coincidence. I ended up with Jimmy Darroux for a reason. At first, I thought it was to heal him. Use my hands to fill him full of universal energy, take away the pain—'
'It didn't work?' I wondered if Tomlinson would admit it.
'Well... his dying sort of put the nix on the whole approach. So now I've got to find Hannah.'
'Look, that guy ... his bomb, he could have killed one of the guides. Tell, if the fire had gotten to the fuel storage tank, he could have killed as all.'
'He was a human being, man. I'm not here to judge him. And I'm not saying the vibes weren't bad. There was a darkness in him, I sensed that, but let's face it: he'd just gotten blown up. A thing like that will definitely darken the mood ring. The man died holding my hand, Doc. It's what we call a karmic obligation.'
I stood up, stretched, returned the magazine to the bookshelf 'Terrorism is what I call it. I don't share your sympathy.'
'I'm talking about the girl. The woman, whatever. You need to help me find her.'
'His last words to me were about Jesus—'
'See? At least he was a religious man—'
'That he could see Jesus. Nothing about a woman. I don't understand how that obligates me.'
Tomlinson was out of the chair, some of his energy returned. He still looked tired, but he was as serious as I have ever seen him. 'Come on, Doc. You were the first one to him. No coincidences, remember? You're good at this stuff, finding people. Me, I'm a concept person. In all the years we've known each other, have I ever asked you for a favor before?'
I almost answered truthfully—seldom a day went by that Tomlinson didn't ask me for something. Instead, I said, 'They know his name, where he lived—Sulphur Wells. You don't need me for that. Check the phone book, under D for Darroux. Someone at his house will know.'
'See? You're already getting things figured out. What would it hurt to hop in your boat and run over there? A ride, that's all I'm asking for. Then I'll buy you dinner. Find a place at Sulphur Wells or stop at Cabbage Key. You name it.'
'The guy dies and we just pop in, start asking questions.'
Tomlinson made an open-palmed gesture—he was going. 'I'd ask to borrow your truck, but you have to drive halfway up the mainland, then way south again to get there. Two hours minimum by road but only about in hour in a fast boat. Or I'll take my dinghy . . .'
I pictured Tomlinson pulling into the commercial fish docks at Sulphur Wells, all those rednecks staring at him, probably wearing some beer by this time of day. And already pissed off about losing one of their own.
'It'll be dark in an hour.'
'Then I'll need a light. Can I borrow your spotlight?' I swung open the door and stepped out to see if my bomber jacket was dry—the norther had slipped through, but it would still be cold out there on the water. 'I'll go, I'll
I made a stop before we got under way. After my talk with Ron Jackson, I'd found Janet Mueller out by the front gate loosening up to run, so we'd jogged a couple of miles together before I broke away and headed to the beach to finish my workout. As I left her, I'd suggested that we get together later for a beer and something to eat.
Now I had to cancel the date.
Marina communities are gypsy communities—boats are, after all, built for travel. If you're sailing the Intercoastal north to Texas or Mexico, or south to the Keys or Yucatan, Dinkin's Bay is just off the main channel, Marker 5 on the chart. The cruising guides list it as a 'quaint' back bay marina hidden in the mangroves, electrical hookups, showers, laundry, and ground transportation available . . . but not recommended for vessels over forty feet or that draw more than six feet. So we get a steady turnover of small cruisers and gunkholers. Usually couples, often retirees—'When the kids were young, we always dreamed of buying a boat,'—but almost never women traveling alone.
Janet Mueller was an exception.
She'd come chugging into the marina a couple of weeks earlier in a little Holiday Mansion houseboat that was so beaten up that the bright blue paint job couldn't disguise the misuse . . . unless you were an absolute novice— which Janet was. She'd banged the docks, fouled her lines, then banged the docks some more. By the time we got her tied up, her hands were shaking, she seemed near tears. She kept saying, 'I just bought this. I don't know anything about it!' She continued to apologize, even as we said our goodbyes.
