Randy White - Dead of Night

Maybe he saw Lake and me exchange looks, because he dropped the facade seconds later, his expression sobering. “Which, to tell the truth, is something I just can’t make myself give a damn about. Money, I mean.”

“That’s too bad, man. If you want to change the system, you gotta have it. Remember: If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.”

Tomlinson rallied. “When you put it that way, yeah, I totally dig where you’re coming from.” Lake and I exchanged looks again, as he added, “The fridge is loaded with beverages. Coldies. Take it from an experienced member of the family: Here in the tropics, it’s very important to rehydrate.”

The biologist, who was squatting next to the refrigerator, opened the door, and looked at rows of bottles for a moment. “Sweet.”

When Tomlinson took me aside and asked if it was okay if he told Reynolds why we were here and what we were looking for, I told him, sure, tell the man everything. I wanted Tropicane headquarters to know that I had copies of Applebee’s files. I was in the area because I suspected foul play. Retracing Frieda’s footsteps.

I wanted everyone to know.

Same with the Environmental Protection and Oversight Conservancy. I’d already spoken to a secretary by phone, told her I was on the job, and asked for an appointment with one of the head people.

Her reply had been frosty, noncommittal.

I’d spelled my name for her, to make sure she had it.

“F-O-R-D. Like the car.”

There were at least two predators out there: the Russian couple. There also had to be some directing force. I wanted fresh scent in the water. I hoped to lure them near.

“There’s something I’d like you to ask your new best friend, too. Did you catch his reaction to Edward Abbey? Ask him if he read the Rolling Stone article. He could be one of the copycat weirdos. Maybe even a murderer.”

Tomlinson’s reply was frosty. “Give my instincts some credit. This dude’s no murderer. I like him better because he’s a fan of the Monkey Wrench Gang. Got a very decent spirit. I bet he offers to help us search for the phone.”

“At least ask, okay?”

“Okay!”

I didn’t accept Tomlinson’s quick endorsement. I’m dubious of people who choose to evade the realities of their own era. Reynolds seemed as misplaced as his fantasy about the idyllic days of hippiedom. Plus, anyone who’d worked with Jobe Applebee was a subject of suspicion. The two had worked together. Reynolds had already told us. It was only for an afternoon, he said, and months ago.

He also told me that he’d read my paper on nutrient pollution in Florida Bay. “Interesting,” he said. “Liked it.”

He left it at that, a small mark in his favor.

Tomlinson was right. The biologist offered his help.

“For one thing, it’s Saturday; just getting in some extra work. I was officially off duty the moment I opened this beer. Besides, I’ve already got my waders on.

“I didn’t know Dr. Applebee’s sister, and I can’t say I knew Dr. Applebee-he was on a whole different trip. Quiet, you know. Intense. But if finding that phone gets you closer to the truth, I’ll go in and hunt around with my feet.”

We’d already talked about the possibility that guinea worm larvae were here, so that’s how we’d have to do it: wade around and search with our feet. He had a box of disposable surgical masks, he said. No sense risking the ingestion of contaminated water.

He knew about the parasites. On Tuesday, he’d been contacted by an epidemiologist from the Florida Department of Health. A woman physician, not Dr. Clark.

“She was notifying all the environmental agencies, anyone who works with water,” Reynolds said. “Christ, I read about those worms when I was in school. Disgusting.”

On Thursday, the woman called again to tell him that water samples from lakes near Disney World had tested positive for Dracunculiasis. She asked his department to test water in the Tropicane system, and e-mailed lab photos to help in identification.

“I wouldn’t know what to look for if she hadn’t done that,” Reynolds told us. “It’s not the sort of thing I’m expected to do.”

“Have you tested here?”

“Yesterday. All tests negative. I took samples from a bunch of areas. Lots of copepods, but no guinea larvae. So it’s probably safe. I came back today just to be certain.”

A thorough guy. Another mark in his favor.

As he worked his way down the canal bank toward the water, Reynolds listed the standard evaluations that Applebee had been doing for Tropicane: gas chromatograph test, for volatile organic analysis; and pesticide analysis. Spectrophotometer scans for inorganic analysis and organic compound identification-phosphorus flowing into the Everglades was still the big concern, he said.

“We do miscellaneous membrane filtration. What we’re looking for is fertilizer overload, or coliform bacteria-pathogenic stuff that indicates degraded water quality. Not water fleas with parasitic larvae inside them.” He swung his head toward the truck where he’d left the rack of water samples. “I have some disposable 115-milliliter filter flasks in my kit. But no microscope, or we could take a look now.”

I watched as he paused at the water’s edge, then took a long careful look before he stepped in. I could guess why. This was gator country. The big ones had been grabbing people lately. Their dinosaur coding makes no differentiation between modern primates and primates with prehensile tails. This was cottonmouth country, too.

“This section isn’t too deep,” he called to us. “Only a couple of places it might be up to our necks.”

Back in the 1960s, when the Corps of Engineers gutted the Kissimmee River to make a canal, they’d dredged it a hundred yards wide and thirty feet deep, then abandoned the name for the more sterile designation of “Canal 38.”

Fitting.

This section of water, though, was a drainage link to the main canal. It was a shady spur, fifty or sixty feet wide, and not deep, judging from the cattails. The water was clear but stained amber with humic acid, and dense moss grew on the bottom.

According to our map, they’d found Frieda’s SUV not far from the water. It was a good, private place to jettison incriminating evidence

… or to introduce exotic parasites.

As Reynolds moved into deeper water, I stood atop the bank and found two rocks similar in weight to the cell phone in my pocket. I lobbed one rock southward. Waited until it made a satisfying thwump in the middle of the canal, then lobbed the second rock northward.

“That’s our search area. Roughly. We can’t spend a lot of time, but it’s worth a shot.”

I’d already told my son he couldn’t get in the water, or even near it. No way, even if Reynolds’s tests were negative. When the boy protested, I told him that, one day, I might describe what it’s like to see a guinea worm exiting its host. But not now.

Something in my tone quieted him. So it was the three of us in the canal: the Tropicane biologist, Tomlinson, and myself.

While traveling, Tomlinson wears traditional clothing-traditional, anyway, compared to the robes and sarongs he prefers. I find the attention they draw distracting, which he’s empathetic enough to understand. Today he wore baggy red shorts; a white, long-sleeved GATOR SPOON T-shirt; and the style of Birkenstocks that remind me of wooden shoes.

I’d brought shorts and running shoes in case I got a chance to work out. I had something to wear in the water. Tomlinson didn’t. So, as I changed, he stripped down to violet boxer shorts decorated with

… yes, red Santas and golden stars. He was humming one of his endless, tuneless melodies that sounded like Oo-hummm… Oo-hummm.