Night Moves (9 page)

Late that night, the moon was still high in the winter sky as I limped toward the boardwalk and my stilthouse. Then I stopped dead because an odd shape blocked my way. A solid shape . . . an immobile darkness in the shadows . . . weighty enough to be threatening, but not tall.

I stopped, squinted, took another step, then stopped again, reaching for my little flashlight. I switched it on, then immediately off again and whispered, “What the hell . . . ?”

A thousand times I had walked this trail, sober, drunk, preoccupied, dazed, and occasionally eager as hell to disrobe whatever lady I had in tow. But this was a new one.

The dog blocked my path. When I had gone running off, he’d tried to follow and I’d ordered him to stay. “Understand? Stay here!”

And here he was. Sitting exactly where I’d left him. The
precise spot
, as I knew better than anyone could know. The retriever’s posture straightened when I approached, he thumped the ground with his tail a couple of times, but otherwise remained a statue. Even when I switched the light on again, he didn’t budge, although his eyes revealed a mild enthusiasm that suggested he was
willing
to move if so ordered.

“Amazing,” I said.

The dog’s ears stiffened, possibly while its brain sorted through a vocabulary list. Then his ears relaxed, the word now rejected as unrecognizable.

In my mind, I replayed the scene prior to getting into the truck to look for that damn missing cat. I remembered telling the dog he couldn’t go. But had I also told him to stay? Yes . . . yes, I had. No doubt in my mind.

I looked at my watch—Tomlinson’s watch, actually—a Bathys Benthic with bright green numerals that told me it was ten ’till ten. More than an hour ago, I had told this dog to stay and, by god, here he was. To him,
stay
wasn’t just a command. It was a mandate.

Despite my throbbing knee and the scratches on my face, I smiled and said, “Who are you?” which brought the retriever to attention. The search for Crunch & Des had been more painful than productive, but the night was suddenly improving.

“Truly amazing,” I said again. Then, as a test, I walked past the dog to the boardwalk without looking back. When I did look, the retriever’s head was turned a full one-eighty, but he hadn’t moved.

Enough testing for one night. I tried the most common release command
—Okay!—
and watched the dog bounce to his feet. He trotted toward me, circled away, then got derailed by a buttonwood, which he sniffed with expertise. When the ideal spot was located, he hiked a leg and marked the place with an uninterrupted stream that would have put my best and beeriest night to shame.

Comfortable again, the dog’s brain returned to another subject, so he backtracked to where he had dropped—a fish? Yes, a three-pound mullet still kicking, freshly caught. Where the hell had he gotten that? By the time I’d opened the security gate, the dog was heeling to my left but slightly behind because the of narrow walkway, the mullet sideways in his mouth like a bone. The excitement of locating a spot to piss had been replaced by his dominant temperament, which seemed to vary between boredom and dutiful awareness.

I find animal behavior interesting, seldom amusing, but I was having fun with this. Well-trained dogs are a rarity, in my experience. A well-trained retriever—if he had been trained to hunt—was also a valuable commodity. How had this dog ended up in the middle of the Everglades, hunting for food and battling snakes to survive? I would know more after I spoke to Tomlinson. A valuable dog would have had an ID microchip inserted somewhere under his skin and the vet would have found it. Until then, there were a lot of unusual scenarios to imagine.

The mystery was so entertaining, my bruised knee was forgotten. Nor did I notice that I had a visitor waiting on the porch outside my lab. When I hit the dock lights, though, she was there in the shadows of the upper deck: lean and blond, an elegant silhouette sitting in one of my cane-backed rockers. Looked right at home as if she’d enjoyed the view from that spot many times.

Maybe she had.

It was Tomlinson’s mistress. The married woman who’d claimed her wealthy husband didn’t have a clue.

Not a lie, exactly. But neither was it true.

7

SHE’S NOT AS NERVOUS AS SHE PRETENDS TO BE . . .

That was my initial impression when the married mistress greeted me with a request, calling softly, “Mind turning off those lights?” Then, when I was close enough, offered an apology. “This is very rude, I know. But your buddy is headed for trouble, I think. And you’re the only one who . . . well, who knows about us. Is it okay?”

Could she stay and talk in confidence, she was asking—as if I had a choice now that she was standing, watching me climb the steps to the upper deck.