Because marinas are gypsy communities, the cruisers and the marina regulars usually mix easily. Not Janet. She stayed to herself; spent a lot of time above deck in the heat of the day, scrubbing, polishing, studying manuals. Sometimes she would throw off the lines and chug around the bay. My impression was that she did it so that she could practice docking. I liked that—she seemed determined, independent; a stubborn lady.
But Janet Mueller also had the shell-shocked look of a person who is trying to recover from some debilitating event. You see it often in Florida: the introspective stare, the weighted shoulders, the slow declination of chin. They don't say much, they sigh a lot. They seem to have trouble concentrating, as if some private chord echoes in their ears. They are traveling, they say, or on sabbatical. It's not true. They are in flight; trying to escape the divorce or the death or the bankruptcy that has dismantled their lives. They come down hoping the beaches, the sunsets will provide a curative—just like the brochures suggest. Yet, all too often, the abruptness of the change, the neon glitz and ocean space of Florida only add to the shock of being untethered. You can escape everything by leaving home . . . except yourself.
The only thing I knew about her was that she was from a place called Montpelier, Ohio—she told me that— and she liked oldies rock and roll. I could hear it coming from her boat when I walked past on the dock. Also, she knew a great deal about computers—Tomlinson told me that. She was a plain-looking woman. Not unattractive, just plain. She was probably in her early thirties, had short brown hair, a round face, a body prone to plumpness, legs, hips, and torso not constructed for the cargo shorts and pullovers she usually wore. I could picture her sitting at the back of the classroom, not saying much but getting good grades. I could picture her in business clothes, neat, punctual, indispensable at her work. She had that aura of steadiness. But, in the very few times we spoke, I also got the impression that had I clapped my hands unexpectedly, she would have dived 'or cover or burst into tears. Post-traumatic stress syndrome is not the exclusive province of war veterans. Women, particularly the quiet ones, the plain ones, can suffer it as well.
In a small community, romance segregates, so I've made it a rule not to date women who live at the marina. But that morning, Janet had been among those in the water with Tomlinson trying to help Jimmy Darroux. She hadn't been shy or timid then. We had the explosion in common now. and suggesting that we get something to eat had seemed to provide polite closure to our run. It was an offhand invitation, innocent, but I didn't want her to think that I'd simply forgotten it.
As I idled over to the marina, Tomlinson jogged over by land to see if anyone knew where, exactly, Jimmy Darroux had lived. It wasn't his idea, it was mine. Sulphur Wells is a big island. There are several waterfront settlements; five or six commercial fish houses, and unlike Tomlinson, I didn't trust karma to steer us to the right one. I nudged my skiff around the oyster bar off the T-dock, then along B-dock where Janet's houseboat was moored. She had it bumpered nicely, stern to, curtained pilothouse windows clean, lines coiled. I glided in and caught the safety rail, calling, 'Hello the boat!'
I felt the little houseboat's trim shift slightly; then she poked her head out of the pilothouse door, grinning. She was wearing a terrycloth robe, scrubbing at her hair with a towel. She had just gotten out of the shower. For absolutely no logical reason, I had the terrible feeling that she had washed her hair and was about to get dressed up just for me. She said a little shyly, 'I didn't know you wanted to go so early. You want to come in for a drink? Or I can . . . geez, just give me ten minutes and I'll be all ready. I promise. I'll put on some music.'
I said, 'Well, that's not exactly why, uh . . . Something's come up, you see and ... I know I said earlier that we would, uh . . .' the whole time wondering how a grown man could sound so stupid.
Her smile began to fade. 'We're not going?'
'Sorry, can't. I have to do a favor for a friend.'
The smile disappeared. 'Oh. Well ... I know you're awfully busy.'
'It's not that. It's just that this thing came up.'
'Honest, don't worry about it.' She said that in a soothing way, as if more concerned with my feelings than
