Night Moves (2 page)

Bill Lee, and his orbiting star, Diana, as always, have guided the author—safely, for the most part—into the strange but fun and enlightened world of our mutual friend, the Rev. Sighurdhr M. Tomlinson. Equal thanks go to Kerry and Donna Terwilliger for helping the author to escape, undamaged. Steven Dougherty of New York and California has also provided useful insights into the mind-set of hipsterdom and various modes of übercoolness. My niece Zoe Webb added help as well.

Others who provided help or insights, information, and advice include: young Captain Matthew Hirst of St. Louis, Kenneth Wright of the Florida Fish and Wildlife Commission, Hackensmith Cattle Company (Bull of the Beach), Dr. Pearl D. Miller of Tampa, Florida, Darryl Pottorf, Mark Pace, Gene Routh, and Kirsten Martin of VersaClimber. Special thanks goes to Wendy Webb, my life companion, adviser, and trusted friend, as well as Stephen Grendon, the author’s devoted SOB, Mrs. Iris Tanner, guardian angel, and my partners and pals, Mark Marinello, Marty and Brenda Harrity, and my surfing buddy, Gus Landl.

Much of this novel was written at corner tables before and after hours at Doc Ford’s Rum Bar and Grille on Sanibel Island and San Carlos Island, where staff were tolerant beyond the call of duty. Thanks go to Raynauld Bentley, Amanda Gardana, Amanda Rodrigues, Ashley Rodehaffer, Amazing Cindy Porter, Desiree Olson, Fernando Garrido, Joey Wilson, Khusan (Sam) Ismatullaev, Kory Delannoy, Mary McBeath, Michelle Madonna Boninsegna, Magic Milita Kennedy, Olga Jerrard, Rachel Songalewski, Tall Sean Lamont, High Shawn Scott, T. J. Grace, Yakh’yo Yakubov, Captain Brian Cunningham, Mojito Greg Barker, Jim Rainville, Nathaniel Buffman, Crystal Burns, Donna Butz, Gabrielle Moschitta, Maria Jimenez, and Sarah Carnithan.

At the Rum Bar on San Carlos Island, Fort Myers Beach, thanks go to Dan Howes, Andrea Aguayo, Corey Allen, Nora Billeimer, Tiffany Forehand, Jessica Foster, Amanda Ganong, Nicole Hinchcliffe, Mathew Johnson, Janell Jambon, C. J. Lawerence, Josie Lombardo, Meredith Martin, Sue Mora, Kerra Pike, Michael Scopel, Heidi Stacy, Danielle Straub, Latoya Trotta, Lee Washington, Katlin Whitaker, Kevin Boyce, Keil Fuller, Ali Pereira, Kevin Tully, Molly Brewer, Jessica Wozniak, Emily Heath, Nicole English, Ryan Cook, Drew Fensake, Ramon Reyes, Justin Voskuhl, Anthony Howes, Louis Pignatello, and John Goetz.

Finally, I would like to thank Captain J. B. Marlin for his generosity, and my two sons, Rogan and Lee White, for helping me finish, yet again, another book.

— Randy Wayne White

Casa de Chico’s

Sanibel Island, Florida

Now on the day that John Wayne died

I found myself on the Continental Divide

Tell me where do we go from here?

Think I’ll ride into Leadville and have a few beers.

—JIMMY BUFFETT, “INCOMMUNICADO”

1

WE WERE HALF A MILE HIGH IN A BRIGHT EVERGLADES
sky, on the trail of five Navy torpedo bombers that vanished in 1945, yet my friend Tomlinson remained fixated on the fate of our marina’s cat, which had gone missing only two days earlier.

The curse of obsession is one of the few qualities my hipster neighbor and I share.

“The problem with cats,” he lectured through the plane’s intercom, “is they have the ability to block human brain probes whenever they’re in the damn mood—hunger and horniness the only exceptions. Otherwise, I would have tracked him down last night. Crunch & Des is always on the prowl, which I used to admire. Not now. Either something bad happened or he’s behaving like an ingrate, showing off just to prove he doesn’t need us. Doc’ll back me up on this one. Won’t you, Doc?”

