Bone Deep (Doc Ford, 18, Band 18) - Hardcover

White, Randy Wayne

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0399158138 ISBN 13: 9780399158131

Verlag: PENGUIN GROUP, 2014

Inhaltsangabe

The stunning new thriller from the New York Times–bestselling author.

When a Crow Indian acquaintance of Tomlinson’s asks him to help recover a relic stolen from his tribe, Doc Ford is happy to tag along—but neither Doc nor Tomlinson realize what they’ve let themselves in for. Their search takes them to the part of Central Florida known as Bone Valley, famous primarily for two things: a ruthless subculture of black-marketers who trade in illegal artifacts and fossils, and a multibillion-dollar phosphate industry whose strip mines compromise the very ground they walk on.

Neither enterprise tolerates nosy outsiders. For each, public exposure equals big financial losses—and in a region built on a million-year accumulation of bones, there is no shortage of spots in which to hide a corpse. Or two.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorinnen und Autoren

Randy Wayne White is the author of twenty previous Doc Ford novels; the Hannah Smith novelsGone and Deceived; and four collections of nonfiction. He lives on Sanibel Island, Florida, where he was a light-tackle fishing guide for many years.

Randy Wayne White is the author of twenty previous Doc Ford novels; the Hannah Smith novelsGone and Deceived; and four collections of nonfiction. He lives on Sanibel Island, Florida, where he was a light-tackle fishing guide for many years.

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ONE


A BIG CHUNK OF CENTRAL FLORIDA IS KNOWN AS BONE VALLEY TO GEOLOGISTS
and antiquities thieves, as I was reminded by a stranger wearing
braids and wrangler denim who appeared on my porch one stormy
June morning.

The man claimed to be on the trail of artifacts stolen from Crow
tribal land in Montana.

“Stone carvings about yay high,” he said, holding his fingers
apart. “They didn’t come from Bone Valley, but Florida is where a
lot of tribal stuff ends up.”

My stilthouse on Sanibel Island, the Gulf Coast, is four hours
from Orlando, and two thousand miles from Big Sky Country. “You
sure you have the right Marion Ford?”

“You’re Doc?”

“Yeah, but not the kind you need.”

“A marine biologist who doesn’t read his horoscope, that’s what I
heard. You could be just the guy.”

I was standing outside my lab, water slapping at pilings below
my feet, thunderheads sliding our way. “What does astrology have
to do with stolen artifacts?”

The man, who had introduced himself as Duncan Fallsdown,
said, “Tonight, at what’s supposed to be a sweat lodge, it would be
nice to have a buffer. You know, someone who talks about something
other than Mother Earth and spirit quests—all the standard
stuff I’ve heard a million times. A hawk circles overhead, a guy like
you figures the bird’s hungry, looking for a mouse. A snake, maybe.
No big deal. Am I right?”

I said, “A sweat lodge in June? If that’s an invitation, no thanks.”

“Not the best timing, but I’m committed,” Fallsdown replied, his
eyes moving to the bay where a sailboat was anchored. The boat’s
boom was strung with laundry that flapped in the breeze: a tie-dyed
shirt, several sarongs, and what appeared to be women’s lingerie.
Suddenly, the nonsensical was redefined as commonplace.

“Tomlinson’s behind this,” I said. “How long have you known
him?” I was referring to a lecherous, cannabis-growing anarchist
turned Zen master who lives aboard the sailboat, an old Morgan,
No Más in faded script on the stern.

“Long enough to leave last night, when he chugged a tray of Jell-O
shooters and invited some women to go skinny-dipping,” the man
replied. “That was around one. I flew in late yesterday afternoon.”

Yep—definitely bras and panties clipped to the Morgan’s halyard,
all doomed to be soaked by the rain rumbling toward us. “You
do know him,” I said. “How many?”

“Women? At least one that was married, so I didn’t bother counting.
They’re here because of the sweat lodge.” Fallsdown considered
the squall, then looked beyond me through the screen door. “Man . . .
you’ve got a bunch of aquariums in there. As a kid, I always wanted
one. What kind of fish?”


