business partner, had worked hard to prevent the net ban. But Garrett Riley's story was more convincing: Tullock had actually lobbied hard to get the net ban passed. He was lying to Hannah and the other commercial fishermen to protect his own interests.
But that was
Actually, I believed him to be, above all else, a divine flake. Yet I also knew that no one would work harder for a friend. If Hannah wanted him to help her write and publish a book, that book would be written and published —or Tomlinson would collapse trying.
After I had showered and changed, I telephoned the Coast Guard just to make sure they had found the cable where I left it. The duty officer said that they had, then told me the investigation had been turned over to the sheriff's department and the marine patrol. I told the duty officer that I hoped both agencies dropped everything until they found the people who were responsible. The duty officer reminded me that both agencies were trying to patrol several thousand square miles of water and shoreline with just two or three boats and limited budgets—the equivalent of a couple of beat cops trying to patrol all of Rhode Island, alone and on foot.
Then I called a friend on Useppa, Kate Schaefer, to make sure that the community had been alerted. Kate had heard, and so had everyone else on the island. As one of the community leaders, she'd made certain of that. 'It made me so mad I was shaking,' she told me. 'I'm
Nope, I told her. Probably not. In all likelihood, they were ruthless, indifferent, and more than a little stupid. But mostly, they were mean. Just dumb-dog mean. I told her to stay on her toes and to call me if she needed any help. Kate said, 'The only thing I want from you is the dinner you owe me. Some restaurant that isn't too loud or too smoky, and has a superb menu. Sarasota is nice.' She had a very bawdy chuckle for someone with her business accomplishments and political clout. 'Or I could fly us to Omaha. I know how much you love a good steak.'
I took a rain check. Then, after we'd said our goodbyes, wondered why in the hell I hadn't taken her up on the offer. Kate was a great lady. She was smart and tough, but she was also elegant, tender, and she had an outrageous sense of humor.
So why not? Or why not telephone Dewey Nye? See how her campaign on the pro golf tour was going. Offer to fly up to New York ... or wherever she happened to be, and spend a few days buddying around. Nothing physical—not with Dewey. Her psychological makeup wouldn't allow it. Still, it would be nice to spend some time with a woman I cared about. Get away from my damn fish for a while. Have my Hewes put in dry storage and go. From what I'd seen lately, dry storage was the only safe place for a flats boat—until after July, at least, when the net ban went into effect.
A five-mile run, a one-mile swim, and a hundred pull-ups, I decided, were not sufficient to dissipate a blooming case of male restlessness.
So I futzed around with my damn fish for a while. Got the raw-water intake pump going again. Paid special attention to the six immature tarpon I had in the tank. The fish looked healthy. No apparent ill effects from spending twenty-four hours in water that did not circulate. I wasn't surprised. The tarpon is a euryhaline species, which means that it can live in a wide variety of saline and nonsaline environments: from open ocean to the muckiest landlocked sulfur pit. In Central America, I had seen tarpon in the leaf-choked jungle ponds of Guatemala and Honduras, and as far inland as Lake Nicaragua, 127 miles from the sea. One reason for their hardiness is that tarpon can supplement their oxygen supply by rising to the surface and gulping in air. The mysterious thing is, tarpon surface—or 'roll,' as it is called—whether the water they inhabit is rich with oxygen or not.
That was my current interest. And why I paid special attention to the six metallic-bodied animals in my tank.
In the early 1940s, biologists Charles M. Breder and Arthur Shlaifer had published articles in
Also, I wanted to necropsy the snook I had brought back from Useppa.
But that was spare-time work. Sanibel Biological Supply, my small company, presently had an order on the books for two dozen sea horses. Eighteen were to be shipped alive, six were to be dissected, their circulatory and reproductive systems injected with contrasting dye. It would take me a whole day, maybe two, to collect that many sea horses. The dissection work would be precise, tricky, and demanding.
I was looking forward to it.
It was after midnight before I finished in the lab, showered beneath the cold-water rain barrel, then switched off the lights. I padded barefooted across the plank flooring. Found my portable shortwave, a Grundig Satellit, on the table beside the reading chair, then flopped into bed, holding the radio on my stomach. Used the autoscan button to surf the bands, and discovered Radio Vietnam at 7.250 MHz, all programming in English. Drifted off to sleep listening to a woman's silken, accented voice, live from Hanoi, telling me about the noble Communist party's legalization of capitalism, a celebrated event called Doi Moi.
Then I was awake again. . . . Groggy. Confused. The radio was no longer on my stomach. Apparently, I had set it aside when I covered myself with the soft wool navy-issue blanket. Looked at the phosphorus numerals of the alarm clock beside my bed: just after three a.m. Why was I awake?
I had heard something. What? I lifted my head, listening. Lay there motionless for what seemed a long time, all senses straining. Could hear the wind blustering against the windows; once heard the primeval squawk of a night heron. Nothing more. Had just about decided that I'd been dreaming, when I felt the slightest of tremors vibrate through the wooden scaffolding of my house. Then felt another . . . and another. It took me a moment to identify the rhythm . . . then I knew: Someone was coming up the steps.
I turned my head just enough to see the gray scrim of window by the door. Saw the sillhouette of a human head materialize, then grow larger, distorted, as a face pressed against the window. I remained motionless, the face peering in, me staring at the face. The face was unrecognizable; a black smear that was magnified by the glass, its hot breath illustrated by a vaporous fog on the windowpane.
I wondered what those unseen eyes could decipher from my darkened room. Not much, I decided. Wondered if the face was that of a friend ... or a foe ... or some late-night wanderer who, perhaps, thought my stilt house was part of the national wildlife preserve. A taxpayer had the authority to inspect government property any time of the day or night, right?
I waited. Watched the black shape drift across the expanse of window and disappear. Expected to hear a knock at the door; expected to hear the voice of some troubled friend saying, 'Sorry to bother you so late, Doc, but I need your help.' Boats break down. Boats get stranded. It had happened before.
But there was no knock. Instead, I felt the rhythmic tremor of careful feet on wooden steps. My visitor was returning down the stairs.
I swung out of bed, found my glasses, and went to the window. Saw that my visitor was a man: big, heavyset man in a dark shirt. It was too dark to make out facial features. Watched him stop on the lower platform, glance back at my cottage, then study the sleeping marina—the behavior of someone who doesn't want to be seen. Watched him move along the dock toward the mooring area where I keep my boats. Thought about trying to spook him off by hitting the deck lights. . . decided that would be too kind. He seemed to have burglary on his mind, and I don't share the sympathies of some for the economic quandary of thieves. Yet I didn't want to confront him. Maybe he had a knife. Or a gun. Or a knife and a gun, plus a head full of drugs. It is the unwise citizen who challenges a late-night prowler. That's what cops are for.
Still watching the man, I picked up the phone, planning to dial 911. As I began to dial, I saw him go to my fish tank and lift the lid. Saw him reach down into the tank, as if attempting to find the water pump. My visitor, I decided, wasn't a thief, he was a vandal. In a minute or less, he could destroy the whole circulatory apparatus of a very delicate system that had taken me a lot of very frustrating hours to build.
So much for playing the roll of respectable citizen. I didn't have time to wait for the cops. Furthermore, I no longer wanted to wait for them. Stealing was bad enough, but attempting to damage my aquarium was, in my mind, a hell of a lot worse. This bastard had crossed the line; deserved my personal attention.