Randy White - Shark River

There was the sound of bedsprings and a woman’s soft laughter before she crossed the door space, showing her body, flushed and swollen, hair swinging across buttocks, taking her time, certain that I was watching, but not turning to look at me. Her voice took on an added silkiness. “I’ve never done such a thing, but if you would like your friend to watch, I will say nothing. Or join us if you wish. Does he like to play the game you showed me, the silk scarf game? Three could play very easily if you’d like me to teach him.”

The silk scarf game-apparently, another one of Tomlinson’s strange pastimes, the details of which I did not care to hear.

But the woman seemed very willing. Years of repression had, apparently, expanded her boundaries of sexual interest.

I heard Tomlinson call to her, “He’s the one says it’s not your fault that Zamboni has the wilting disorder. Says it happens to every woman. Says you shouldn’t feel the least bit responsible. Doc says that-” Tomlinson poked his head around the corner, tangled blond hair and black goatee showing. “Doc says that-” He stopped and gave a soft whistle, looking at me, and said in a strained voice, “Holy shitzkee! What the hell happened to you?”

I was still holding my arm, trying to stem the bleeding. “You’ve gotta get rid of the girl. Sorry.”

He stepped out, holding a towel around him. “Doc… sit your ass down right now. You’re white as a sheet. You cut a vein or what?”

I said, “Make the girl leave and I’ll tell you. We have a lot to do, and I don’t have a lot of time.”

“I can see that,” he said, turning to find his clothes.

Before representatives from the FBI, Florida Marine Patrol, and the local Sheriff’s Department crowded into my little rental bungalow, I sat in a wicker chair looking out onto a bay glazed with tendrils of blue light-reflections of a winter moon through palms.

We’d moved to my place so I could get fresh clothes and spare glasses, and because I didn’t want anyone to get the impression I had a reason to hide or be evasive.

Tomlinson was still working on my arm, cleaning the wound. At his side was a basin of hot water and a white washcloth that was already rusty with blood. He’d washed the wound with water and Betadine, then had to go door-to-door to find a roll of gauze, antibacterial creme, and surgical tape for a dressing.

He’d returned with the first-aid supplies and some information, too. “The two women, they’ve already talked to the cops by phone, so it’s probably not a good idea for you to ask them to change their story. Vince up at the Inn told me. They’re sending a boat over to pick them up. Bring the cops out to the island, I mean.”

“You didn’t mention to Vince that-”

“Hey man, you don’t need to tell me; I’ve been breaking laws all my life. I know how to keep my mouth shut. Something else he told me, the woman you saved? The blonde. She was probably the main target. Turns out she’s some rich guy’s daughter. Lindsey Harrington, that’s her name. The other woman, the dark-haired one, she’s either a friend of the family or works for the family, Vince wasn’t sure. Maybe a bodyguard. He’s wondered about that before. But lots and lots of new money.”

It was no surprise that at least one of the women came from money. Everyone on the island had money. The thing that struck me about the attempted kidnapping, though, was that it had an administrative feel to it, the way it was set up, the two-boat backup plan, they way they’d obviously invested some time and tracked her movements before trying to snatch her. Money, of course that would be a part of it. Always is. But it seemed probable that there was more to it than that.

To Tomlinson, I said, “I didn’t hear them say much, but one of them had a Colombian accent. That I’m sure of. If all you’re after is ransom money, why make it more complicated by picking a target outside your native country?”

“Maybe they live in the States now. Were looking to score big and decided on Guava Key. This place is very famous, man-for the same reason you didn’t want to come in the first place. The guys from AC/DC, Mick Jagger, that former vice president-lots of very heavy hitters come here.”

“I know, I know, but it still doesn’t seem like a natural fit. People tend to choose crimes the same way they choose a place to live. The surroundings need to be comfortable, well known, usually in an area where it’s easy to interact without standing out. The desperate ones rob the restaurants where they used to work, kidnap the children of people they know. See what I mean? What happened this afternoon was more like international politics.”

He said, “See? Now that makes sense. Politics, that’s just what Vince told me. He knows the girl’s father. They play tennis together, fish occasionally when he comes to the island, which isn’t often. He’s got some kind of government appointment, like an ambassador’s deputy or something. One of those things that takes a big political donation to buy. Only Vince thought it was Peru, not Colombia.”

“Both countries have their problems,” I said, “so the political component, that’s a possibility.”

“But that’s not where the girl lives. He said she’s always been sort of on her own, allowed to run wild, ’cause her mother was killed in an accident way, way back, and she’s spent most of her life at boarding schools. Last couple of years, though, Vince says she’s been driving her dad nuts, some of the stuff she’s been doing. Drinking, speeding tickets, political protests, that sort of thing. Whatever her dad’s for, she’s against. Kids, huh? Then she got involved in drugs, cocaine, crack. The serious amateur shit. Ended up in rehab, dropped off the screen for nearly a year. They sent her here as a kind of halfway-house deal.”

Something else that the island’s manager told Tomlinson was that the media were already calling. Already sending reporters and TV trucks to the ferry landing on the mainland. Not good news for me, but not unexpected from the way local law enforcement was reacting. For the last hour, I’d been hearing choppers, seeing their spotlights pan through trees in tubular columns of white.

Old familiar sounds. An old, familiar sight.

Tomlinson patted more blood away; tossed the gauze into the trash. Said, “Move your arm a little closer to the light. I need to get some more Betadine in there or you’re going to end up with an infection.”

The wounds weren’t too bad. Just barnacle scratches on my face. The bullet had skinned a neat little ruby furrow off the underside of my arm. A black-and-green hematoma had already begun to radiate outward toward my biceps.

A very close call, indeed.

Two inches more or less to the left and I’d have been shot through the chest. Maybe through the heart.

It’s something I’ve learned: No matter how secure our lives may seem, day after day, we live by degrees and survive by inches.

Tomlinson asked me, “So how you feeling now? I’ve got those pain pills if you want ’em.”

“Kind of weak and shaky. All that adrenaline, all the emotion-it leaves you feeling like hell. Sick and depressed.”

“Hum-m-m-m. It’s not like you to feel much emotion about anything. Maybe you’re beginning to evolve spiritually. Play your cards right, you could be more like me-an elevated being.”

“If this is what it’s like, you can have it. I feel like I might vomit.”

“Then this is your lucky day,” he said. “I got just the herb for that one, too.”

The man in the gray suit, the one asking most of the questions, said to me, “Do you know anything about the drug cartels in South America? Colombia, I’m talking about. Or maybe a group called the Shining Path?”