, I should say, like he'd had a tough football match. ' 'Maybe Jeth should send them a bill.' 'Exactly what I told him.'

Ford had found the Fort Myers newspaper and began to leaf through it.

MacKinley asked, 'Did your telephone man show up?' 'Yeah. He's out there working on the cable right now.' 'For the first two months you said you didn't want a phone. Said you didn't need it. Now you can't wait to get it in.'

'Sometimes I'm just plain fickle,' said Ford. 'Other times I'm just plain wrong. ' He turned to the inside page, local section and saw that Rafe Hollins had made the late regional edition:

The body of a Sandy Key man was found yesterday evening on a deserted island by Everglades County