“I’m Cressa,” she said, extending a hand. “Or maybe he already told you. Cressa Arturo. So I’m sure you understand why I’d rather not attract attention.”

I asked, “Where’s Tomlinson?” Beyond the porch railing,
No Más
was pointed into the tide, its yellow cabin lights afloat on a breezy moon-roiled bay. No dinghy tethered off the stern, so my friend was somewhere ashore.

The lady allowed her hand to linger in mine, then made a dismissive gesture, her white blouse hinting at angles and contours in the moonlight. “He took off on his bike looking for you and the dog. That was more than an hour ago, so I have no idea.” She looked past my shoulder. “Where is the dog? I thought I saw him.”

I was more concerned with strangers who behave as if they own the stilthouse I call home. “You’ve been here the whole time?” I asked.

“My house is on the beach, not far, so I drove home, got restless, and walked back because I know the gate’s always locked.” She hesitated. “Tomlinson doesn’t know I’m here, if that’s what you mean. Is that a problem?”

The question seemed innocent enough, but could have been interpreted as suggestive. I told myself I was being cynical and judgmental—no way to live for a man who’d been given yet another chance at life by an expert pilot. So I reassured her, “Probably not. Depends on what kind of trouble you think he’s in.”

Details were softened by the dusky light, but I sensed a smile. “He says such nice things about you. Sometimes he calls you Indiana Jones. Or Captain America, but not in a mean way. I guess it’s true.”

Before I could reply, her attention swerved to the dog who had stopped to lap from a bucket of water on the lower deck, then do some exploring. “My god, there you are! We looked all over the place!” She knelt and reached, but then immediately stood. “Ohhhh god, what stinks! He must have rolled in . . . no, a
dead fish
. Silly dog . . . and you smelled so nice after your shampoo!”

In response, the dog’s tail whipped the back of my leg once, then he ignored us by walking to the farthest, darkest corner of the deck to enjoy his mullet in peace.

I stepped toward the breezeway that separates the lab from my living quarters. “You can wash your hands while I find something to drink. What did the vet have to say?”

“I stayed in the car, but Tomlinson has a sack of stuff, pills and salve. Nothing serious, I guess. Oh—they did an X-ray and found a computer thingee under his skin, but it doesn’t work.”

So the dog
had
been microchipped—another indicator he was valuable. “I’ll get details later,” I said. “Come on in, there
might
be something to drink, but don’t bet on it.”

The lady’s laughter seemed genuine, just the right touch of self-deprecation when she replied, “I’m already a little stoned or I wouldn’t have had the nerve. A year ago, even two months ago, if someone had said I’d be high on weed, or standing here telling secrets to a stranger, I would have called them crazy. Just the way I say it—‘smoking weed’—it sounds ridiculous for someone like me, doesn’t it?”

Yes, it did, and yes she was a little stoned. But still articulate and in full control, which she proved as she followed me into the house, saying, “Hope you don’t mind, but I already closed the shades. Just in case you didn’t shoot me for trespassing, then we could talk privately without having to sit in the dark.”

I flicked the light switch. “My house is your house,” I said, giving it an edge.

“I deserve that, I guess. Tomlinson said that about you, too. That you can be intimidating. He’s even hinted you might be a little dangerous, depending on the situation . . .” She emphasized the last with a pause, her tone oddly hopeful. Then said, “But he trusts you. So I’ve decided to trust you. Is that so bad?”

That was my cue to turn and look at the woman now that the shades were drawn and a light on. Time to smile and stop the sparring. If she was as attractive as JoAnn had said, Cressa would expect it. She would be poised and ready to take advantage of my bedazzled reaction—or was I being the cynical misogynist once again? I might have played along if I hadn’t noticed that the coffee mug I’d left in the sink was now washed, and a stack of research notes had been straightened and squared on the desk beside my shortwave radio.

“Obsessive-compulsive behavior isn’t a bad thing,” I said, opening a cupboard. “We’d still be living in caves if the gene pool didn’t pick a few of us. And there wouldn’t be meds to treat the symptoms when they get out of hand.” I turned for the first time, adding, “Has your doctor tried prescribing something? Or would you miss the mood swing highs?”

