Randy White - Dead of Night

“Tomlinson,” I told him, “purple holiday underwear is acceptable, but you need to wear something on your feet. There’ll be broken glass on the bottom, sharp metal, nails, and crap.”

“I’ll do the stingray shuffle,” he replied. “Also, I’ll do a special power med. It’ll temporarily transfer all the auric vulnerability in my feet upward to other parts of my body. How’s broken glass gonna deal with something like that?”

“Power med” was short for “power meditation,” one of the man’s new infatuations. When Reynolds asked about it, Tomlinson told him he’d developed a technique for brief but intense meditation that had many of the benefits of traditional meditation.

“It’s on our Web page, man. Which you’ve got to check out.”

“You have your own Web page?”

Tomlinson made the fluttering noise of a man who was powerless. “Fuckin’ A.”

“Shrewd,” I told him. “Bulletproof feet. How’s a doctor going to get a suture in when he tries to sew you up?”

I had my running shoes tied, and stepped into knee-deep water. I expected muck but found firm sand. Reynolds was to the south, slogging a slow zigzag route from bank to bank. He was squatting, letting the water support him, while his feet swept experimentally over the bottom.

A good technique. It made me lighter, more mobile when I tried it, and so I mimicked him, wading to the north, sliding the edge of my right shoe over the bottom, then my left, before transferring weight. There was moss, which quickly accumulated and had to be shaken loose. There were also sections of tree branches-easily identified by touch.

Behind me, I heard Tomlinson say, “Dr. Jason? I’m getting some vibes here. I think you’re working the right section of the ballpark. I’m coming your way.”

I turned to see him entering the canal, arms extended at his sides for balance, as if he expected the water’s surface to support his weight for a few moments before busting through. He looked like a naked scarecrow, rags and rope covered with skin.

I continued to search, sliding from bank to bank. When my foot found something that I couldn’t identify-something solid but easy to move-I would sink until the water was chin deep, then reach to retrieve it.

There were lots of beer and liquor bottles-Tomlinson was correct about drunks loving roads that dead-ended near water. The first time my foot touched and moved a pint whiskey bottle, I got excited. It seemed the right size. I’d just retrieved my fifth or sixth pint bottle when, from the bank, I heard my own cell phone begin to ring.

Lake called, “Do you want me to get that, Doc?”

I was about to tell him yes-maybe it was Dewey returning my calls-but I was interrupted by a hoot from Tomlinson. “Hey! Lookee-lookee what I found! What’a you think, Dr. Jason? Everything’s got its own magnetic aura, man. I followed a tractor beam straight to this one.”

I turned to see that Tomlinson was about midway between Reynolds and myself. He was standing on one leg, arms extended for balance, as he slowly lifted his right foot from the water. He stood storklike, looking at his toes. Tomlinson has freakishly long toes-the guides kid him about being part monkey. Between his toes was a cellular phone.

The Tropicane biologist said, “I’ll be damned! Is that the one?”

When we were in Kissimmee, I’d seen Frieda use her phone several times. It was a Nokia in a black leather case, one of the old models with an external antenna. This looked similar.

I felt a chill. The sons of bitches murdered her.

I said, “It’s a hell of a coincidence if it’s not Frieda’s,” before I told Tomlinson, “Careful of fingerprints. If you touch it, use two fingers on the antenna. Wait until I get there to take a look.”

Grinning, very pleased with himself, Tomlinson touched his right foot to his left thigh, resting the phone there-a classic tai chi figure 4. “I can hold it like this for as long as you want. But it might be better if I use the two-fingered technique and meet you on the bank. It’s time for me to offer some gold to the water gods.”

Tomlinson-talk for “urinate.”

“Bring the phone with you,” I said. “That way, I won’t have to stand here while the water level rises.”

My son and I were listening to Jason Reynolds tell us that he’d worked for a branch of EPOC for two years as a college volunteer, then spent a year on the organization’s payroll before getting hired by Tropicane.

“It wasn’t the money. I felt I could do more good as a scientist with a company known as being antienvironment than with a group of far-out environmentalists.”

I said, “‘Far-out’?”

“‘Far-out,’ as in good. EPOC is real conservative, starched-suit types who file lots of lawsuits. It drives state governments and big-business nuts, which is cool. But I worked for a branch organization that has a more holistic approach. The Albedo Society. More progressive. We accept the Gaia theory: the earth as a single organism. The guy who founded them both is a veteran hipster like your pal, but he’s also made megabucks.”

Desmond Stokes again. The vitamin empire recluse.

“You’re a member of the Albedo Society? Tomlinson went to a rally they held a few months back in Coconut Grove.”

Reynolds’s grin said, I shoulda known. “I was there, man! A bunch of us EX-sters turned out. But, as I was saying, I didn’t go with Big Sugar just for the cash. Although that’s part of the Albedo philosophy, too: Wealth is power. The surest way to protect land is to own it-” Reynolds stopped abruptly, interrupted by Tomlinson, who was still in the water.

“What’s wrong with him?”

Tomlinson had begun to hoot again-but this time, a harsh falsetto. The shrill sound of pain and shock.

“Ohhh… Hahhh! Whoa-a-a-a-a! What the hell?”

The three of us turned to see that he was on the other side of the canal where we’d left him. He had his back to us, but was now bent at the waist, jumping and thrashing, creating small shock waves in the hip-deep water.

“Holy cripes… Oh my God… Whoa, Mamma, that hurts!”

He swung his head toward us, turning, and I could see his wild eyes, and that he had both hands clamped over his genitals.

“Sheeeee-IT!”

Lake panicked. “Hey-he’s hurt! What’s wrong? Tomlinson?” As Reynolds yelled, “Jesus, what was he doing? Get out of there!”

No response from Tomlinson, who continued to jump and thrash, moaning.

Automatically, we were all three sliding down the incline. Before we got to the bank, I grabbed Lake, put a finger in his face, and yelled, “No! I’ll get him,” then lunged into the water, my brain searching for an explanation. Tomlinson had been peeing into a thicket of cattails and somehow managed to hurt himself. How? If he’d stepped on a broken bottle, why was he holding his genitals?”

“Lordy, shitzkee! Doc! Get over here, Doc! Marion!”

“What’s wrong?”

“This is what’s wrong!” he screamed. He was slapping at his groin as if he were on fire. “Something’s inside me. I saw it!” He looked down before yelling, “Come outta there, you little bastard. Goddamn it, I’ll wring your neck. I’ll drown you in cheap whiskey, if you don’t come out!”

It sounded absurd-until I saw blood on his hands and legs, blood coming from his penis. There was too much blood, and too much pain, not to be serious.

I ran high-stepping through the shallows into deeper water. When I got to him, he let me support his body weight, though he continued to writhe in pain as I asked over and over, “What happened? Why are you bleeding?”

He repeated himself, groaning, “Ohhh… I got something up me, man. Came out of the water and swam up the tube. Holy hell, it hurts.”