Randy White - Shark River

Okay, then multiply X number of lucky people by X number of accessible coins and you’d probably end up with a sizable number of available doubloons, escudos, and reals. Or maybe Benton found the coins himself-listened to the fishermen, tracked down the rumored wrecks, and had his people work them. He could have found a little; he could have found a lot.

Ransom was beaming, very pleased with the knowledge of her new wealth. She reached into the box again and said, “Here you go, another letter he wrote to you. My brother, how can you not like a man who so thoughtful he always writing you notes?”

As she handed me the envelope, I said, “Yeah, he’s really starting to win me over, that father of yours.” Dear Duke, If you come this far, the witch bastard is probably dead and gone and not still after us, but he might not be dead and he might still be after us. So you got one more step to go. You will soon see why I don’t want to take no chances. There ain’t been much I done right in my life, and I want to do this thing right. First thing I want you to do is go to the Estero River where them loony Koreshans thought they lived on the inside of the earth and built all them wooden buildings in what used to be jungle but ain’t no more. Used to be a nice old lady there who took an interest in my papers and old pictures and such from my years as a famous hunting and fishing guide and all the famous people I showed how to fish and shoot. Many a times I kept my skiff at the Koreshan dock to fish the Estero River and them bars off Hendry Creek with Mr. Edison and Mr. Lindbergh and Harry Truman and Clark Gable, too. I didn’t trust them papers being around the ranch ’cause, as you know, this damn roof is likely to leak like a faucet come the rainy season and it do make paper and such rot. The Koreshans had themselves what we used to call a music hall and that’s where she put my stuff. It’s all in one of them nice big wooden boxes I brought me back from British Honduras, stored under the stage where no one ain’t likely to look. Walk inside and you’ll see two wooden columns and this big black globe that shows stars on the outside of the earth, us living on the inside. Them Koreshans was loony but they did know how to build good buildings in a hard land. Who knows, you might get a smile out of seeing them old papers and pictures. Second thing is, Duke, Joe and me, we got one more thing for you to do. Remember where it was you took off to after your mama and daddy died? You know the name of the river and so do I ’cause I had to hunt around for a week by skiff to find you. Just down from that river is a big long stretch of beach, which is where you had your camp set up, and behind there is a stand of royal palms and the stone pilings of a house that burnt down. Man name of Dr. Lunsford got control of some of the Ingraham property, built a little dock and airstrip, and tried to raise cattle there, which Joe and me supplied, but the skeeters run us all off. Cattle ranching down on Cape Sable, something else I failed at, too. Underneath one of the stone pilings, we buried a bottle that’s got a note in there for you. Joe cut an X into the top of the piling with an old saw, so it should be easy to find and ain’t going nowhere. Go find it and I promise you won’t be disappointed by your old uncle this time.

After Tomlinson read the letter, he looked at me and said, “You know what he’s doing, don’t you?”

We’d walked outside, putting some distance between Dunn and ourselves so we could speak privately. The three of us standing in the shade of a big oak, Spanish moss hanging, Mango Bay holding blue light beyond, its islands undefined, ledges of black and gray.

“Taking one last opportunity to manipulate people,” I answered. “He could have trusted his attorney with the letters, the photos, the coins, everything. But that just wasn’t Tuck’s way.”

Tomlinson was shaking his head, his arm over Ransom’s shoulder, telling me I was wrong. “No. You don’t see the pattern? It’s for Ransom. All of it. And you. What he’s doing is making sure the daughter he never really got to know sees the Florida he loved. Tucker had his quirks, I don’t argue that, but he was crazy about this country. That’s what this is all about. He figured out a way to get you two together, a way so you’d have to take her around to the places he cared about, the places that made him the man he was.”

Ransom found that touching. I could see it in her expression as she said, “You really think that it?”

“I’d bet on it. I didn’t know Tucker well, but there was always a reason for his goofy ideas. Everything on separate levels. You think about it, Doc, the man’s whole life is a metaphor for all kinds of stuff. With some people, their only attempt at art is the way they live their lives.”

I had my hands on my hips, indifferent, not the least bit interested in hearing it.

Ransom sniffed and touched a finger to the corner of her eye. “Back when I was a little girl, I used to pray he’d come take me away. And when my sweet boy, Tucker, disappear in Horse Eatin’ Lake, I prayed even harder. Now he done it. My daddy found a way to come take me.” Then: “What that stuff about Koreshans mean? He talkin’ about that crazy man who burned up with all them people awhile back?”

Tomlinson took the letter again, rereading it, as I explained that no, there wasn’t a connection. At the turn of the century, Florida attracted-and continues to attract-odd religious splinter groups. The Koreshans had been led by a New York physician, Dr. Cyrus R. Teed, who convinced his gifted followers to come to Florida and found a New Jerusalem in the wilderness. They’d built a beautiful, functional little town on the banks of the Estero River. Teed had also preached celibacy, which is probably why his sect hadn’t lasted beyond the lives of its followers.

Not that requirements of celibacy intimidated Tuck. Joseph Egret had once told me that my uncle kept a boat at the Koreshan docks because of all the love-starved women who lived in the female dormitory there. He’d pole his boat in quiet, at night, and leave a little lantern on for ladies watching from windows to see.

Tomlinson folded the letter. “Isn’t there an Ingraham Bay down below Shark River? That whole Cape Sable area, it’s beautiful. No roads, no houses for thirty, forty miles. That’s where he wants us to go next.”

I told him, “You two find the Koreshan music hall, I’ll go to Shark River alone. I’ll either rent a boat in Chokoloskee or run the Maverick down. Depending on the weather.”

Chokoloskee is an island south of Everglades City. There’s a boat ramp there, a few rental skiffs, and a small marina.

I thought about it for a moment. How much delay should I allow the Colombians? There had to be sufficient time for logistics to be arranged. I thought about the guy in the Taurus, the guy who’d try to tail me, telling me about the three men in the Chrysler. I thought about Dunn describing Clare and Izzy-not that there was any reason to expect Clare and Izzy to react, anticipate, or understand, nor could I rely on their behavior. After a moment, I said, “Tomorrow afternoon, that’s when I’ll go. I’ll head down there right after the guides leave and the fuel pumps are open.”

“You don’t want company? Amigo, it just so happens I got the whole weekend free. I’d love to go.”

“Nope.”

I am rarely so short with Tomlinson and he was taken aback. “You seem undecided-hah! Kidding, just kidding.” Then: “What’s the problem, Doc? You don’t buy my theory that the old cowboy-Tucker I’m talking about-that Tuck came up with a way to get you two together. Ingenious. It really is. So you at least ought to take Ransom, plus it’s been more than a year since I poked around Shark River myself. I wouldn’t mind going back.”