Deep Blue (20 page)

Tomlinson watched the seaplane take off and bank west, its fuselage blue and white in the wash of a rising sun. It wasn't quite seven-thirty; nothing left to do here, all alone thirty miles from land, yet he lingered.

Julian Solo was out here, too, he believed. Maybe not close but somewhere. His powers of distant viewing were a tad rusty, and never a hundred percent accurate, but pretty damn good when he kicked his sentient radar into overdrive.

“Stop moving around,” he told the dog. “I'm trying to get into the zone.”

Another Bock breakfast beer seemed to help. He carried it to the bow and let his nose become a dowsing rod like old-time
spiritualists had used to find water. A quarter turn to the north . . . a turn to the west, then a correctional turn to the southwest, put him on a sensory beam that felt about right. But there were no ships out there on the horizon when he opened his eyes.

“That doesn't mean diddly-squat,” he told the dog. “Line of sight from sea level is only a couple of miles. Less then twelve, even for one of those big oceangoing mothers that like to run down sailboats when they get the chance.”

He went to the electronics suite and switched on the radar. The little seaplane was a blip, flying crazy low, and already twenty miles away. To the northeast, a couple of fast-moving vessels were off Boca Grande, and several more to the east. But nothing to the southwest—not within twenty-four miles, the radar's max range.

Hmm . . .

“I've been wrong before,” he said, “but I'm not wrong this time. It's a sort of fizzy feeling I get where the brain stem connects to my medulla. Trust me, Julian will be here, but later. Around sunset, give or take. Or tomorrow night. He's an international criminal. They're like cockroaches. They hate the light.”

A little after nine, Tomlinson dropped an orange marker buoy. Fifteen minutes later, he hauled anchor and cruised around for a while looking for the killer whale, then pointed the boat toward Sanibel. When cell reception was good enough, he called Ava and left a message. He tried again after he'd cleared the causeway but had to be satisfied with her lukewarm text response:

Feeling better, will call in few days.

Woodring Point was only a couple of miles ahead, then the entrance into Dinkin's Bay.

Play it fast and cool,
he reminded himself.
Don't use the channel; run the flats straight to the lab.

He didn't want to have to answer the question, “Where's Doc?”

•   •   •

No need to worry
about questions. Half the Dinkin's Bay population was clustered around a truck labeled
TAMPA
BAY FREIGHT,
when he arrived, and a box the size of a refrigerator. By the time he got the boat moored, and the dog fed, and fish in a dozen aquariums, too, the box had been opened, but Mack, Figgy, Rhonda, and several others were still outside the marina office, ogling what the box had contained.

“An outdoor sound system,” Mack grinned. “I guess I don't have to put up with any more bitching from you music expert types—not that the speakers we have aren't perfectly fine.”

Tomlinson, a music aficionado, said, “I feel like kissing you right on the lips. How much did this set you back?”

That got a laugh from everyone except Figgy, who didn't understand a word but knew fine-looking outdoor speakers when he saw them. There were six, plus an amplifier that came to his chest and a bunch of other shiny-looking gear.

Rhonda trotted up and gave Tomlinson a hug. “Thanks, sweetie. That's from all of us. You are the kindest, most generous man I've ever met . . .” She glanced at Mack. “Well, one of the two most generous men.”

Tomlinson had no idea what she was talking about but offered
a goofy shrug, saying, “I'm just happy to be in the top ten. What do we have here?”

He moved to examine the commercial-sized outdoor speakers, a megawatt amplifier, and a complicated-looking input bank, all labeled
PRX600 Professional
in chrome.

“I used to work as a roadie for the band America, and a very sweet gig it was. They had a system similar to this. I forget the manufacturer. Erin and the guys probably chose the very best from several, but you know how merchandising works.
PRX
could be the generic label for all sorts of brands.”

“Thank god,” Rhonda said. “We have no idea how to hook it up. Can you do it or should we call a professional?”

“You're talking to a professional,” Tomlinson assured her. “Once you get a feel for how electrons flow; sound and proper amplification, it's sort of like riding a bicycle. I'll have her done by tomorrow afternoon, no prob.”

Mack drifted off for a moment as if he had a better idea. “Tell you what, with Jeth or Fast Eddie helping, I might set it and give it a practice run before tonight's party.”