Crunch & Des is the communal cat at Dinkin’s Bay Marina, Sanibel Island, west coast of Florida, where I run a small company, Sanibel Biological Supply. When, as a young stray, he appeared at a Friday-night dock party, a friendly debate ensued over a fitting name for an ink black kitten with six toes on each paw. By the time three favorites had emerged—Poe, Sasquatch, and Ernest—many cold beers (and saucers of milk) had been consumed, and debate had become mildly contentious. Fortunately, Mack, who owns the marina, intervened. He had just finished one of the late Philip Wylie’s books, so honored the writer by naming the cat after Wylie’s two hard-nosed 1940s fishing guides. It seemed an absurd choice at the time, looking at that sleeping, potbellied kitten curled next to a beer keg. Within a year, though, the cat was big enough, and sufficiently scarred from battle, to shoulder two names.

“If a gator grabbed him,” Tomlinson continued, “I think I would have sensed the panic vibes. Like, alarm bells, you know? With sentient beings I care about, my subconscious maintains a telepathic link. That’s why his disappearance has me so freaked. I think the little bastard’s just screwing with my head. Like, when women intentionally try to make us jealous—but, hey, don’t get me started on
that
subject.”

Beside me, at the controls of his beautiful little Maule M-7 seaplane, Dan Futch, the best pilot I know, glanced at me, his expression asking
You trust this guy?

I nodded
Usually
before adjusting my headphones and saying, “Shouldn’t your mystic powers be focused on Flight 19? Five planes and fourteen men vanish without a trace almost seventy years ago—if you can make a telepathic link with them, I’ll be impressed. We’ll look for the cat when we get back. If he hasn’t turned up already.”

Tomlinson was sitting behind me and put a hand on the back of Dan’s seat. “Doc gets pissy when dealing with stuff that can’t be explained, you ever notice? Same with anything that requires emotion.”

I ignored him, my thoughts on the missing planes. Fourteen men lifted off from Lauderdale sixty-eight years ago on a routine flight that should have taken two hours. Instead, their disappearance has baffled generations of searchers—and spawned the myth of the Bermuda Triangle.

I looked out the starboard window and asked Dan, “We’re close to Big Cypress Swamp, right?”

The pilot’s eyes shifted to the GPS screen mounted above a console of gauges and electronics. “Parks aren’t marked on this software version. Everglades City is about fifteen miles off our tail, Tamiami Trail a few miles north. No roads or landmarks for the next thirty miles until we’re closer to Miami. So you can see why it’d be easy to get lost without electronics. Or think you’re still over water. The more research I do, Doc, the more I’m convinced it could have happened.”

Futch, too, was thinking back to that stormy winter night when the five torpedo bombers went missing. It was possible his theory was valid, but I was skeptical despite the fact my pilot pal knows a lot more about aviation and missing planes than I ever will. We were over a sea of sorts—a sea of scud-colored swamp and sawgrass; the horizon a plain of flaxen gold in the late-morning sun. Below, the Earth was pocked with limestone implosions, random as craters on the moon, and there were islands of cypress trees that illustrated isolation, each silver dome set miles apart, alone, eroded into tear shapes by the slow flow of water draining seaward off the Florida plateau.
A river of grass,
Marjory Stoneman Douglas had described it, which is accurate but does not capture the immenseness of the lower forty-eight’s largest roadless, unpopulated wilderness—the Everglades.

“We’ve got some thermals building up ahead,” Futch said, “but that’s what we’re here for, right? And that high-pressure system is still moving toward us from the northeast. So it’s looking like we chose the right day.” The man was preparing us for the bumpy ride ahead, but his manner said
No need to be concerned
.

I wasn’t. Much of my traveling life has been spent in choppers and small planes, and I’ve done some flying myself. Nowhere near Futch’s league, though—he’d logged more than twenty-six thousand hours in the air and was among the most respected seaplane pilots in the country. In my headphones, I heard Tomlinson respond, “So far, the smoothest ride ever.” Then added, “You ever think about flying into a waterspout? You know, just to see what would happen? I did it once in my sailboat. Really an interesting experience. Maybe not today, but let your subconscious work on the idea.
I’d
go with you.”