It was a request to escape the rain, so I opened the door, asking,
“What time did Tomlinson start drinking this morning?”

Fallsdown’s shoulders filled the doorway, his Indian braids black
on blue cowboy denim, and I got a whiff of what might have been
smoke—mesquite, maybe, not tobacco or marijuana.

“Answer that one,” he replied, “I’d have to know what time he
stopped last night, wouldn’t I?”

DUNCAN FALLSDOWN, who told me to call him Dunk with a k, accepted
a bottle of Gatorade after refusing a beer, saying, “I’m hop-tose intolerant,”
which might have meant ten a.m. was too early—or the
gentle rebuff of an alcoholic. A man in his mid-forties acquires seismic
markers at the corners of the eyes—harsh winters, smoky barrooms,
is what I saw.

I dumped my coffee and made fresh while wind blew the first
fat drops of rain against the roof. Twice, while water boiled, I went
to the door and whistled, then made small talk until Fallsdown followed
me outside, across the breezeway, into the old ice house I have
converted into a lab. I showed him around, explained what I do for
a living—collect and sell marine specimens, plus environmental
consulting—then went to the door again, “When you crossed the
boardwalk, did you happen to see a dog swimming around near my
house?”

“That was a dog?” Fallsdown replied.

Surprise with a tinge of wariness—the typical reaction of a newcomer
who thinks he has seen what is probably an alligator but could
be a giant otter. A few minutes later, I returned, and my yellow-eyed
retriever was drying in the breezeway, a fresh bone to occupy him,
while Fallsdown and I talked above the hiss of rain.  


“These stone carvings, someone I know wants them back. Dollarwise,
they’re fairly valuable, but that’s not the reason. The person’s
in a hurry. Tomorrow, there’s a flea market near Venice I want
to hit. Then a gun show in Lakeland.”

“You don’t know where the artifacts are?”

“I’ve got some contacts, and Tomlinson’s working on some
others—that’s why I’m here. MapQuest says the trip’s three hours.”

Over an hour to Venice, then two hours to Lakeland, I guessed.
“But double that if Tomlinson’s driving.”

Fallsdown, focusing on fish tanks along the wall, kept his back to
me. “You know the guy better than I do. He’s not as flaky as he
pretends, sometimes. He’s got good instincts, too, and people trust
him. Better than having just me show up, a cowboy-Indian dressed
like Billy Jack, asking questions about artifacts that might sell for
fifty, sixty grand. See what I’m saying?”

I was surprised by the numbers. “At a flea market?”

“It’s the sort of place dealers use now. Used to be, the quality
stuff was sold at auctions or antiquities shows. Coins, arrowheads,
fossils—Florida had some of the biggest shows in the country. Vegas
was big. New Mexico used to be, but the Indian relics trade has
mostly gone underground. States are cracking down, Florida included,
but it’s still one of the world’s best places for finding fossils
and relics. The money’s here, so the dealers keep coming.”

I was sitting at my computer and broke a personal rule by turning
on the Wi-Fi before I’d finished the morning grunt work required
of an aquarist who owns two boats. “These artifacts, do you
have a link where I can find photos?

“I’ve got a folder in my rental car when the rain slows down. The
carvings don’t look like much—black soapstone—steatite, it’s called.
Some say the pieces look like owl faces.”


“Just the face?”

“Judge for yourself, but they’re plain-looking stones. Not nearly
as pretty as agate coral. They find a lot of that near Tampa, but
other areas, too. Phosphate quarries are best.”

There were plenty of quarries. Phosphate mining has been a
major Florida industry since the early 1900s, which Fallsdown already
knew.

“A million years ago,” he said, “inland Florida was high ground
with rivers, and animals that collected there in the river basins and
watering holes died there. That’s why they call the area Bone Valley.
Awesome...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: PENGUIN GROUP
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2014
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0399158138
• ISBN 13: 9780399158131
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Anzahl der Seiten: 362
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar