Captiva

removed the barrel. The weapon had an industrial-black finish ... the spring and metalwork still mirror-clean beneath a layer of oil.

I lifted up the sweater and found the leather case within which was a six-inch custom-built sound arrestor. Screwed the silencer onto the barrel, admiring the precise machining . . . swung the weapon in a fast arc, retesting the once familiar balance of it. . . recalled the amplified blowgun noise it made when fired: THOOP- ah. Then paused, considering the wisdom of carrying it. I had no intention of using the Sig as an offensive weapon, but everyone in America was carrying firearms these days, from frightened housewives to feral children gone wild in ghettos . . . and probably itinerant mullet fishermen, too. What if they heard me and were idiotic enough to start plinking away at unidentified sounds?

Then I thought: But they'll never hear me.

I sprayed another coat of oil onto the Sig and its sound arrestor before putting them away.

Ultimately, the only articles I removed from the drawer were the watch sweater, some well-worn Australian S.A.S. field pants in dark battle pattern, a black silk balaclava face hood, leather gloves, a thin-bladed knife in a plastic scabbard that had been given to me by a Israeli friend assigned to the Mossad, and finally, a small, weighty waterproof bag. I opened the bag and removed a set of Starlite goggles and placed them on my bed. With its twin monoculars and padded face frame, the Starlite unit resembled a gadget that might be used by a mad scientist more than the sophisticated—but outdated—second-generation night-vision system that it was.

I had to go into the lab to find the double-A batteries I needed. Unscrewed the power tube, mounted the batteries, then checked to make sure the rubber lens covers were tightly in place before switching the Starlite goggles on. I held the goggles to my face, then strapped them tight. Even with the lens caps on, the photo cathode within the Starlite's optical tube reassembled the light electrons efficiently. The room became a stage of green and eerie, sparkling elements—bed . . . stove . . . Crunch & Des, the black cat, peering at me . . . the bolted door.

I took the goggles off, relieved that they still worked.

When I was finished, I neatened the drawer—I am compulsive about such things—then placed the articles under my bed. Finally, I unlocked the door, went to my outside storage locker. My ancient jungle boots were there in a box. A spider had built her home in them. I shooed the spider away. Found my old Rocket swim fins, a good dive mask plus snorkel. . . and assembled a few other bits of hardware that I might need. Also got my hated contact lenses out of the medicine cabinet, and put them with the other things.

I wouldn't be able to wear my glasses tonight.

When I had everything ready, I stripped down to my underwear and lay down to sleep . . . and had just started to doze when I felt the vibration of someone walking up my dock. I glanced out the window—it was Janet. Checked the clock: 6:30 a.m. sharp.

The woman was punctual. She had stayed with Tomlinson at the hospital only a few hours less than I.

Lay back down and gauged Janet's movements by sounds that came through the screen door. Heard her stop at the fish tank. Heard her struggle momentarily as she opened the heavy lid. Then: 'How we doin' this morning, Green Flag? Where's . . . where's. . . ? There you are. You're looking handsome this morning. Ready for breakfast?'

I guessed she was talking to the tarpon she called Red Threat.

Heard her coming up the steps to my house. Thought about getting up to greet her . . . but decided I didn't feel like talking to someone as nice as Janet Mueller. Didn't want to risk softening the cold, cold mood I was in—a mood I would need to keep and protect through the day and well into the night.

Heard her stop at the screen door. I kept my eyes closed. Knew that she could look in and see me lying there, a blanket pulled across my hips. Hoped she would see that I was asleep and return to her work with the tarpon. Instead, I heard the door creak open . . . felt her pad across the room . . . sensed her standing next to the bed, close to me.

'Sweet dreams.' Words whispered so softly that I barely heard them. Felt warm lips touch my forehead . . . nothing else for several seconds . . . then felt her fingers on my chest, a touch so light, so hesitant that it seemed experimental. . . then felt her lips On mine . . . briefly, very briefly . . . and then she was gone, out the door.