That was okay with Tomlinson. He took one of the boxes and read the small print on the back. “‘Mingxuan Audio, Made in China.' Never heard of it, but I can tell just from the components it's professional-grade. Seriously, Mack, this had to cost you ten or twelve grand.”

More laughter.

Tomlinson looked up. “Am I missing something here?”

“You can drop the act,” Rhonda said. “We know.”

“Of course you do. Uhh . . . know what?”

“Come on,” Mack said. “Who else would leave old sun-bleached hundred-dollar bills as Christmas gifts? From the moment Marta's little girl came running up to show me, I knew you were the mystery Santa. We all figured it out, so you can stop pretending. But this”—he patted one of the speakers—“was totally unexpected.”

Tomlinson stood, not concerned but interested. “It wasn't me.”

“Sur-r-r-re it wasn't.”

“I love the whole Kris Kringle thing, but, seriously. I didn't order this, and I haven't been giving away hundred-dollar bills. Who was the box addressed to?”

Mack stared at him a moment, then checked the invoice in his hand. “General delivery, Dinkin's Bay Marina, all shipping charges paid. And there was a card around here someplace.”

Rhonda had it. “All it says is ‘Silent Nights Suck' and it's signed ‘Mystery Santa.' Not an actual signature; it's typed. The ‘Silent Night' part, too. Here, look for yourself.” She handed Tomlinson the card; a corny one, with Santa dancing around a sombrero while Rudolph played the steel drums.

“A sombrero—weird,” he said. “And the rest is just tacky and plain damn rude.”

Mack responded, “That's another reason we thought it was you,” then grew thoughtful, looking at all the expensive electronics. “You think at least ten thousand?”

“More like eight to twelve, that's ballpark for a low-end pro system, but this stuff looks like the real McCoy. Could be twenty grand.” Tomlinson moved to the amplifier. “Did it come with directions or a schematic or something? I can figure it out, but I want
to do it right the first time—if you don't have it up and running by the time I get back.”

Mack was still puzzled. “Who in the hell would give the marina twenty grand's worth of sound equipment? It had to be someone with money to burn.” He glanced toward the docks, where the Brazilian's slip was vacant, but dismissed the idea. “On this island, it could be anyone, I suppose. Be nice even to the assholes, that's what I always say, because you never know who they might mention in their will.” After a beat, he asked again, “Are you sure it wasn't you?”

“As sure as God makes little green apples.” Tomlinson got up, steadied himself, and got his bearings. “Store this stuff someplace and I'll get to work on it tomorrow. Or maybe tonight, we'll see. Doc had me up at dark damn thirty this morning and I need a nap.” Then he answered what someone was bound to ask by saying, “We hooked up with some sort of research vessel this morning and I've got to pick him around sunset.”

A partial truth was the best he could do.

•   •   •

By noon,
Tomlinson was asleep in the hammock outside the biologist's lab but woke up, sweating, at two in the hellish heat of a nightmare. Discordant elements spun on a collision course in his head. Hooded jihadists, sharks the size of Megalodons, a boiling ball of fire, and Ava's slack, unconscious face.

Paranormal powers told him Ava was in trouble again, so he called.

His paranormal powers were wrong. She answered; didn't sound like the confident professional she was before but was doing fairly well. Next, he tried JoAnn and Rhonda aboard
Tiger Lilly
. Perhaps that sicko, Julian, had leaked more personal files.

No . . . everything was hunky-dory there, too. JoAnn, who was in charge of tonight's music list, had just heard about the new sound system. She was excited about trying an unusual mix of Gregorian chants, operatic sopranos, and Buffett's lesser-known classics. Normally, Tomlinson would have dived headfirst into this debate, but not now.

Dreams did not create themselves. Something was wrong somewhere. As he knew, but seldom took the trouble to explain, his sensory abilities weren't a “power” that had an off-on switch, nor could they be aimed like a rifle. They were a conduit to waves of energy accessed by opening the receptors. Claircognizance, some called it, which he thought of as “breathing awareness.”

All the other hokey terms—
astral projection
,
ESP
,
clairvoyance
,
psychometry
—could be defined the same way.

On the other hand . . . psychometry
was
different, in that it required a physical conduit. Human beings emitted an energy signature, each unique. This energy seeped into objects they touched, or wore or used, particularly if the item was a valued possession.

