Sanibel Flats

metallic poisons, like arsenic, aren't destroyed by fire. I doubt if Rafe was poisoned, but, if he was, they wouldn't have used arsenic. Arsenic tastes bad. It has to be given in small doses over a long period of time.'

'You're an expert of poisons, too?'

'No, but seventy-five percent of the aquarium fish bought and sold in the U.S. are originally stunned and caught through the use of poisons. All over the world they're killing the reefs by dumping cyanide just so collectors in this country can fill their tanks with pretty tropicals. It's come up in my work before; I know a little.'

'So there really is nothing you can do—about your friend, I mean.'

'I could get some kind of investigation going into the odd procedures of Everglades County, but it wouldn't clear Rafe. Plus it would just take away from the time I need to find a way to free Rafe's son. When I ran into him that time in Costa Rica, Rafe was looking for work. I gave him the names of some people. I thought they might help him. So, directly or indirectly, I played a part. I helped get him involved with the people who kidnapped his son.'

Jessica said, 'You can't blame yourself for that, Doc.'

Ford looked at her for a moment. 'Why would I blame myself? I meant that I'm one of the early links in a long chain; the one best suited to trace the events that followed. I've already contacted a guy I know in Masagua. He's on the National Security Affair's field staff—they're the ones who recommend what the CIA should or should not be doing. It's this guy's job to cultivate contacts, make surveys, assemble data; like a combination librarian and investigative reporter. The NSA sets up their people with cover jobs—they have him publishing a small

English-language newspaper—and he pokes around the country, filing reports. He's looking for Jake right now. If the NSA guy can get him, I'll sell the emeralds and set up some kind of trust fund for the boy . . . maybe make sure he doesn't go back to his drunken mother.'

'They're that valuable?'

'There are two; each about the size of a bird's egg. '

She stiffened a little, showing her concern. 'Tell me you're not keeping them at your place, Ford. You're too smart to keep something so dangerous.'

'No one knows I have the emeralds. Besides, I put them in a place no one would ever look—down the mouths of some preserved sharks. In my lab.' Ford took a drink of wine. All that talking, and he wanted a beer. He got up and went to the refrigerator.

As he came back, Jessica was saying it was so damn sad such bad things could happen to people; really feeling it, her head on Ford's shoulder, and he could smell the shampoo scent of her hair. The poor little boy out there all alone. His father dead and a mother that probably didn't care—her arms around Ford now, holding him. Then she was kissing his neck, squeezing him, touching her lips to his cheeks, and it was becoming something else, no longer grief. Ford pulled away. 'Whoa, what's going on here, lady?'

Jessica looked up, eyes moist but smiling. 'Sometimes you're such a bastard for details; getting everything straight.'

'I thought we had an agreement.'

She said, 'Our experiment. That's why I called you.' Her fingers were on his thigh, then his abdomen, touching softly, drawing designs. 'I want it to end tonight.' Like a little girl, not looking at him.

Ford let her fall against his chest, slid his hands along her ribs brushing the firm weight of her breasts . . . thought of the painting, and almost said something silly to lighten the mood.

He did not.

*  *  *

There would be no need for CBS, Ford was thinking, not if every woman in the world looked just like this.

No need for television, lawyers, Playboy, toupees, Doonesbury, war, or Dr. Ruth Westheimer. The end of competition and contrivances: A good dose of natural selection, that's what the world needed. Jessica's brass bed was on the second floor. A quarter moon floated above the bay and the window was swollen with filtered light. Jessica lay naked on the sheets. Her hair was wild upon the pillow, lean legs as if carved from marble, nipples still erect, breasts pale white, full, rounded beneath their own weight, pubic hair iridescent in the moonglow, an amber tangle as if illuminated by internal light. Bioluminescence, it made him think of that.

Ford had his head upon her chest, looking toward her toes, toward the window. He could feel her breathing, feel her heart beat. He was looking down the soft curvature of her stomach, seeing muscle cordage and ribs flex with each breath, and he was thinking there was a finite number of times he would be with this woman and there ought to be a way to lock onto a moment such as this, to preserve it, but there wasn't. Never would be.

'My stomach's growling. But I don't feel hungry. Can you hear it growling?' Whispering, her eyes closed, Jessica had her fingers in his hair.

'Uh-huh. Like a mariachi band. Keeps playing the same song.' Her voice was deeper, huskier in the quiet after-time, and he thought of Pilar Balserio. It had been like that with her, the change in voice. He'd admired Pilar for years, wanted her the whole time, but was in bed with her only once and then back to the States. Something that intimate, and no way to hold on. It left a yearning. . . .

'Did I scratch you? You don't need any more scratch marks, Ford.'

'Minor cuts and abrasions, that's all. Well worth it.'

'Didn't bite too hard?'

'Um . . . nope . . . everything intact.'

'It's just that ... it was the first time it ever happened with me. That release, like they write about. I used to think they were lying ... or I was frigid. God, I thought my heart was going to stop. Like in Cosmopolitan.'

'You're not frigid. I'll sign papers.'

'You believe me . . . that it was my first? It really was.'

Ford answered, 'Of course I believe you,' not sure that he did, but it didn't matter.

She was silent for a time, stroking his head. 'You were mad at me last night for going to the party.'

'No. I did some work. Tomlinson came over. I went to bed early. I wasn't mad. '

'You haven't asked me anything about it, being with Benny. Are you sure you weren't upset?'

'That's your business, Jess, not mine.'

She touched his jaw until he turned his head to look at her. 'Sometimes I don't know when you're serious or when you're not. You're the warmest listener I've ever met. But then you talk, and it's that cold act of yours. I'll tell you anything you want to know, Ford. Anything. ' And sounded as if she meant it; as if she wanted him to ask her things.

Ford said, 'Tell me how Benny tried to get you in bed,' not because he wanted to know, but because it seemed like a safe question.

'You're so sure he did. I was surprised.'

'He's a former lover. He came more than a thousand miles to see you. You live alone, he was alone. Tropical night with moon. And you were surprised?'

'Your logical mind, I forgot. We left the party early, about eleven, and he wanted to take me to his place. He just invested in a condo and he was all excited, said he wanted my opinion on how it should be decorated. I insisted he bring me home. Then he said he'd pulled a shoulder muscle or something. Executive boxing is the current fad in Manhattan; the ex-Ivy Leaguers go down to the club and slug it out over lunch. He's supposedly very good; it was an excuse for him to say he was, anyway. He wanted a massage; a rubdown, he called it. His shoulder hurt. But he had to take off his clothes to do it properly, and that's when I told him to leave. He got huffy, then he thought the he-man approach might work, force me a little. I threatened to slap him, I really did.' She giggled, an odd sound of delight. 'That really got him. He had already unbuttoned his shirt, and he looked so silly. He left right after that. Benny likes to show off those muscles. You two are such opposites; you and those baggy clothes. You, I had to picture in my mind; imagine. It was nice.'

Ford was thinking about Jessica's porch light, but he said, 'You're talking about the painting.'

'Yes. Painting . . . from what I imagined. I hope you don't mind, Doc. I think it's the best thing I've done in a long time. But I'd do it differently now. Your back's wider, your body hair is lighter. You're nicer in real life.'

Her hands were on his back now, sliding down, searching, and Ford rolled to his side. 'Are we talking about the same painting?'