I waited awhile before opening my eyes and to look through the window. Janet was out there in khaki slacks and the same brown sweatshirt, feeding my fish. She was making a cheerful little whistling noise, lips pursed, while she worked.

I awoke just after one p.m., dreaming of Hannah. It was a restless, troubled dream, rife with frustration. I sat up grcggily. The details had already faded. Something that had to do with chasing a bus that roared away each time I drew near. Maybe Hannah was on the bus. Or maybe she was chugging right along behind me. I couldn't remember.

The phone rang. I got up, a little surprised to realize that I hoped it was Hannah calling. Give me a chance to make amends—I'd been way too rough on her. But surely she would understand. . . .

It wasn't Hannah. It was a Dr. Wesley Evans calling from the University of Minnesota, wondering if I could ship four dozen fresh cannonball jellyfish to the biology department. I told Dr. Evans that come August, I could ship him four thousand fresh cannonball jellyfish, but none at all in January.

Tried to sleep a little more, but kept thinking of Hannah. Her voice drifted in and out of my mind: I like the way you look, the way you move. I like the way your brain works.

Lay there and admitted to myself that the feelings were reciprocal. I did, indeed, like the way Hannah Smith looked, the way she moved. . . and was intrigued, at least, by the way her mind worked. Also admitted that the feelings were real. They had nothing to do with that herbal tea concoction she had fed me—a stunt that still made me mad when I thought about it. Hannah was . . . different. No doubt about that. But . . . damn if I didn't like her anyway. In fact, that was precisely why I liked her. A big, strong woman who was wild and hard-tethered with confidence; a woman who didn't hesitate to tell you exactly what she wanted and when she wanted it. The kind who would keep things . . . private. Heard her say: I'll have my place, you '11 have yours . . . like secret partners.

Heard Tomlinson's voice say: You and Hannah are both extreme people.

Which is when I threw the covers back and dialed Hannah's number. On the push-button phone, her number sounded like an abbreviated stanza of 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.'

I let it ring and ring. No answer. There was another thing I liked about her: She was one of the two or three people remaining in America who did not use an answering machine.

I dressed and went outside. I used my mooring pulley-system to haul my flats skiff close enough, then mounted the White Shark trolling motor on the bow—just in case I needed to move quickly and silently through the night. Afterward, I idled over to the marina to top off the fuel tank; then I got in my truck and drove into town to visit Tomlinson.

Something new had been added to Tomlinson's retinue of tubes and wires: an electroencephalogram monitoring system. While I listened to the respirator do his breathing—keesh-ah . . . keesh- ah—and listened to the heart monitor echo the pulse of his heart—bleep . . . bleep . . . bleep—I could now watch Tomlinson's brain waves track across a green CRT screen. They had wheeled him over beneath an oblong window. Light from the window washed over him, and he looked very tiny, paper-thin, and frail.

I stood there for an hour or more watching the screen, eyes fixed to the monotonous flow of oscillations. For long stretches of time, the waves drifted along incrementally. Small, even bumps that were widely spaced. But every now and then the man would reward me with a fast series of snow-cone shaped peaks, letting me know that he was still in there, still alive beneath all the gauze and damaged skull bone.

Hang in there, Tomlinson. Fight your ass off and dream good dreams.

Dr. Corales wasn't around, but I ingratiated myself with a pretty little red-haired nurse who had runner's legs and killer green eyes. Her name was Debbie. Debbie checked the chart for me, and her reluctance to pass along information told me that the prognosis still wasn't good. She told me, 'You never know with head injuries. People can recover in a few weeks, or . . .'

I finished her sentence without speaking it: Or a few years... or they never recover, ever.

She said, 'Please don't tell anyone I told you, but I think Dr. Corales is planning another surgery for him tonight, or maybe early Thursday morning. She believes head injury patients do better if she operates at midnight or