Shark River (7 page)

Old familiar sounds. An old, familiar sight.

Tomlinson patted more blood away; tossed the gauze into the trash. Said, “Move your arm a little closer to the light. I need to get some more Betadine in there or you’re going to end up with an infection.”

The wounds weren’t too bad. Just barnacle scratches on my face. The bullet had skinned a neat little ruby furrow off the underside of my arm. A black-and-green hematoma had already begun to radiate outward toward my biceps.

A very close call, indeed.

Two inches more or less to the left and I’d have been shot through the chest. Maybe through the heart.

It’s something I’ve learned: No matter how secure our lives may seem, day after day, we live by degrees and survive by inches.

Tomlinson asked me, “So how you feeling now? I’ve got those pain pills if you want ’em.”

“Kind of weak and shaky. All that adrenaline, all the emotion—it leaves you feeling like hell. Sick and depressed.”

“Hum-m-m-m. It’s not like you to feel much emotion about anything. Maybe you’re beginning to evolve spiritually. Play your cards right, you could be more like me—an elevated being.”

“If this is what it’s like, you can have it. I feel like I might vomit.”

“Then this is your lucky day,” he said. “I got just the herb for that one, too.”

The man in the gray suit, the one asking most of the questions, said to me, “Do you know anything about the drug cartels in South America? Colombia, I’m talking about. Or maybe a group called the Shining Path?”

He meant Sendero Luminoso, a terrorist organization founded by a Maoist university professor, Abimael Guzmán, in Peru’s mountain state of Ayacucho. Sendero had exported murder and mindless violence throughout Latin America. Over the years, in a previous line of work, and in what now seems to be a former life, I’d had more than one run-in with Guzmán’s unfortunate prophets.

I said, “The drug cartels, sure. They made a couple of movies about them awhile back, didn’t they? They’re like gangsters, lots of shooting. The other thing you mentioned, though, the Shining something? I don’t think I’ve heard of that, but maybe it’s because I don’t have a TV and I don’t read the papers.”

I was still sitting in the same wicker chair, feet propped up, in the main room of my rental bungalow. Behind me, at the lunch bar, Tomlinson sat listening. Lined before me, on the couch and in a kitchen chair, were two men and a woman, all of them staring at me as if from a panel or court bench. The woman wore a green deputy’s uniform, her leather gunbelt creaking each time she moved. Same with the guy from Florida Marine Patrol, only his uniform was black on gray.

The man in the gray suit said, “The reason I mention the cartels and the Shining Path is because the men who tried to kidnap Ms. Harrington this afternoon could’ve been from either one of those two groups. Or from a half-dozen other terrorist organizations that operate in South America. Tupac Amaru, there’s another example. There’re lots of them.

“We’re not sure yet who they are, but we’ll find out. The point being that Ms. Harrington’s father apparently does have some political influence in that region, so he’s bound to have powerful enemies. They’re not going to like the idea of someone like you screwing up their plans, which is why you need to cooperate with us. You need to tell us the truth, then let us help you.”

To Gray Suit, I said, “I don’t doubt that you mean it—offer me protection, whatever it is you think I need, I believe you. I
understand.
You don’t have an easy job, I
understand
that, too. But how can I make it any plainer? I don’t want your help. I didn’t do anything to need it. Or earn it.”

“You keep telling us that, Doctor Ford. So I’m going to try one more time. Maybe speak a little more plainly, lay it all out. Here’s the deal, doctor: You need to drop the act, come clean, and tell us what really happened out there. You don’t have anything to fear from us. We’re on your side, not theirs. I don’t care what you did. You’re the good guy, like the cowboy who came riding in on the white horse. You may have saved a couple of lives today.
They’re
the bad guys. The kidnappers. Four or five punks against you, and you ran them off. Hell, we’ll try to get you a reward, if you want. Why is that so hard to understand?”

