Randy White - Shark River

The boat began to turn toward me, moving faster.

I thought about making another pass at them, ram them one more time. I gave it a moment’s consideration before deciding I’d pushed my luck as much as I possibly could. It was time for me to get back to the island and put all the space I could between us.

Guava Key was now more than three miles to the southeast. In the sunset’s angular light, the island’s white houses appeared to be varnished with lucent gold; trees on the high Indian mounds looked black. Soon I could see the small dock where the girls had been ambushed. It poked out into the bay from what was called the back side of the island. There was still someone standing there. As I got nearer, I could see that it was actually two men, one kidnapper holding up the other. Probably the kidnapper I’d shoulder-blocked hard from behind, the one who’d done the shooting. Apparently I’d caused some damage.

Injured or not, both were still mobile and probably armed. I thought about using the Scarab as a weapon again. Point the bow at the dock, roll overboard as I punched the throttles and give them a reason to jump. Then I glanced at my bleeding arm and thought, No way.

When presented with the option to run or fight, running is almost always the wisest choice.

I checked behind me to see that the other Scarab was up and making way again after stopping to pick up Goatee. Moving fast, too, steering a direct course toward me and the dock.

I turned sharply away from the dock, hoping to hell they wouldn’t follow; would instead rush to pick up their two remaining team members and escape.

Over my shoulder, I watched the yellow boat bank momentarily in pursuit of me, then swerve back on course toward the dock and its comrades.

It seemed as if I hadn’t taken a full breath in a long time. Now I did, steering north toward the other side of the island and safety.

On the east side of Guava Key is a service dock built heavy enough to handle the construction needs of an island where everything must be delivered by boat. I idled down well short of the dock, trimming my outdrives as I steered into shallow water, then killed the engines before vaulting off into waist-deep water.

My arm was still bleeding, T-shirt and running shorts were soaked black and I didn’t want to draw a lot of attention by parading up the dock in full view.

I stepped into the gloom of the mangroves, moving fast over the roots. Exited out onto the island’s pale pink sidewalk, now running, wanting to get to the two women I’d rescued before the law enforcement people got to them.

I figured they owed me a very simple favor-tell no one what I’d done. In any instance in which shots are fired and a person is wounded, there is a detailed series of investigations mandated by law. I didn’t relish the idea of spending the next three weeks answering questions from cops.

But there were other considerations, too, more important ones. I keep my life and my past private for a reason. Tomlinson was exactly right when he said that there are mistakes for which we never stop paying. We all make them. I’ve made my share, which is why I can’t afford to put myself in a position where someone might go snooping around into my past. If my arm needed surgical attention, I had several physician friends who’d be willing to take care of it quietly.

Holding my left arm tight against my side, I ran at long-distance pace down the sidewalk where it exited through mango trees and oaks adjacent to the old airstrip. I almost stumbled and fell, I was so surprised, when the tall, black woman I’d seen earlier stepped out unexpectedly from the trees to confront me. I moved to brush past her, but stopped when she held up her hands-whoa!-and said in her Bahamian lilt, “I saw ’em, I saw ’em shoot you, man!”

Surprised that she was there, I said the first thing that came to mind. “That wasn’t me. You didn’t see anything.”

“What, you crazy, man? You feelin’ okay? The gun goes bang and I see the blood fly, then you take off in the go-fast boat! I watched the whole business.”

Said, “Nope, you’re wrong, and I’m not talking about it,” while thinking grim thoughts about strange timing, bad luck.

“You mister cool-and-calm, that’s what I’m talkin’ about. Man shoot you, it like it no big deal.”

“No one shot me. Just forget it, okay? Forget you ever saw me. Please.”

I moved to leave, but she touched her hand to my shoulder. “You hurt, man. You bleedin’ bad. Your arm, and your face all cut up, too.” In a much softer voice, she added, “Why you bleedin’, if you didn’t get yourself shot? Why you want me to lie about that?” Then she added, very softly, “My brother,” looking into my eyes.

My ears heard, “Yooo hurt, mon. You bleedden bod.”

I didn’t want to listen to any more. I told her, “I cut my arm on the dock. There’s nothing to lie about,” and jogged away from her up the hill.

T omlinson’s bungalow was down the pink path past the old fishing lodge, a white clapboard duplex built at the turn of the century and named after a nearby island, Gasparilla.

It was gray dusk now, just past the pearly interlude after sunset. I alternately walked and jogged on the shell road behind the houses, not wanting to be seen. Came up the back way beside his bungalow, and stepped onto the porch.

As usual, the French doors and windows were wide open, music playing on the stereo. Jim Morrison and the Doors, the thunder-and-rain passage from “Riders on the Storm.”

The volume was uncharacteristically low, low enough that I could hear Tomlinson making strange noises, speaking strange phrases from inside.

Heard him say what sounded like, “Doin’ the hokiepokie-okee-dokie-Doctor-Billyboombah.” Heard him say, “You white desert wench, you’re the princess of my harem! Make me bark like the hound I am!”

I stepped through the French doors onto the wood floor of the living room; I could look past bookshelves into the next room where Nimba Dimbokro knelt at Tomlinson’s feet, both of them naked, glistening beneath the ceiling fan, the woman’s black hair screening the focus of her oral attentions.

I entertained more depressed thoughts about the continuation of my bad timing. I felt almost lucky to have lost my glasses.

I averted my eyes and stepped back as I heard, “Ali Baba and the forty thieves, yes-s-s-s-s!…” Then, in an accelerating cadence: “I think I can-I think I can-I think I can-I think I can-I think I can, ” as if reciting the children’s story about some little red train.

After a silence, I heard the woman whisper, “Shuuush. Someone’s in the living room, Tommy. I heard the door make that sound it makes. The spooky sound?” Very Americanized syntax with a Middle Eastern accent.

Tomlinson was already talking: “Dear Jesus, you’re stopping now, doctor? The patient was just beginning to respond. A little more oxygen, that’s all he needs, a little more oxygen and, damn it, he needs it now. ”

“Tomlinson, please. Someone came in the house. You know why I’m worried. If he knew… honest, I heard footsteps.”

“Footsteps?” He chuckled his relief. “Oh hell, that’s just Doc. I heard the same noise. Unmistakable. When he walks, he sounds just like a great big Labrador retriever. Anything you can do in front of me, you can do in front of him. We’re compadres, for Christ’s sake!” Then he called out, “Hey, Doc, you there? Come on in. Honest, it’s okay. Nimba, you mind Doc sitting for a spell? Let him give me some moral support. Knowing I got a buddy right here pullin’ for me just might be the little extra edge I’m looking for.”

I heard her ask, “Your large friend with the wire glasses?”