Captiva

Just. . . missed her, I guess. So I called her up, had her book first-class.'

Wife?

Charlie was beginning to think me dense. 'You didn't meet her? The brunette I was sitting with. My wife!'

I left berating myself for being presumptuous and judgmental and cynical, but heartened that, for some, maybe the world wasn't such a crazy place after all.

Chapter 8

The next morning, late Friday morning, the phone woke me. I was talking into the handset before I was even conscious of being out of bed: 'Sanibel Biological Supply.'

Silence.

I said, 'Hello?'

No reply—but there was someone on the other end, listening to me. I could hear a distant strain of music, an old song: 'Everyone's Gone to the Moon.'

Was just about to hang up when a gravelly, muffled voice said, 'You asshole, you tell the hippie to get the hell off'a our island. He snoops around, we'll cut 'is nose off.'

Click.

I stood looking at the phone dumbly, then replaced the handset. Like everyone, I get my share of crank calls. Usually from kids having fun while Mom and Dad are away, dialing randomly, acting tough. But this call had a specific message, and the voice—though obviously disguised—had an edge of crazed intensity that cut to the animal core. I crossed the room, heart beating faster than normal, and checked the clock: 10:17. Very late in the day for an early riser like myself. Even so, I felt as if my body needed a few more hours of sleep. My eyes burned and my head throbbed. I had a hangover that seemed out of proportion to the seven or eight beers I'd had. Felt more like a minor bout of the flu. My stomach was making gaseous rumbling noises. Each rumble produced the residual taste of Hannah's sulfuric tea.

Not a nice way to start the day.

I turned on the stereo and spun the scanner until I heard the last, fading refrain of 'Everyone's Gone to the Moon.' It was a local FM station. I turned it up a little before lighting the propane stove and putting coffee on. As I did, I made a mental list of people who knew that Tomlinson was on Sulphur Wells. I came up with only two who had an obvious reason to make threatening calls: the mullet fishermen, Julie andJ.D. But why call me? And how could they have gotten my name?

As the coffee perked, I got the phone book and found the listing for Sulphur Wells Fish Company. Dialed the number and, when an unfamiliar voice answered, listened carefully for music playing in the background: Garth Brooks. My station was now playingjohn Lennon.

No match.

I asked, 'Is Julie or J.D. around?' The unfamiliar voice said, 'Nope, and they ain't gonna be around, neither,' and hung up.

I found Raymond Tullock's number, dialed it, and got an answering machine. I found Tullock Seafood Exports in the business pages, dialed the number, and got his answering service. I didn't leave a message.

The only other people I could think of who might have a motive were the marina s two guides, Nels Esterline and Felix Blane—but they couldn't know that Tomlinson had remained on Sulphur Wells. Also, I'd known both men for several years. Angry or not, they weren't the type to make anonymous calls. Even so, I tried their home numbers, listening for music in the background as I told their respective wives, 'Sorry, wrong number.'

No match.

Finally, I tried to find a listing forjimmy Darroux. There was none. Had to leaf my way through a couple of pages of Smiths before I finally found H. S. Smith, Gumbo Limbo. Dialed it, let it ring and ring before Tomlinson finally answered. He told me he wasjust on his way out—Hannah was in her truck waiting for him. 'Can't talk, man! When she wants to go, she goes. Innocence without patience—can you imagine that combination?'

'She's going to have to wait,' I said, and I told him about the call I'd gotten.

'Cut my nose off?' Tomlinson said. 'Why would anyone want to cut my nose off? I'm not one to brag, but I think I've got a pretty nice nose.'

'He was talking metaphorically, for God's sake. It was a threat. Maybe it was a crank, maybe it wasn't. But you need to be careful. Have you been out this morning, met anyone new?'

'Yeah, bunches of people. Hannah s had me all over the island already. I stayed up till three reading her notebooks; then she had me on the road at six, visiting the fish houses. Completely screwed up my meditation schedule. But she said I needed to get to know the place before I start work on her book. I agree. The ambience— you know? Tone? This island has a whole different feel.'

'Did you mention my name to anyone you met?'

'She's honking out there, man. I don't get out the door quick, she'll leave me. She'd do it, too.'

'Did you mention—'

'Maybe. I don't know. Hannah, she could have mentioned you. Seriously. You're like one of her favorite topics.'

I felt an unreasonable surge of pleasure at hearing that. 'What I'm saying is, you need to be careful, Tomlinson. That's all I'm telling you.' I hesitated. What I wanted to ask, I couldn't ask. So instead, I said, 'She's bringing you back to Sanibel tonight, right?'

He said, 'I don't think so. Whatever she wants . . . hey . . . Jesus, she's—' His voice suddenly contained the flavor of panic. Maybe Hannah was pulling out of the drive. Heard him yell, 'HOLD IT! I'M COMING!' before he said into the phone, 'Gotta go, man! I'll call you. Okay?'

I said, 'One more thing—'

Tomlinson said, 'Can't. The magic bus is rolling. Manana!' Then he hung up.

The coffee didn't help my head or my gurgling stomach. Decided what I needed to do was sweat my system clean.

So I put on the Nikes and ran down Tarpon Bay Road to the beach and did five killer miles on the soft-packed sand. Ran east along Algiers Beach almost to the golf course and back, forcing the pace, ignoring my swollen toe, checking the watch, making myself sprint two minutes, then stride three minutes, never allowing a peaceful anaerobic moment.

The last lingering chill of the cold front was gone. Clear, sun-bright January morning. Heat radiating off the sand. A mild tropical breeze huffing from the south, out of Cuba. Vacationers already out with their beach towels and tanning goo, eager to bake in the first summer-hot day Sanibel had presented them in more than a week. Around the hotel pools, the uniformed staff members were busy shuttling towels and drinks, renting sailboards and paddle pontoons and jet skis. Scattered all along the beach were little strongholds of oil-coated flesh; some, truly spectacular women in their thong bikinis or sleek one-piece suits. 1 didn't linger. Didn't let myself pause, or even slow. Kept right on hammering away at the sand, through the lotion stink of coconut oil and Coppertone, lungs burning, sweat pouring, until I was back to my starting place just off Tarpon Bay Road.

After that, I did an ocean swim. Twenty minutes up the beach, twenty minutes back—more than a mile. Swimming is so deadly boring that the brain, in defense, compensates with an alluring cerebral clarity. That's what I like about it. While swimming, I could think intensely and without distraction. Thought about the anonymous phone call: He snoops around, we'll cut his nose off. Idle threat or not, it took a lot of anger to generate a call like that. If the call came from Sulphur Wells—which seemed likely— Tomlinson had already added two or more enemies to a life list that contained no enemies anywhere. It was precisely because Tomlinson had so little experience in dealing with personal menace that he was so vulnerable. The question was: How could I make him believe it?

Also thought about Hannah. Still felt the familiar abdominal squeeze when I pictured her eyes, that long body, but the symptoms of obsession had faded. I was relieved, because there were things about Hannah Smith which I found unsettling. Her judgment, for one thing. She apparently believed that Raymond Tullock, her prospective