later. Some people say she's cold, not very emotional—not much of a spiritual side, I guess—but she's still about the best around, so you don't have to worry about that.'
I told Nurse Debbie that I was certain Tomlinson was getting excellent care.
Rhonda Lister arrived. The Dinkin's Bay people were visiting Tomlinson in shifts now. I went off and tried to call Hannah again—still no answer—before returning to the intensive care unit, where Rhonda and I stood and watched the EEG screen, not saying much. Rhonda left and Nels showed up. He was doing his charters in an old Suncoast that he was renting. The deck was trampoline-soft with age, but it had good bait wells and he was making money again. We made no mention of the explosion that had ruined his new boat, but neither was there any awkwardness between us. Tomlinson—his condition—had leached away any lingering and private bitterness that remained.
Jeth showed up at five. Took one look at Tomlinson and got weepy again. We took the elevator down to the cafeteria. One of life's great ironies is that hospitals, despite their staffs of professional nutritionists, produce the world's worst food.
I didn't care. I didn't want to eat. I wanted to remain lean and light. I didn't want digestion to slow my thinking processes.
As Jeth wolfed down pasty mashed potatoes, he looked at me and said, 'You're gettin' those black things under your eyes, Doc. Like circles? You don't need to stay here no more. Mack's gonna be in around suh-suh-suh- six.
I told Jeth I'd stay a little longer. What I didn't tell him was that I wanted to keep my mind occupied until well after dark.
Hannah was right. The nautical charts did not show Copper Rim. But I knew it was north of Gumbo Limbo, some vacant stretch of mangrove fringe, and that was all I needed to know.
At just after ten p.m., I left the wooden channel markers at the mouth of Dinkin's Bay and pointed my skiff into a thumping, blustery northwest wind that seemed to blow down out of the stars. Dark night with scudding clouds and rolling black seas. I banged along at half throttle, bow trimmed high, trying to sense a rhythm to the waves so that I could find the driest, most effective speed.
But there was no rhythm, no order. Just the ice-gray combing of breakers that I could not see until they were on me. Each time I miscalculated, my boat would slam belly-hard into the trough and the hull would vibrate like a wounded animal. I thought about using the Starlite goggles, but didn't want to risk getting them soaked. So I took it easy. Pounded along, taking the occasional wave over the bow-quarter. Considering the conditions, the skiff powered me comfortably enough. Sweet-riding boat on a nasty, nasty night. There was no rush. None at all. I wanted to give the squatters at Copper Rim plenty of time to finish the night's fishing— or the night's drinking—and get back to camp. The more men there, the better my chances of singling out the ones who had attacked Tomlinson.
When I was below Blind Pass, I angled in close to shore. With the exception of Sanibel, the barrier islands of Florida's west coast run north and south. Now those islands provided an effective windbreak. I got the engine trimmed high and fast. There was still some chop, but not enough to soak me. Reached beneath the console, removed the night-vision goggles and strapped them over my eyes. Darkness was transformed into pale green dusk. The charcoal smear of islands became hedges of mangrove trees, singular and distinct. South of Redfish Pass, there were unlit mooring buoys. Picked them up well in advance, no problem. Using the goggles was like viewing the world through a jade tunnel that was hazed with glitter. Off to my left, the house lights of Captiva ascended star- bright into view. To each incandescent bulb, the goggles added the illusion of a streaking meteor's tail; created a glowing arc of fire that shocked the eye and penetrated to the brain.
I looked away.
Thought about Hannah; the story she had told me. Prior to leaving my house, I'd tried to call her once more. Still no answer. She was probably out in her boat, maybe not far from where I was now. Maybe working in the lee of some nearby island, picking mullet, alone.
The thought of that created an odd surge of emotion within me, the sensation of the heart being squeezed. But it was not useful to linger over such thoughts or feelings, so I turned my mind to other things.
