suspicions, for my coldness. I wanted to make her believe that not all angry men used their fists.
'Don't you see what I'm saying? By then it was almost three in the morning. I called your house and kept callin'. Called the hospital, and then I finally called the Sanibel police. They didn't want to listen to some hicky- voiced girl like me, but I made one of them drive to your place and have a look. It took him about forever to call back. All he said was your house was fine, and your truck was there, but your boat was gone.'
'My place—that's where we're going right now. I'm going to put you in bed and have a doctor buddy of mine—'
'No!' Her tone said:
I thought about that. For a moment, it threw a chilly little shadow over the shiny-bright chain of logic that I had constructed to predict Raymond Tullock's next move. But it didn't make sense. Moving so quickly against me just wasn't reasonable.
I explained that to Hannah. Added, 'I think he was trying to scare you. Or maybe you misunderstood. We've both been up all night.' I glanced at my watch: 6:30 a.m. 'I want a doctor to look at you, then we'll get some sleep.'
For a moment, our boats were close enough, and I reached out and grasped Hannah's extended hand. Felt her long, cool fingers . . . felt the private little squeeze. An apology offered; an apology accepted.
She pushed the rain hood off her head and ran those same fingers through her Navajo hair. 'You really do think it's okay?'
'Yes.' I looked at my watch again: 6:30.
'I had this awful feeling, Ford. I can't describe it. This feeling that some-thin' really. . . bad was going to happen. I had the same feeling the night my mama died, so I got in my boat, scared to death, lookin' for you . . .'
She paused as she noticed me stare at my watch a third time:
'What's wrong, Ford?'
'It's . . . nothing.'
'There's something wrong. Don't lie to me. I can see it in your face.'
I kept my voice calm—told myself there was nothing to worry about. 'I just remembered that there's a woman due at my house right now. A friend of mine named Janet Mueller. She's been taking care of my fish.'
'Doc . . . we've got to warn her. Even if you're right about Raymond.'
I began to think out loud. 'The police officer you called, he's already been there. . . . He had to walk out on the dock, maybe even knocked on the door.' I was picturing it in my head: The cop walking out, shining his flashlight around. Walking up the steps to the breezeway that separated the lab from my house entrance, then peering over the rail to check my boats. I knew most of the Sanibel cops. If my truck was parked out front but my Hewes was gone, the cop would assume I was on the water. Pictured the cop turning, maybe shining the flashlight into a window or two before returning to his car.
Finally had to admit to myself that a brief inspection by a policeman did not mean that my house was safe. Also admitted that I was already thinking in terms of a bomb. If Tullock wanted to target me, he would make it very personal; rig it in a way that wouldn't be prematurely triggered by some idle visitor. He'd select some element of the house that was used by me and me alone. That's where he would put it. With all the marina contacts he had through his government work it was possible—hell, likely—that he knew far more about my lifestyle than I knew about his.
I thought about the door to my house ... I thought about the door to my lab . . . then I thought about the heavy lid that covered my fish tank. Thought about Janet Mueller, always so punctual.
Six-thirty. . . .
I looked into Hannah's face and felt a contagious panic sweep through me. Said, 'Follow me in!' and gunned my boat. Heard Hannah yell something in reply—something, I realized later, that I should have already known: In Hannah's boat, the trip would have been quicker.
In Hannah's boat, there was a chance ... a slim, slim chance . . . that I would arrive at my dock before Janet did.
Chapter 17
Dinkin's Bay is a lopsided lake of brackish water that is enclosed by mangroves. There are only two narrow holes through the mangroves into that lake. One opening is to the northeast—slightly more than two miles from the marina and my stilt house. Because the water there is deep, it is known as the mouth to Dinkin's Bay. Channel markers create a twisting, navigable road to and from the mouth.
The other opening is to the northwest. It is much closer to the marina—a quarter-mile away, maybe less. That cut is also deep, but there are sandbars on either side which seal it closed. Because of its configuration, the cut is known to the fishing guides as Auger Hole. The Auger Hole is not considered navigable, unless you are in a canoe, or unless you are in a thin-draft boat like mine and it is a very, very high tide.
That morning, the tide was not very, very high. In § fact, it was closer to low tide because the dynamics of a northwest wind push water out of the sound, then hold it off shore. As I raced away from Hannah, I pointed my bow directly at the mouth of Dinkin's Bay. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Hannah also speeding away, but she was steering much farther toward the south; she appeared to be heading into another bay, which the guides call Horseshoe.
That made no sense . . . until I realized what she was doing. She was going to attempt to lop offa couple of miles; shorten the distance between herself and the marina. She was going to try and jump the bars and cross through Auger Hole into Dinkin's Bay.
I thought: Not on this tide. Not even in a mullet boat.
I watched her for a while: she and her skiff getting smaller and smaller, our angles of passage expanding the distance. Then the outside wall of Dinkin's Bay interceded, and she disappeared.
At Woodring Point, I turned hard to the south into the mouth of the bay. I ignored the channel markers and trimmed the engine high. The mangroves provided a break from the wind, so the water was much calmer. I jammed the throttle forward and watched the tachometer needle jump to six thousand RPM—sixty miles an hour, maybe faster. The speed made my lips flutter and teared my eyes. I used the nose on my boat like a rifle sight: kept it pointed on my tiny gray house, two miles away.
As I drove, I fished beneath the console and pulled out my portable VHF radio. I tried to call the fishing guides on channel 8.
No reply. If they were at the docks this early, they hadn't yet turned their radios on.
Hit a button and tried to call the marina on channel 16.
No reply. The marina didn't open until seven. Mack usually didn't get around to turning the radio on until later.
Put the radio away and made a ridiculous attempt to try one of Tomlinson's tricks, a telepathic message to Janet Mueller:
Pictured Janet's face: the pudgy face with steady, steady eyes that had already seen way too much pain. Pictured her in her baggy pants and sweatshirt . . . saw her expression of astonishment as she marveled at the behavior of the tarpon . . . saw her in her gaudy peach ball gown before Perbcot: a shy, private girl in a grown-up's party clothes.
Felt the panic in me grow stronger; attempted to use logic like an antidote: Raymond Tullock wouldn't do it. Not now. Not this damn soon!
Heard a small voice say:
I was so fixated on my fish house, straining so hard to will Janet away from it, that I didn't notice Hannah until she came sweeping across the channel a mile or so ahead of me, her plywood boat throwing a funneling wake.