Near the hammock, on the wall outside the laboratory, Ford's favorite fishing rods were stored vertically in a rack. Tomlinson selected a 9-weight Sage fly rod with a golden Seamaster reel. The rod was made of graphite, a good conductor. He carried it outside to the deck and went through the dowsing process. Facing west, his
breathing slowed. He opened his mind to distant images and allowed them to flow uncensored.

Palm trees . . . a concrete vault . . . No . . . an abandoned gray building . . . Water of turquoise flowed over black water . . . Steel drums, donkeys . . . Santa Claus dancing in a sombrero.

Shit-oh-dear.

Tomlinson opened his eyes. That damn Christmas card had thrown him off the scent. On the bright side, he'd gotten a whiff of the biologist's vibe and had sensed no danger awaiting.

Was that possible?

No freakin' way, José.

He tried again.

This time, the gray building was displaced by a vibe of strongest loathing. Images assumed the likeness of his nightmare: a shark the size of Megalodon, a swirling cauldron of fire, a Jihadist's scream . . . Then Julian Solo, his pearlescent face, overpowered all else.

Several minutes later, Tomlinson opened his eyes.

He was certain now of what he must do.

Two hours before sunset, he was thirty miles offshore in Ford's monster boat, anchored over the Captiva Blue Hole, where he expected a true monster to appear.

If not tonight, by morning.

When Ford came running down the steps, hit the trip wire, and fell, his bad shoulder absorbed most of the impact. The pain was bearable, but he needed time to recover, so he said to the man in the executioner's hood, “Winslow won't like it if you kill me now. You'll piss Julian off, too. Is that what you want? And think about their guests—there are at least six chairs stacked up there.”

He got to his feet as David Cashmere approached but eyed the floor. Possible weapons included a chunk of two-by-four and a coil of wire.

Christ.
On the eighth floor, his bag was filled with all sorts of options. He'd left the 9mm Sig Sauer pistol up there, too. It was on the ledge where nobody in their right mind would risk searching.

“It's . . .
you
,” Cashmere said. His surprise was genuine. “I didn't think you'd have the balls to show.”

Ford edged closer to the wire, saying, “Mexico's nice. Why wouldn't I?”

“To save your ass. Man . . . I can't believe this—the last person I expected to find snooping around. But like I told the others, you'd be dead by tomorrow anyway.”

What the hell did that mean?

The failed actor ripped off the hood, then some gauze bandages and tape, yelling, “Look what you did to my face, you filthy pig.
Look at me!
This is nothing compared to what I'll do to you.” He spun the ruby-handled knife—a martial arts showman—and glared.

The wooden stake had torn away flesh and muscle below Cashmere's left eye. A third blow had plowed a hairless furrow down the side of his head. Sutures bristled from the wounds. His skin was stained red by Betadine, and muscle damage caused him to speak from the side of his mouth. An old-time TV gangster—that was the effect.

Ford went into hostage mode by using names to make it personal. “David, calm down. Why don't you call Julian right now and get him over here. Or Shepherd? I stopped by to see what I'm getting into. You would've done the same. I'm meeting them here tonight. You do
know
about the meeting.”

Cashmere came toward him, his chin leading the way. “Shut up, bitch, and do what I tell you. You haven't taken a really good look yet. See this?
See my face?
”

Ford peered for a moment. “It could have been worse. A lot
worse . . . really,” he said and slid closer to the coil of wire. “I did a sloppy job, I admit it. On the other hand, if I didn't have a reason to apologize, you'd be dead. Would you rather I'd killed you, David? So drop it. Where's Julian?”

“Enough about goddamn Julian, think about the mess you made of my face.” He tilted his chin to pose, so furious his voice shook. Then spun the knife so its scimitar blade was poised overhead. “What I want you to do is get on your belly—get on your goddamn belly!—so I can wire your hands. How do you think women look at me now? Like I'm a freak, a goddamn Frankenstein. I was handsome, you sick asshole. Handsome—all the ladies said so—but not after what you did.”

