Medusa (NUMA Files 8)

“That’s right,” said Stu Simpson, an ocean biologist. “Most of the institutions working on this stuff share information. Bonefish Key is pretty tight, though. Have you contacted the director, Dr. Kane?”

“He’s a hard guy to track down.”

“Out in the field a lot, I’ve heard, and the place is being run by a Dr. Mayhew. I’ve met him at conferences. Not exactly Mr. Personality, but I may be able to help. Kane used to be with the Harbor Branch Oceanographic Institute, in Fort Pierce, Florida, before he got some money and set up the lab at Bonefish Key. I’ve got a friend at Harbor Branch who’s a pal of Mayhew’s. He owes me. I’ll see if I can call in that marker for you.”

While Gamay waited for Simpson to call back, she turned her laptop on and called up all the information she could find on Bonefish Key. She had been reading for only a few minutes when Dr. Mayhew called. Gamay explained her interest in Bonefish Key, said she was at Scripps but would be in Florida visiting friends and wondered if she could visit the lab. He said he appreciated the interest of someone from NUMA in the marine center’s work, but their visitor schedule was full up.

“That’s too bad,” Gamay said. “NUMA had no problem finding accommodations for your director on the B3 project. Why don’t you talk to Dr. Kane? I’m sure he would love to reciprocate NUMA’s hospitality if you asked him.”

“That’s not possible.” Pause. “We have a guest room free, but only for tomorrow night. Too bad you’re on the other side of the country.”

Gamay saw the opening and struck with the speed of a cobra.

“I’ll be there tomorrow,” she said.

“I wouldn’t want you to come all this way for just one night.”

“No problem, I can revise my schedule. So let’s make it two nights, then. How do I get out to the key?”

There was a stunned silence at the other end of the line. “When you get to Fort Myers, call a man named Dooley Greene. He works for the center and has a boat.”

Mayhew almost hung up without giving her Greene’s phone number. Cute, she thought as she jotted down the information. When Paul returned a few minutes later, she already was packing her duffel bag.

“Are you in?” he asked.

“Just barely.”

She told him how she arm-twisted Mayhew.

“Slick,” Paul said. “You’d make a deadly telemarketer. You’re in luck, by the way. The travel bureau at NUMA has booked you on an early-morning flight to Fort Myers. I’ll come out after I wrap up my seminar.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon walking and riding around the campus, visiting spots from their grad-student days. After a late dinner, Gamay finished packing her bag, and they got to bed early. The next morning, Paul drove Gamay to the airport, gave her a good-bye kiss, and said he would see her in a couple of days.

THE PLANE LIFTED OFF the ground and leveled out at thirty-five thousand feet. Gamay settled back in her seat and read about Bonefish Key on her laptop. It was a narrow strip of land near Pine Island on the Gulf of Mexico. Indians inhabited the island before the Spaniards turned it into a combination fort and trading post. Later, it became a fishing center named after the bonefish that abounded in nearby waters.

Around 1900, an enterprising New Yorker built a hotel, but it was wrecked in a hurricane. The island then passed through a series of owners. After another hurricane stymied an attempt to operate an inn, the owner sold Bonefish Key to a nonprofit foundation and it became a center for the s

tudy of marine organisms with pharmaceutical potential.

The flight was smooth, and Gamay used some of the time to work on a report about her work at Scripps. When the plane landed at Fort Myers Airport late in the afternoon, the efficient NUMA travel bureau had arranged for a van to deliver her to the Pine Island ferry landing.

A twin-hulled powerboat was tied up at the dock. The grizzled man at the wheel had a nut-brown tan that only partly hid the creases in his genial face.

“I guess you’re going out to Bonefish,” he said. “I’m Dooley Greene. I make runs for the marine center, which kinda makes me the official greeter.”

Gamay tossed her duffel bag in the double-hull and stepped on board with the sureness of someone who spent a lot of time on boats.

“I’m Dr. Morgan-Trout,” she said, shaking his hand with a grip that surprised Dooley with its firmness. “Please call me Gamay.”

“Thanks, Dr. Gamay,” he said, unable to avoid the honorific. Despite her informality, her almost-regal self-confidence could be intimidating. Emboldened by her friendliness, he added, “Pretty name. Unusual too.”

“My father was a wine nut. He named me after his favorite grape.”

“My father’s favorite booze was cheap gin,” Dooley said. “Guess I should be grateful he didn’t name me Juniper.”

Dooley uncleated the line and pushed the boat away from the dock. As they headed out into the bay, he seemed in no hurry.

“How long have you worked for the center?” Gamay asked.