The lady was almost as advertised—attractive in a moneyed way that relies on style and cosmetic augmentation, but she also emanated a fleshy sensuality that I associate with ripeness or willingness—both, possibly, in her case. The woman had chosen the Grace Kelly look, Nordic face and hair, long legs in designer jeans, but the indignation I expected from my crack about obsession wasn’t there. Instead she appeared stricken as she stepped toward me. “My god, were you in a fight?” She reached to touch my cheek. “You’re scratched all to hell . . . and your shirt’s ripped. No wonder you’re in such a vile mood. What happened?” Her fingers were warm and confident, right at home, as she inspected my face.

That fast, I went from distrusting the married mistress to liking her—in a guarded way.

—

U
SING
A
CORKSCREW
on a bottle of Concha y Toro merlot, I explained the scratches on my face and forearms. “I fell out of a tree trying to rescue a cat. Our marina’s cat, but it turned out to be a different one—they’re both black, so no way to tell from a distance.”

“So that’s where you disappeared to.” Cressa was inspecting my wounds, standing close enough that I got a whiff of body lotion. Girl scent and leather, a hint of soap.
Nice.
“A cat scratch can be serious,” she told me, then hurried toward the bathroom where, presumably, she had already gone through my medicine cabinet and knew what to look for.

I continued to talk while I poured wine into a pair of Bell jars. “Well . . . actually, I didn’t fall. There was a big bobcat above me and the limb broke when I looked up. I overreacted, entirely my fault. It was a stupid thing to do.”

Her voice, silky feminine, didn’t carry far, but I heard her well enough. “
Bobcat.
I had no idea.”

“They’re common on the islands. Anyway, this big male had flattened itself in the branches, all it wanted to do was blend in, which is why we didn’t see it. Plus, we were all focused on that damn stray cat. So I sort of lurched—you know, surprised when I figured out what it was?—at the same time that idiot cat tried to shoot past me. It was a gumbo-limbo tree, very brittle limbs. But only about ten feet off the ground. Somehow, the cat and I got all tangled up. Or maybe it was the bobcat, I’m really not sure. But it could’ve been worse.”

Cressa Arturo reappeared, salves and bandages in hand, an endearing smile on her face. “Tomlinson told me about your plane crash-landing. Which I suppose explains why—”

“I think you misheard,” I interrupted. “We didn’t crash-land.”

She responded with a shrug. “What I’m saying is, I understand. After almost dying in the Everglades, nothing seems like a big deal. You’re both looking on the bright side of life—pain, love, everything. I get it. How could anything be worse?”

No point in explaining I had landed on top of Jeth, the fishing guide. Or possibly Jeth, a big, strong guy, had tried to catch me, I didn’t know. Afterward, he was dazed and stuttering so badly I had yet to get the story straight. But I didn’t want to go into it.

“You mentioned something about our mutual friend being in trouble,” I said, placing her wine within reach, then sitting at the little galley table. She obviously knew about the plane, so I asked, “You were with him last week when he touched a wire and got shocked?” I had already seen where someone had left the hose on near the breaker switch downstairs. Because my power was off when Tomlinson had arrived, he’d been standing barefoot in water when he’d tried to fix the problem.

Cressa nodded. “Scary, but it was an accident—or so I thought at the time.”

“So that’s it. You’re worried someone’s trying to kill him, right? He told me the same thing. Look”—I put my glass down and tried to make my point—“you two are romantically involved. You care about him, maybe think you’re in love with him. Fine. But you haven’t known the guy long and he goes through these periods of—I don’t want to call it paranoia, exactly, but—”

“I’m not in love,” the woman cut in. “Neither of us are in love.” She was arranging first-aid items on the table as if preparing for heart surgery, but stopped long enough to joke. “Besides, I find the smart dangerous types more interesting. They’re damn rare these days.” Then laughed as if she wasn’t testing me.

I countered, “Maybe Tomlinson’s not as safe as he appears—we all have a darker side.”

Her expression read
You’ve got to be kidding!
“That dear, sweet man? I’ve only known him a few weeks, but that’s impossible. He’s too . . . free, too open to be dangerous. And so insightful. I didn’t believe him at first when he told me he’s an ordained Zen Buddhist teacher, but it’s true, isn’t it?”