Ford held his hands palms out and backed away. “Take it easy. David . . . listen to me. I'm not going to get on my belly. Winslow Shepherd wants me here at five-thirty and that's what I'm going to do. What are you going to tell him if—” A crazy glow in Cashmere's eyes demanded a different approach. “But the important thing is, women don't care about a few scars. What you're worried about is how you'll look on camera. Isn't that right? Think about it. In feature films, how many pretty-boy stars make it big? But character actors, men who've earned some scars—”

“Shut your mouth,” Cashmere said, but was interested enough to lower the knife a little. “I'm not falling for your bullshit again. That parachute, or whatever they called it, drug me out into the goddamn ocean. There were sharks; I nearly drowned. All because you lied, told me not to unbuckle that damn harness.” He paused and touched a finger to his face and scoffed. “The movie business—as if you know a goddamn thing.”

Ford thought,
He's imagining himself on the screen.
“I'm not going to apologize for letting the rope go. I botched the job, yeah, but I'm not going to apologize for anything else. It's business, part of what we do. No one knows that better than you.”

A lot depended on how Máximo handled that.

“I never let anyone drown,” Cashmere countered, which told Ford he might have some breathing room—but then the man's phone beeped with a text message, which he read, then looked up with a
You lying bastard
expression.

Ford thought,
Uh-oh.

“Where's your cell phone?” Cashmere demanded. He didn't wait for a response. “Empty your pockets. Remember when you told me to empty my pockets?”

“I didn't bring a phone,” Ford said but did as told; turned around and did his back pockets, too. “What's the problem?”

“The problem is your phone landed at Cancún International an hour ago. Old Man Shepherd's convinced you're in a rental car driving down from Playa del Carmen, almost to Tulum by now. How do you explain that?”

The Delta flight out of Tampa was late, that was the explanation, but Ford said, “I was about to tell you. This morning at Miami International, someone stole my phone. Why else would I be here without one?”

Cashmere stood there while his mind put things together. His eyes found the concrete stairway, followed it to the eighth floor. “You were rigging some kind of trap when I came in, weren't you? Up there, banging on something. I figured it was some poor-ass Mexican thief robbing the place.”

“Surprised?” Ford said. “Yeah, I could hear it in your voice. How do you think I felt when I looked up and saw you? There's no trap. Just a stack of chairs and stuff for the meeting; they haven't even been set up yet. Go ahead”—he motioned to the stairs—“see for yourself.”

“You expect me to believe someone stole your phone?”

“Have you ever been to Miami? Look, I understand why you're pissed off, but I meant what I said. I'm not in the movie business, but where I live, a lot of Hollywood types hang out. The pretty-boy actors never make it—”

Cashmere, with an odd smile, interrupted. “I know exactly where you live, dumbass.” Said it in a way that hinted at something else. “Know what I think? You're full of shit.”

Ford said, “Okay, but you're missing an opportunity here. Not that a producer could hire you to work in the States, but there are film companies based in Florida that shoot all over the world. See it from their perspective. You're a real-life bad guy who actually looks like”—Ford sensed this was a sensitive area—“who looks tough enough, has a few scars to prove he's been around. What I did to you was strictly business. Does that mean we can't have a conversation?”

The man's almond eyes dulled momentarily. He turned inward and tried to picture it happening, but his eyes soon sparked and he returned madder than before.

“Full of shit, just like I said. What I think is Old Man Shepherd won't care about tonight if I save him from whatever it is you rigged up there. Especially when he sees how you look after you go off that balcony this afternoon.” Using the knife as a prod, he walked closer, saying, “Move or I'll start cutting off pieces.”

Something in his tone promised he would start hacking at the first opportunity, so Ford spun and sprinted up the stairs two steps at a time. Cashmere followed, mad enough to forget the trip wire he'd set. Ford hoped it would happen but wasn't sure until he heard a thud, then the clatter of metal hitting concrete.

When he turned, the man was weaponless on the floor below, staring at bone splinters protruding from his right hand. “Oh shit . . . I'm . . . I'm hurt bad,” he sputtered, going into shock just like before when the parasail crashed. “Get me to a doctor, man.” He held up his shattered hand. “See what you did?”

“You need a surgeon,” Ford said, “and fast. From here, it looks like your elbow's broken, too. You could end up a cripple.”

“That's what I'm saying, asshole! Come on, help me up. Shit . . . or bleed to death.” The man rocked back and forth on his knees, hand elevated, blood streaming down his arm, until he realized the biologist hadn't moved. “Please. I'll make it worth your while.”

