Randy White - Ten thousand isles

Her expression described puzzlement. Did I really want them to know? I nodded that, yes, I wanted them to know. "At the Mandalay," she said slowly. "Mandalay Marina and Tiki Bar. Little place on the ocean side."

"At the Mandalay Marina," I repeated. "We don't know what the symbols on the carving mean. You'll have to ask an archaeologist about that. All Ms. Copeland knows is that Dorothy treasured it. Even slept with it at night. It gave her great comfort. Which is why Ms. Copeland placed it in her daughter's hands fifteen years ago.

"We don't want there to be a third burial. That's the reason I'm speaking to you now. We don't want Dorothy disturbed again. There's nothing else to find, and we want it known publicly. We're asking whoever did this, please leave the girl in peace."

I told them that was the end of the statement, but caftan-woman pressed questions on me. Then a couple of legitimate journalists-they'd put a lot of distance between themselves and her-began to ask questions, too.

I answered them all politely.

Made sure to mention the Mandalay Marina, Key Largo, several times. It troubled me that I'd never seen the place, didn't know the layout. I had no idea what the security problems would be, or the ambush potential, and I wouldn't know until I got there and did my own quiet survey.

It didn't matter. I wanted it in print. I wanted anyone with a personal interest to know where they could find the totem. I wanted them to know where they could find me.

Not that I had some fatal intent, no. What the thieves had done so far constituted small-time theft and a monstrous indifference to the feelings of others.

Yet, there are some acts that transcend legalities.

I wanted to confront them. I wanted to bait them, isolate them and give them a very serious scare before telephoning Detective Parrish, saying to him, "Guess who wants to confess to you…"

They maybe didn't belong in jail, but they sure as hell belonged in court. Or a psych ward…

As I spoke to the reporters, I became aware of anthropologist Nora Chung's expression of distaste. Perhaps even disgust. Her standing there on the periphery, hands in pockets, sullen-faced, listening.

Was the expression a reaction to me?

Yes. Not much doubt about it, judging from the way she turned away, shaking her head.

She made it even clearer a few minutes later. As I was accompanying Delia, JoAnn, Betty Lynn and Tomlinson to the parking lot, she caught up to us, saying, "Hey, look, I'm sorry to intrude again, and my timing's rotten, but I have to respond to what you just did back there. That little press conference you just held." Disapproval was in her voice; some anger, too.

I stopped. "Oh?"

"Yes. I'm not blaming you, Mrs. Copeland, don't misunderstand. But what this gendeman did, showing a very rare artifact to a bunch of reporters, letting them take pictures. Then implying that Dorothy found it along with lots of other valuable artifacts in the mounds demonstrates a complete lack of… well, let's just say that I don't think you appreciate the kind of damage you'll cause when newspapers run that story."

Listening to Teddy Bauerstock's slick act, then dealing with caftan-woman had depleted my reserve of patience. Also, the inexplicable sadness I felt had metamorphosed into a sort of vengeful anger. Anyone who violates a defenseless young woman deserves punishment, right? Right.

So I was already focused, on attack mode, and in no mood for criticism from a self-righteous twenty-year-old. I said, "You're quite correct, Ms. Chung. Your timing's rotten. Check back when your judgment improves," and moved past her.

She started to speak, but, instead, reached, grabbed and held my wrist. Her intent was to stop me, so I stopped. Then I turned my head very, very slowly and stared at her until she removed it. It didn't take long.

Reacting to my expression, she stammered, "I'm… I'm sorry. I am very sorry. I shouldn't have done that."

"Yeah. You certainly should not have done that. Take my advice: don't ever try it again." I resumed walking.

"At least listen to what I have to say!"

I hesitated, then stopped once more, and motioned for Delia, JoAnn and Betty Lynn to walk ahead. Tomlinson shrugged and stood quietly beside me, him with the carving in his bony hands, me holding the keys to my truck.

"Okay. Talk. We'll listen while you explain to Dr. Tomlinson and myself about our complete lack of knowledge. That's what you were going to say, isn't it? And our lack of understanding."

I think it's silly for Ph. D.'s and the skippers of small boats to affect tides in public places. But this seemed a rare and appropriate occasion, and I watched it set her back a bit. It leached some of the anger from her voice.

She said, "I apologize for making assumptions. I don't know who you are, and I shouldn't judge."

"Like I told you: we all make mistakes."

"It's just that I'm so passionate about the subject."

"So explain to us how passion excuses rudeness."

She had the nervous habit of combing fingers through hair so short it didn't need combing. A way of gaining a few seconds to think. Her eyes, I noticed for the first time, were a lucent shade of amber. Striking enough to suggest contact lenses, but there was no telltale demarcation between lens and iris. A pleasant-looking woman; part jock, part academian.

She was not the type to remain defensive and apologetic for long.

"I can tell you from personal experience," she said, "that every idiot with a boat and shovel is going to find a local mound and start digging if they read about that totem. It's bad enough when developers do it. At least some of them give us time to do quick-and-dirty survey digs before they start pouring asphalt. I get so upset because there's not much left to save."

When I didn't reply, she took a deep breath, let it out. "Know what the saddest thing is? Dorothy didn't find anything in the mounds. Know why? Because there's nothing to find. Nothing except lots of shell, bits of fish bones, traces of pollen, tiny little pottery shards. Things that, mapped in context, can tell us a lot about how the water level's changed, about the weather, about if there really is global warming, about what the Calusa ate to survive.

"It's all worthless to a treasure hunter, but that's what they'll be destroying with their picks and shovels. They'll be out there digging up history, ruining more mounds."

"All because of me," I said. "That's quite a burden."

"Um-huh, I'm sure. I recognize sarcasm when I hear it."

"Then I'll try to be a little more subtle next time. Out of respect."

She turned to Tomlinson. 'Judging from the eulogy, you, at least, are an intelligent, sensitive man."

"Oh, yes, I am. You are a superb judge of character, young lady. I am both those things."

Chung had an endearing smile when she chose to use it. "Then you, at least, can appreciate what I'm saying."

Tomlinson gave an open-palmed it's-out-of-my-control gesture. "I do, I certainly do. But my friend here tends to be the proactive one. Don't let his lack of sensitivity fool you. He's equally impersonal and obsessive. So I just kind of sit back and watch."

"So I see."

"Everything he does, though, there's a reason. Just like gravity. He can put on quite a show."

Looking at me, she said, "I don't doubt it."

It was possible that Nora Chung had information that might be useful to me…

I told her I had a question-if she'd finished lecturing us.

She sighed, frustrated by my lack of remorse. "Yes. End of lecture."

"Okay, the question is this: from what I see, the mounds on Marco are already covered with houses. So why're you worried? What's left to ruin?"

"You're right. There's not much left here. But Dorothy didn't make her discoveries on Marco."