I glanced at Tomlinson. “I guess he has to keep pushing, huh? Like those interrogators in the movies. Thing is, I’m getting tired of him implying I’m lying. It’s not my imagination, is it? That
is
what he’s doing.”

Tomlinson was right with me. “Big time, man. Absofucking-lutely.”

To the officer, I added, “The irritating thing is, you’ve done it several times in the last hour. We invite you in here, agree to cooperate in any way we can, and you keep pressing me to make up a story. Sorry. I’m not going to let you manipulate me into saying something that’s not true. You either believe me or you don’t.”

I watched him purse his lips, glancing at the others. Gray Suit’s ID badge, which I’d read carefully, said he was Doug Waldman, Special Agent for the FBI and a liaison to the U.S. State Department’s Office of Counterterrorism. The badge was clipped to his breast pocket, displaying a fingerprint, a voice/larynx print and a complicated hologram.

The woman deputy leaned forward, her belt making a saddle leather sound, and said, “Just for the record, what I’m going to write in my report is the individual in question, this gentleman I’m talking about, he may or may not have given a truthful account. But I get the impression he’s, you know,
intentionally
giving us an incomplete statement, which my captain in Major Crimes Division isn’t going to like. What I can’t figure out is, Why? Here he is, Joe Citizen, got a chance to be the big hero, get his picture in all the papers, see himself on TV, maybe even get paid by some magazine to tell how he beat off the perpetrators and saved the victim. But he refuses to submit full cooperation.”

Cop words and sterile cop sentence patters—“perpetrators,” “statements,” the “individual in question”—speaking as if I wasn’t in the room.

She turned to Waldman. “This individual’s behavior seems kinda suspicious to me.”

He nodded. “Very odd. That’s my point.” Showing his respect by listening to her.

 

 

The deputy said, “What I’m thinking is, maybe the interviewee had some trouble with the law before. Maybe doesn’t want his picture spread around, worried someone will recognize him, or it’s like a child support thing. I think we need to hold him ’til all our computer checks come back. The Florida Department of Law Enforcement is going to get involved.”

The Florida Marine Patrol had changed its name into the more complicated and meaningless bureauspeak: The Florida Fish and Conservation Commission, which almost no one acknowledges. Neither, apparently, did the officer investigating from that agency, a man named McRae, since he was wearing his Marine Patrol uniform. He hadn’t said much, but now he spoke. “Doctor Ford’s got a pretty solid reputation around the islands, almost anyone who works on the water can vouch for that. But look, I’ve got to agree with Deputy Walker, Doc, I think you’re leaving out big chunks in your story. You jog out onto the dock and see men wearing ski masks, at least one of them armed, and you just happen to knock the two women into the water and help them get away? That’s not easy to believe. I’m sorry.”

They were pressing pretty hard, but I had no choice but to keep stonewalling. Like I said, I couldn’t afford the scrutiny that would come with admitting my involvement.

I let them see how exasperated I was becoming. “Isn’t that what I’ve been telling you all along? I didn’t save anyone. I’ve described what happened over and over. When I saw the guy fire his pistol, I panicked. Somehow, I knocked the women into the water when I tried to jump over the railing. Hell, maybe I
did
grab them. But it wasn’t intentional. I was trying to save my own life, not theirs. So then those guys keep shooting and the only thing I can think to do is climb in their boat and get the hell out of there. Which is just what I did.”

Waldman’s cell phone began to ring, and he left the room to answer it as I added, “I told the women to run to the mangroves, and I would’ve done the same thing if I could’ve. They were still shooting and it was scary as hell.”

“How many shots?”

“A couple. Several. Lots. I didn’t count.”

“All those rounds fired and you managed to dodge every one of them. You must be quick as hell.”

“I’ve already answered that question too many times.”

McRae said, “When you got in the boat, was there anyone else in it? How’d you get control?”

I said, “I just climbed in and hit the throttle and their guy went flying off the stern. I was in a panic. You ever have anyone shoot at you before?”

“And one of the rounds hit you in the arm.”

