Tampa Burn by Randy Wayne White Page A

once again like I was Tomlinson’s friend.
    Pilar said, “He’s a religious leader?”
    â€œThrough his writings, his teachings. You really have no idea. He’s always been that way, but then word about him began to spread on the Internet.”
    â€œI guess I should find that surprising,” my former lover said, musing. “But I don’t. There’s something very powerful about the man. Spiritual. When I met him in Central America, I felt it.”
    I told her, “Oh, there is, there is. Everyone says the same,” as I walked to the wooden fish tank. I put my hands on the rim and stared down into a world that I have always preferred because of the precise interlinkings, and clarity.
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    I had the skimmer net now, cleaning out the detritus of shrimp husks and bits of fish scale, while snappers, immature grouper, and tarpon spooked below, their dense muscularity crackling.
    I pretended to concentrate, perplexed by my reaction.
    It was summer dusk, and mosquitoes were moving over the water out of mangrove shadows. Light in the western sky beyond the mangroves, beyond the marina, had an oyster sheen. High clouds to the east still reflected a rusty, mango band of sunset upon cumulus canyons.
    Eastward, if viewed from that high vantage point, was central Florida, cattle pasture, citrus, and saw grass. A hundred miles beyond were the condominium reefs of Palm Beach, Lauderdale, Miami.
    Different beaches. Different light. Different molecular makeup, in scent and feel, to the sea wind. Visible from the cumulus towers was an entirely different species of Florida.
    Tomorrow, we would be there.
    I asked the lady, “Hungry?” eager to change the subject.
    She shook her head. “I haven’t wanted food since I went into his room and found him missing. I don’t need to eat. I have a room at Sundial Resort on . . . is it Middle Gulf Drive? I think I’ll go there now. I’m exhausted.”
    I said, “I can see that. Tired because of the trip? Or maybe it’s the company.”
    She refused to be drawn into that discussion. “I’ll call you in the morning. We can talk about what time we should leave for Miami. Do you know your way around the downtown area?”
    I replied, “I don’t know my way around the downtown area of any city in the world.”
    She didn’t smile. “In that case, we’d probably better leave early. It may take us a while to find the restaurant where we’re supposed to be.”
    I agreed and told her that I’d walk her to her rental car. I put down the skimmer net and turned her easily by touching her elbow. I guided her instantly shoreward, along the boardwalk toward the mangroves, by touching her elbow a second time. Suddenly, I knew how people with communicable diseases feel.
    I wanted to ask her, Why ? Why was she reacting this way? She wasn’t just cool, she was icy. Tomlinson was right. There was more than just a touch of distaste. What the hell had I done to offend her?
    I wanted to press it, but the timing didn’t seem right. Instead, I stuck to the subject. I told her what we had to focus on now was finding Lake, staying smart and negotiating his freedom. So the first thing we had to do, I told her, was make a decision. Was she absolutely certain she didn’t want any kind of official help? I added, “Professional help, I’m talking about.”
    Walking, still maintaining a measured distance between us, she said, “I don’t see how it’s possible. The American FBI, Florida law enforcement agencies, they certainly have no jurisdiction over a kidnapping committed in Masagua. Even if they did, I wouldn’t risk getting my son killed.”
    Her tone seemed unnecessarily sharp, and I matched it when I replied, “He’s my son, too, remember. That’s why I want to consider all the options. Review all the assets to make sure we bring him home