In reply to the pilot’s questioning look, I nodded, then shook my head: Yes, Tomlinson really had sailed into a waterspout. No, he was not crazy.
Well . . . maybe a little.

As we communicated, the little plane shuddered, then began bucking at the rim of a thermal, which was not unexpected. But then something in the tail section went
BANG!
For a moment, the seaplane paused in midair, listing mildly to port as if it, too, were surprised, and suddenly undecided about which laws of physics applied. Beside me, I was aware that the steering yolk had lost resistance, moving freely as a trombone slide in Futch’s hands.

“Pitch control elevator,” he muttered, “it’s gone,” which is something you never want to hear from a pilot, yet he said it coolly as if he’d anticipated the possibility, maybe even practiced what to do. At the same instant, the plane teetered, nose-heavy, like a roller coaster that has topped a hill, then we dropped from the sky like a dart, the propeller pulling us downward. The sick sensation of my stomach falling slower than my chest plastered me to the seat. I thrust out my hands to stop the Earth from accelerating toward us, but the windshield flooded the cockpit with mushrooming details of where we would soon impact: a prairie of lilies, rock, and sawgrass, a film of black water glittering beneath.

Pilots use the abbreviation
G-LOC
to describe the loss of consciousness that occurs when excessive gravitational force drains blood from the brain. Maybe that’s what happened to me because the next few seconds were a blur of images and sensations. I was aware of Dan working feverishly at the controls, his right hand darting between the trim wheel and the throttle, while his left babied the steering yoke. Even wearing headphones, sound was obliterated by engine noise, the airstream howl of chattering aluminum, so those moments passed in a roaring silence. Later, Tomlinson would swear he’d shouted, “Looks like we’ll be on the ground early!” before whispering some Sanskrit chant. Maybe it was true. If so, his words didn’t register. All I remember clearly is taking comfort in the confident flow of Futch’s hands moving among the controls, all the while my eyes fixed, unblinking, on a patch of limestone that was hurtling toward my face.

Gradually, I became aware of the plane’s changing angle of descent. We were still plummeting toward the hardpan, but on an incline that suggested we might hit belly first and not auger in like an arrow. Great! Emergency crews would be able to identify us piece by piece instead of scraping us off the ground with shovels. Then, off to starboard, a flooded sinkhole came into view, and I felt hopeful. The pond wasn’t large, but at least it would soften our impact when the seaplane’s floats made contact. Maybe I pointed, maybe I called out advice, I’m not sure. But it only caused Futch to shake his head and raise his voice above the din, yelling, “No—the grass! Water will kill us!” He stabbed at the trim wheel, then applied throttle. Increase speed while landing? That was a new one. Seconds later, as the Earth rushed up to crush us, the man hollered, “Hold on, guys, we’re going in hot!”

Yes, we were.

One hand on the door latch, I moved my eyes to the airspeed indicator while Futch tilted the nose until blue sky filled the windshield. We were doing a hundred knots, and still gaining speed as we ascended. The odds of surviving were plummeting just as fast.

On those rare occasions when imagining how I will deal with the inevitable, I embrace the hope I’ll accept my last moments as a rational man, which is to say dispassionately, beyond the reach of panic. Which is pure damn fantasy. I was too numb for panic but did feel a suffocating dread that perhaps is as inevitable as death itself. Worse, that fear was blended with regret—regret for all the infinite experiences, done and undone, that vanish with the last thump of our own fragile hearts. At the end, in truth, my thought stream was neither detached nor rational, just pitifully human:
Not yet! I don’t want to die! Not like this!

Die in a small plane, on a sunny February morning, searching for something that is synonymous with paranormal weirdos and the UFO lunatic fringe? What a damn ridiculous way for a rational man—a respected marine biologist!—to end his years.

Not that I’m a believer, but Tomlinson had implied a spiritual verity by speaking on behalf of all our sorry asses: God must alternately flood the eons with ironic laughter—or his grieving tears.