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Authors: Randy Wayne White
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bite wound that was less severe because of the cleric’s missing teeth.
“Good god, the snake bit him and wouldn’t let go!” Tomlinson whispered, when he finally figured out what he was seeing. “Damn head’s the size of my fist.” Then cooed, “Brave doggie . . . yes you are,” before saying to me, “This guy’s a hardass, huh? The snake, too. Neither one would quit—you’ve got to love that.”
“He’s a survivor,” I said, then looked at Tomlinson. “We both have enemies, and we both have reasons not to involve the police. So let’s keep all this to ourselves when we get back. Okay?”
“About Kondo, you mean. Sure.”
“All of it,” I told him, and should have added especially about the plane but didn’t, which would turn out to be a mistake.
We’d be home before sunset, hopefully. Dan Futch was to call Dinkin’s Bay Marina from the air, so, once we made it to the road, our ride would be nearby, only a text away—if we could get a signal.
Tomlinson nodded in agreement, then dismissed it all, looking into the retriever’s eyes. “You’re gonna love living at Doc’s place . . . aren’t you, big fella? Sharks to swim with, pissing in the mangroves . . . and maybe help us find our missing cat—”
“I’m not keeping him,” I interrupted. “I travel too much. And so do you.” I wiped the tweezers with an alcohol pad, then slowly, slowly slid my glove toward the snake’s head. The skull was coffin-shaped and solid on the retriever’s pliant skin, fangs buried at an angle. The pain caused the dog to drop the snake long enough to slap my cheek with his tongue, but he remained steady.
Tomlinson watched, a familiar knowing expression on his face that I find particularly irritating. “Don’t worry, we’ll find a home for him,” I added after backing the skull free. “Maybe use some of your illegal drug money to pay the vet bills first. How’s that sound?”
When a wet tongue whapped me a second time, Tomlinson gave me a What a crazy day! sort of look, then confided to the dog, “He can be an asshole . . . yes he can! Prudish as a damn arrow . . . and jealous. But that’s not going to stop us from picking out a good name!”
6
DAN HAD BEEN TRUE TO HIS WORD AND OUR RIDE WAS waiting for us when we got to the Tamiami—thankfully, just before the rain hit.
The next two days, I had plenty to do in the lab, so I really didn’t spend much time thinking about the near plane crash or the many theories about who might be trying to kill us.
Until I met one of the theories in person at Dinkin’s Bay.
—
I T HAD BEEN A STRANGE NIGHT to begin with. I’d been standing by a fire near the marina docks with my friend JoAnn Smallwood, a chunky, busty woman with big bones and a handsome face, who’d just had a fight with her boat partner, business partner, and on-again off-again bedmate, Rhonda Lister, and so was feeling weepy and fragile.
Then she looked at A-Dock, where the deepwater boats are moored.
“That’s something else that’s making me crabby,” she said, staring.
“What?”
“That.”
I followed the lady’s gaze to a neat and incremental line of oceangoing sailboats, sails rolled, portholes dark, trawlers, cruisers, and blue-water sports fishermen, most cabins buttoned tight. But a few of the regulars were alive with light: Mike Westhoff’s Sea Ray Playmaker , Dieter Rasmussen’s Grand Banks, Geno Lamont’s Birdsong, a classic Hinckley, and JoAnn’s boat, Tiger Lilly .
Because it was two weeks before Easter, a lull in high season, there were a few open slips, but not many. Two spaces down from Tiger Lilly was a new arrival, a sleek powerboat, thirty-plus feet of Kevlar Stiletto that looked more like a futuristic spaceship. Dark hull, low black flybridge that tapered aft toward a transom compartment which hid two or three mega-horsepower engines. The engine space was decked with plush cushions, roomy enough for a dozen starlets in bikinis. Oval
“Good god, the snake bit him and wouldn’t let go!” Tomlinson whispered, when he finally figured out what he was seeing. “Damn head’s the size of my fist.” Then cooed, “Brave doggie . . . yes you are,” before saying to me, “This guy’s a hardass, huh? The snake, too. Neither one would quit—you’ve got to love that.”
“He’s a survivor,” I said, then looked at Tomlinson. “We both have enemies, and we both have reasons not to involve the police. So let’s keep all this to ourselves when we get back. Okay?”
“About Kondo, you mean. Sure.”
“All of it,” I told him, and should have added especially about the plane but didn’t, which would turn out to be a mistake.
We’d be home before sunset, hopefully. Dan Futch was to call Dinkin’s Bay Marina from the air, so, once we made it to the road, our ride would be nearby, only a text away—if we could get a signal.
Tomlinson nodded in agreement, then dismissed it all, looking into the retriever’s eyes. “You’re gonna love living at Doc’s place . . . aren’t you, big fella? Sharks to swim with, pissing in the mangroves . . . and maybe help us find our missing cat—”
“I’m not keeping him,” I interrupted. “I travel too much. And so do you.” I wiped the tweezers with an alcohol pad, then slowly, slowly slid my glove toward the snake’s head. The skull was coffin-shaped and solid on the retriever’s pliant skin, fangs buried at an angle. The pain caused the dog to drop the snake long enough to slap my cheek with his tongue, but he remained steady.
Tomlinson watched, a familiar knowing expression on his face that I find particularly irritating. “Don’t worry, we’ll find a home for him,” I added after backing the skull free. “Maybe use some of your illegal drug money to pay the vet bills first. How’s that sound?”
When a wet tongue whapped me a second time, Tomlinson gave me a What a crazy day! sort of look, then confided to the dog, “He can be an asshole . . . yes he can! Prudish as a damn arrow . . . and jealous. But that’s not going to stop us from picking out a good name!”
6
DAN HAD BEEN TRUE TO HIS WORD AND OUR RIDE WAS waiting for us when we got to the Tamiami—thankfully, just before the rain hit.
The next two days, I had plenty to do in the lab, so I really didn’t spend much time thinking about the near plane crash or the many theories about who might be trying to kill us.
Until I met one of the theories in person at Dinkin’s Bay.
—
I T HAD BEEN A STRANGE NIGHT to begin with. I’d been standing by a fire near the marina docks with my friend JoAnn Smallwood, a chunky, busty woman with big bones and a handsome face, who’d just had a fight with her boat partner, business partner, and on-again off-again bedmate, Rhonda Lister, and so was feeling weepy and fragile.
Then she looked at A-Dock, where the deepwater boats are moored.
“That’s something else that’s making me crabby,” she said, staring.
“What?”
“That.”
I followed the lady’s gaze to a neat and incremental line of oceangoing sailboats, sails rolled, portholes dark, trawlers, cruisers, and blue-water sports fishermen, most cabins buttoned tight. But a few of the regulars were alive with light: Mike Westhoff’s Sea Ray Playmaker , Dieter Rasmussen’s Grand Banks, Geno Lamont’s Birdsong, a classic Hinckley, and JoAnn’s boat, Tiger Lilly .
Because it was two weeks before Easter, a lull in high season, there were a few open slips, but not many. Two spaces down from Tiger Lilly was a new arrival, a sleek powerboat, thirty-plus feet of Kevlar Stiletto that looked more like a futuristic spaceship. Dark hull, low black flybridge that tapered aft toward a transom compartment which hid two or three mega-horsepower engines. The engine space was decked with plush cushions, roomy enough for a dozen starlets in bikinis. Oval
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