Randy White - Black Widow

Confused, Tomlinson studied the sarong until he understood. “Geezus,” he whispered. “Piss hard-on. Always happens when you need it least.”

I looked at the ceiling… looked at my shoes… looked at the window as he took a moment to regroup.

Finally, Tomlinson said, “Yes… well! I’m damn lucky you folks showed up when you did. Just in the nick of time, apparently, so thanks from both of us. Excuse me while I step outside and write my name on the Saltwater Hall of Fame…” He winced. “Or I could hit the head at a public facility. Yes… that might be the prudent thing to do under the circumstances.”

I used the elbow to give Tomlinson a push toward the door. Feet slapping, he walked barefooted across the room, smiling at Holderness, no rush, apologizing but not really embarrassed, saying, “Sorry… sorry. But, hey-what are ya gonna do?”

The woman waited until he was gone to ask, “Does that person work for you?”

Her tone said she disapproved, but her expression suggested she was interested.

“No, he’s a colleague-a social scientist. Hard to believe, I know. Harvard doctorate, and he’s published some brilliant stuff. But he’s. .. eccentric.” I didn’t bother with the nervous smile.

One of the men tried to help out. “I was stationed in Malaysia, then at the embassy in Singapore, so I’ve seen it myself. After a year or two in the tropics, even the best-educated professionals change. The Brits have a term for it-gone Borneo? Something like that. Life slows down; details don’t matter so much.”

Ms. Holderness-my ranking supervisor, I realized-regained her composure by returning to task. “Well, let’s hope it’s not contagious. Details are very important. So are contractual obligations-isn’t that right, Dr. Ford?”

She placed her briefcase on the desk and opened it. “Shall we begin, gentlemen?”

Two hours later, I watched from the deck as Holderness and the men filed down the boardwalk, into the mangroves toward the road. When they were gone, I returned to the lab, carrying the folder containing my job-performance evaluation. I hurried for a reason. There was a lot to do.

I needed sleep, needed to work out, but I also had less than seven days to get to Saint Arc, track down the blackmailer, and persuade him that it was unwise to target Shay and friends. I had to book a flight, get my gear ready, and telephone old contacts. I’d told Tomlinson the truth: I wasn’t sure if I could still count on past resources to help.

Time to find out.

As I entered the lab, I folded my performance evaluation, then spun it Frisbee-like toward the trash basket, playing a Walter Mitty game- Make this, I’ll have nothing but good luck.

The thing caromed off the rim onto the floor. I retrieved the papers, then slammed them it into the basket-a flash of anger that was out of character. But I’d just gutted my way through a morning of bureaucratic bullshit. Venting was okay.

Personnel Attitude and Task Efficiency Evaluation. PATEE. A ridiculous acronym. But I’d asked for it. I’d signed their damn contract. Now I felt like a hawk who was being pecked to death by hens.

Ford… you fool, you silly fool. Why the hell weren’t you satisfied with what you had?

It is a question that all risk takers ask themselves sooner or later. Dumbasses, however, ask the same question, so the association was not uplifting.

Me, the dumbass.

The agency’s PATEE packet contained standardized questions: Does subject respond positively to criticism? Is subject team-oriented? Does subject maintain a safe, efficient work space?

As expected, I had not received high marks. But there was no way in hell I was going to review the thing as the gang from D.C. had advised me to do.

Why bother? I read to learn, not to be instructed. Furthermore, it was written in a foreign language. The language was Biz-Speak, a form of oral semaphore. Instead of signal flags, it substitutes phrases that register on the brain as symbols, not words.

Biz-Speak is useful in a culture that seeks standardization because it spares members the need to think as individuals. Biz-Speak also minimizes the risk of offending fellow members individually-imperative in a corporate world where political correctness has become a tool. Companies are easier to manage when “group” or “department” is the smallest unit of measure, not a person.

I’d just finished a two-hour immersion course. Holderness had used Biz-Speak to relay her dissatisfaction without once looking me in the eye, or saying a single true thing.

My “core competencies” were “below the curve,” which suggested I might benefit from a personal “repurposing,” or perhaps an “offline skills transfer.” But that would require increased “face time” and “boots-on-the-ground” attention from Ms. Holderness herself.

When she told me that, I smiled. Yes, the woman had fallen for Tomlinson’s carefree hippie act. She was creating a reason to return to Sanibel.

Her underlings wrote notes. I did, too. They approved of my conscientiousness and let me know it-but only because they didn’t see what I was writing.

Bottom line… on the radar… try it on… at the end of day

… empowerment, multitasking, warm-and-fuzzies, synergistic… ping (to explore), the Ten-KPerspective (overview), deep-dive (verb-to explore a problem in depth).

Despite my poor evaluation, Holderness backpedaled when I suggested we terminate our contract.

“Don’t be overly sensitive, Dr. Ford. Your actual work product is superb.”

I replied, “Well then, that’s the bottom line, isn’t it?” moving to the door to show them out.

End of meeting.

From my office desk, I called and got an update on Corey Varigono. Her condition had been changed from critical condition to serious but stable. She was going to make it.

Shay sounded better, too, although we didn’t talk long. Tomlinson had paid her a visit. Now Ransom was with her-stopped on her way to town. My cousin has an earthy stability, and a no-bullshit approach to life. It was good they were together, and I was tempted to ask Ransom to let Tomlinson ravage Seattle on his own for a few days. But Shay was going to be okay, and Ransom would be back in time for the rehearsal dinner Friday night.

After I hung up, I turned my attention to the cell phone and derringer I’d taken from Vance Varigono. For the first time, I took a close look.

The derringer wasn’t a lighter. It was a stainless steel over-and-under that opened like a double-barreled shotgun. He’d loaded the thing with. 38 caliber hollow-points-man-stoppers engineered for maximum damage. The quasi soldier-of-fortune types buy them at gun shows.

Damn.

Varigono could have killed me if he’d pulled the trigger. A small entry hole but a grapefruit-sized exit wound. It made my stomach knot to replay the encounter, but I did it, taking note of mistakes that I didn’t want to repeat. I’d underestimated him, then played it way too close. The steroid freak had a big mouth but shaky hands. Surprising the gun hadn’t discharged accidentally. Hollow-points are indifferent. They would have displaced the same amount of flesh.

I removed the cartridges, pushed the gun aside, and opened his phone.

Vance had been in a talkative mood between the hours of 1 a.m. and 3 a.m. I checked the recent calls menu and saw that he’d dialed eight different numbers, including Michael and Elliot, whose names were logged on speed dial. There was also a number I knew well. Mine. He’d tried several times-probably confirming I wasn’t home.

The calls were local except for an international number with the prefix 4-1-0. I checked the computer: Switzerland.

The time log indicated that Vance had gotten nothing but voice recorders until he tried Beryl’s fiance. Someone had answered, presumably Elliot, but the conversation was brief, only three minutes.