It took more than two hours to get to the northern tip of Sulphur Wells. I'd taken off the night-vision goggles by then—didn't need them in open water—and resealed them in their case. I did an experimental run along the perimeter of the island, standing a mile or so off shore. To the south was Gumbo Limbo. Inland and to the north was the village of Rancho: a glimmer of yellow windows. Between lay the unbroken darkness of mangrove swamp . . . and then I saw what I knew had to be Copper Rim: a golden swash of campfire light.
I took my time. Didn't want anyone there to suspect a boat was approaching. An ideal night water insertion reauires that at least two people be aboard. One drives past the point of insertion at full speed while the other lies on the gunwale . . . does a quick push-up . . . then rolls into the water holding his mask in place. The method is silent and also strategically advantageous: A boat sped past in the night. Big deal.
But I didn't want anyone with me; couldn't risk it. And I had done this sort of thing, alone, before.
I ran a mile or more upwind, then shoreward before switching off my engine. Then I set about collecting my gear as I let the wind drift me down, down, ever closer to Copper Rim. Twice I had to use the trolling motor to maintain the driftline I wanted. Then, when I was slightly downwind but still at least a quarter-mile from the beach, I dropped anchor.
The campfire threw a halo of light over what appeared to be a tiny stretch of marl beach. There were half a dozen mullet skiffs pulled up onto the beach, and I could see the dark shapes of men moving around the fire. There were tents in the background; a radio was blaring. The wind swept the jarring heavy-metal racket past me. I checked behind me to make certain I wasn't silhouetted by a marker light—there were none—then I pulled on the balaclava face hood, the gloves, and gathered the A.L.I.C.E. pack in which I had stashed my emergency gear. Finally, I strapped fins over my jungle boots and slid, fully clothed, into the water.
The water was cold and as salty as the open sea. I stayed otter-deep in the water, fins working silently beneath the surface. Found myself counting each leg kick out of old habit. But there was no need for that. Swam nearly to the beach, then had to walk myself hand over hand, belly-down, through the shallows.
There were seven men lounging near the fire, passing a bottle around. The only one I recognized was Julie, the tall fisherman with the biceps who'd given Tomlinson and me a hard time at Arlis Futch's fish house. His buddy J.D. was nowhere to be seen. They didn't see me as I went from boat to boat, slithering over the gunwales to cut each and every fuel hose. I had to do it. One thing I wanted to avoid was a boat chase. My skiff was undoubtedly faster and it ran very shallow indeed. But no boat can run as shallow as a mullet boat. A mullet boat can jump sandbars and travel across flats where shorebirds can stand. It is because a mullet boat's engine is mounted forward near the bow in its own well. To catch me, all they had to do was spread out and run cross-country until they cut me off. Even if I did manage to dodge them, they might have weapons, and a bullet will win a boat race every time.
When I had their fuel systems disabled, I hugged myself down against one of the boats to listen. But because of the music and the wind, I could only decipher snatches of random conversation. Once I heard Julie shout, 'An' if you ever tell a living soul what I jes' said . . .' but the rest of his words were indistinguishable. Tried to get a little closer, but couldn't get close enough to hear if there was any discussion of what had happened to Tomlinson.
It wasn't good. My original plan, conceived in rage, was to identify the guilty parties, wait until they were asleep, slice through the tent walls, and then punish them, one by one. Nothing bloody or brutal—using my Israeli knife to carve
Yet I had abandoned that plan for a couple of reasons. One was that Ron Jackson was no fool. He would know who had done it and why it had been done. But the second reason was more compelling: After I had cooled down, I was reluctant to believe—didn't want to believe—that I was capable of such behavior. I was a legitimate biologist, for Christ's sake!
So I had settled upon a simpler plan: gather all the information I could surreptitiously, then take it back to Ron Jackson. By eavesdropping, I might be able to assemble data that was key to the assault on Tomlinson . . . maybe on the bombing and the boat theft ring as well. I'd give Jackson names, dates, and places. Wouldn't be able to tell him how I'd gotten the information, of course, but I would hand him the solutions on a platter, and leave the
