Randy White - Ten thousand isles

JoAnn had already told me that. I wanted to know the exact spot so I could check to see if it'd had recent visitors.

"Really? Then where?"

Her voice was no longer flexible and expressive. It became a flat bureaucratic barrier. "I'm sorry, I'm not at liberty to give out that information."

"Can't or won't?"

"Let's say both so there's nothing to argue about."

"Ms. Chung, if you want Delia Copeland to grant you an interview, you're going to have to be willing to do a small favor or two for her friends."

"Meaning you."

"Exacdy right."

"At the site we're discussing, Dorothy Copeland found… I can't remember all that she found, but I have the list in my car. Something like twenty significant wooden carvings, the gold medallion, the totem Dr. Tomlinson is holding, plus smaller things. Tell the truth, do you think it would be wise for us to release the dig site to the public?"

I said, "For one thing, I'm not the public. For another, if artifact hunters risked digging in a city cemetery, do you think they'd hesitate to destroy an archaeological site? You can bet they did the research and found out where Dorothy was. Maybe not the exact place. But close enough."

I watched her put a determined chin on her fist and mull it over, weighing the possibilities.

"It's possible, I guess."

"No, it's close to being a certainty. When's the last time you visited that island?"

She shook her head. "I've been working in the Bahamas and Haiti; they just transferred me back to the states two weeks ago. Because of my promotion."

"You've never been there?"

"Well… no. Not yet. But I've been through the files. I've studied the photographs. And I have plans to go. Soon."

I nodded, enjoying her discomfort. "Don't you think you have a professional obligation to find out if looters are tearing the place apart?"

"I plan to!"

"Then take me along. Not for artifacts. I want to find the people who violated Dorothy's grave. If they're out there, they maybe left something behind that will tell me who they are. Will you show me?"

She'd taken a step or two back, as if trying to create some space between herself and my sudden offer. "I can give it some thought. Tomorrow… no, tomorrow's Sunday. Monday I can check with my boss, give Fort Myers a call and ask-"

"Nope. I want to go today. Now."

She was shaking her head, grimacing at my persistence. "Look, mister. I don't even know your name. Besides, I can't take you today. I don't have a boat."

Tomlinson interrupted. "Ms. Chung, you mind some advice from an intelligent, sensitive man? When choosing between two evils, always pick the one you've never tried. It keeps things interesting."

"Well… I guess it wouldn't hurt…"

I said, "My name's Ford." Then I pointed to the street where my truck was parked. "We've got a boat."

It was a small island just a quarter mile across the bay from Marco, maybe a hundred acres counting mangroves, with a nice little stretch of beach backed by a high tree canopy, vines and shadows.

Seen from the water, the mounds were a distinctive elevation, humpbacked like a turtle, with a dome of gumbo limbo trees above the mangrove hedge.

The gumbo leaves were parrot-green, amber branches showing through the foliage.

To Nora Chung, I said, "This is better than driving, isn't it?"

I was at the wheel of my skiff. She was beside me. Without much enthusiasm, she said, "I'll let you know when we're safely back on land."

That would be awhile.

When it comes to moving boats and cars, logistics are never easy. After the funeral, we'd stood in the parking lot discussing who'd drive what to where, and who would wait for whom until I said to Delia, "You three drive to Key Largo, don't worry about me. I'll run the boat across Florida Bay. Either way, land or water, it's about the same distance. I might even get there before you do."

Florida Bay is the waterspace which separates mainland Florida from the Keys; a tricky series of banks and twisting channels through water that is seldom more than waist deep. It was a nice day for crossing. Slick out there on the water. As if the Gulf was lifting and falling beneath a sheet of pliofilm.

I stood there listening to them sort it out, looking through the trees. There was Dorothy's casket. It appeared smaller in the filtered light, a distinctive shape; it reminded me of a box that had been abandoned in an open field.

Two city employees were erecting the canvas screen again, waiting for the funeral party to leave so they could finish then-day's work.

I noted that Delia took pains not to turn her head in the direction of the cemetery.

First things first, Betty Lynn said. Was the anthropologist willing to guide me to Dorothy's dig site in exchange for an interview with Delia?

Chung was reluctant, but agreed.

In that case, there was a way to get all the cars to Key Largo without anyone having to wait. Tomlinson would drive my truck, Delia would drive her own car, and Betty Lynn would drive Nora's little Honda Accord. That way, Nora could travel to Key Largo by water with me, ask Delia all the questions she wanted, then drive back at her convenience.

Which seemed to make the anthropologist uneasy.

"You don't have to worry a thing about Doc," Delia reassured her. "A friend of mine's told me about him for years. He's just a big ol' puppy dog. Wouldn't hurt a fly."

"I don't know… What about boating experience?" Asking JoAnn, Tomlinson, everyone but me.

"I get out when I can," I told her.

"Unless you know your way across Florida Bay, I don't think I should go. I hear those waters are very dangerous."

"They can be. I haven't made the run in years."

She didn't find that very reassuring. "I'd feel better if you went along, Dr. Tomlinson." Making it clear that she didn't want to be alone with me, either.

Lately, I seemed to be having that effect on women.

"I am always at Marion's side," Tomlinson replied. "Sometimes spiritually. Sometimes with the beer. Either way, it doesn't make a lot of difference. He's the one who runs the boat."

The anthropologist said, "Marion?" increasingly dubious.

We found a public boat ramp on 951, across the bridge and just north of the Marco Yacht and Sailing Club. Using our cars as shields, I changed into blue cargo shorts and a favorite old khaki shirt that had been sun-bleached gray. The woman stepped away from her car, wearing olive drab pants and shirt with button-down bellows pockets, sleeve tabs and epaulets, basic military issue BDUs, battle dress uniform.

"Shopping for clothes at an Army-Navy surplus store," I said. "Is that a new college fad?"

She replied, "Army ROTG has never been much of a fad," as she helped me shove my skiff off the trailer, then swung herself aboard, showing she knew a thing or two about boats.

Once we put a couple of miles of water behind us, she began to relax a little. The antagonistic tone vanished and she talked more freely. It is one of the effects of a small boat. A small boat reduces personal space while increasing interdependence, so it is impossible to maintain a formal relationship.

Well, not impossible. But rare and unlikely.

I handed her the chart book and she flipped pages until she found Marco and the Ten Thousand Islands. Without being asked, she'd assumed the role of navigator, which was fine with me. She seemed confident. Asked me the right questions about moon phase and draft. I complimented her and apologized for my own gruff behavior.

"Crowds and funerals rank right up there as my least favorite things," I told her.

"Crowds, yeah, I know just what you're saying. A rock concert or something like that? Forget it. Because of all the people bumping into each other, talking when they're supposed to be quiet. My gosh, I can't tolerate it, so I don't go."