“I don't see how.”

“My elbow,” Cashmere moaned, “my whole arm's crooked . . . Shit!” He looked up. “Tonight, you'll see. I'll . . . help you tonight. Really. Or money—you want money? How about twenty thousand cash up front? Another fifty thousand when you get me to a doctor. Come on, man. I didn't mean that stuff about doing the balcony thing now.”

“I didn't think you did,” Ford lied. “In the boat, I've got a first-aid kit. Then, sure, a doctor—as long as you tell me what you know about tonight.”

“A boat?”

“Did you see a car out there, dumbass?”

“Okay, okay, just take me to a hospital. I've got a rental, but get this bleeding stopped first.”

Ford got the man on his feet and helped keep the hand elevated, saying, “Calm down, you'll be okay. It's not as bad as it looks.”

“I feel like I'm going to vomit.”

“A compound fracture. The important thing is, get it cleaned and iced, then some antibiotic spray. Everything we need's in the first-aid kit.”

“There's a clinic not far from here. In Tulum. You're not just saying that to make me feel better?”

Ford replied, “I've seen a lot worse,” and led the former Chicagoan outside into the copra grove, the two of them soon talking with a false familiarity created by stress. Frightened men in pain are often chatty.

Cashmere had no loyalty to Winslow Shepherd or Julian. He didn't mind revealing what he knew, but shared it between bouts of obsessing about his shattered hand. Julian wasn't in Mexico, he said. This was a setback that might require a change of plans.

Okay. Ford would play it out but had one last question for the Jihadist assassin. “What did you mean when you said I'd be dead by tomorrow?”

“Nothing, man. It was just talk. You know, like to scare you. Whoa”—he stumbled; Ford caught his good arm before he went down—“I feel like I'm gonna faint. How far's your boat?”

The man was evading.

Ford said, “Tell me,” and applied pressure to the annular ligament of Cashmere's elbow.

“Hey . . . that
hurts
. Dude, you trying to break this arm, too?”

The actor was acting. The instant his elbow was free, he tried to run, but Ford tripped him and took him to the ground. A footrace could not be risked, so he killed David Abdel Cashmere there, a shady spot, snapped his neck. The only sound was a grunt, then a rattling wheeze, and he hid the body under a bunch of palm fronds.

Ford returned to the condo. Twenty minutes later, he came back with his Vertx gear bag, a tarp, and some other things from the pile he'd found under the tarp inside the building.

Cashmere's phone, room key, wallet, the ruby-handled knife, and executioner's hood went into a waterproof bag, along with the keys to a rental car hidden somewhere. His body went onto the paddleboard, then into the miniature Blue Hole.

In ten feet of water, Ford looped wire to a limestone boulder, gave it a push, and let the boulder's weight drag the Chicagoan deeper. And that's where he would stay, suspended among feeding moon jellies, in the shadow of drifting men-of-war, until they had consumed him or set him free.

But the unexplained threat stuck with Ford as he paddled back to shore.

You would be dead by tomorrow anyway.

•   •   •

Steal a dead man's cell
phone,
you own his identity for as long as people believe he is alive. Steal his car, you own the contents.

Ford was eager to see what Cashmere's rental contained.

It was a Toyota SUV, hidden beside the bulldozer's bulk. Behind the backseat were three large suitcases and a steel lockbox. On the
passenger's seat was a computer bag. The floor was a bachelor's heap of clothes, empty beer bottles, crumpled Marlboro packs, and one
Hollywood Insider
.

Ford thought,
A Jihadist on Christmas vacation.

He took the Cancún road north toward Tulum and turned onto a shady tractor lane hidden from the road. He parked and took inventory.

The computer bag contained an IBM laptop. He didn't open it—Julian was out there somewhere monitoring everything. More importantly, this computer had been owned by a high-ranking terrorist operative. It might contain self-destruct software if a password wasn't immediately entered. Deliver it to the U.S. Consulate at Mérida, however, or to Special Operations Command in Tampa, and experts might harvest information that would save lives.

The Maximum Assassin's laptop could turn out to be an intelligence coup.

The suitcases were hard-shell Samsonites, but no problem. Ford removed one, used his knife to jimmy the hinges without breaking the locks, then stepped back.