“No. Absolutely not. I’m not going to explain it again.”

“Um-huh. Your arm and your face, they both got cut up on the dock when you fell?”

I nodded. “Maybe I need to write it down so you’ll remember. I keep repeating myself, but you don’t seem to hear. The whole thing’s a blur. I’m not sure what happened when. I must have sliced my arm open when I crashed through the railing on the dock. Banging into the pilings with my face, that much I
do
remember. I was probably in shock. Probably still am in shock. Men in ski masks shooting guns like out of some crazy movie. It’s not the sort of thing I’m used to seeing.”

McRae now wore a soft smile. “Then I’ve got to ask you one more time—mind if we take a look at that cut on your arm?”

“Nope. I unwrap it, it might start bleeding again.”

“That’s what I figured. One phone call to the right judge, and we can have a deputy bring a court order out and place it in your hands. A piece of paper that says you’ve got no choice. We can make you take that bandage off and show us. Isn’t that right, Officer Walker?”

As the woman nodded, Tomlinson interrupted, not bothering to disguise his outrage. “Hold on there, Dirty Harry. First you call him a hero, then you threaten him like he’s a criminal? Very uncool, man, very, very uncool. That is a very serious conflict of vibes.”

McRae looked at him for a moment before he said, “What did you call me?”

Tomlinson has a longstanding and irrational dislike of people in law enforcement that’s gotten him into trouble more than once. He does not share my belief that most people in the emergency services tend to be better at their jobs than most others.

I cringed a little as he said, “Dirty Harry. That’s what I called you. As in ‘Dirty Harry, you can kiss my ass on the county fucking square.’ ”

McRae’s expression changed, became a flat mask. “In my notebook, I’ve got you down as”—he flipped through a few pages—“I’ve got your occupation down as a Zen Buddhist monk and sociologist consultant. That’s pretty foul language for a monk, isn’t it, sir?”

“Well . . . normally, yes—when I’m on duty, I mean. So . . . consider this like a spiritual coffee break. I’m taking a little time off from being the Buddha incarnate to tell you that you’re coming off like an asshole. Accidental or not, my buddy here just saved two women. Give him a little respect. Catch where I’m coming from? Can you relate?”

“No, I don’t relate and I don’t want to relate. But here’s some advice: Drop the Dirty Harry references, sir, or maybe Doctor Ford won’t be the only one we check out. Lots of times, you counterculture types have something old and interesting in the files. Outstanding warrants, possession charges from other states.”

I thought that would make Tomlinson uneasy, but it didn’t. He turned his palms outward, as if amazed. “First the guy threatens you, then he threatens me. Right here in our own private whatcha-call-it, our own private domicile. What’s the use of staying on an exclusive island if it’s not exclusive?”

I was deciding whether to reply or not when Waldman reentered the room. He said, “You folks mind if I speak to Doctor Ford alone? It’ll take just a few minutes. I’m going to try one more time to convince him that he should cooperate. Tell us what really happened, then let us talk to the U.S. marshals, see what we can do about protection.”

Tomlinson was still angry. “There he goes, calling you a liar again.”

Waldman looked at him, no emotion. “A few minutes with Doctor Ford alone. Then I think we’re done here.”

 

 

 

F
BI Special Agent Waldman took one of the kitchen chairs, turned it, straddled it, then folded his arms over the backrest, his face very close to mine. He said, “Okay. It’s just you and me now, Ford. Private, no one else listening. Your very last chance. So tell me what the hell happened out there today. At least give me some interesting version of the truth. Just a little something I can work with.”

I shook my head. “Waldman, this is really starting to get tiresome. I collect fish for a living. I operate a tiny, one-man business. I’ve got a three-page catalog. I can send it to you. Want a hundred horseshoe crabs? Or a whelk egg case in preservative? I can collect it and sell it to you. Or brittle stars or octopi or unborn sharks with their veins already injected. That’s what I do. That’s what I’m good at. Not dealing with kidnappers or rescuing women.”