{"product_id":"caribbean-rim-isbn-9780735212794","title":"Caribbean Rim","description":"\u003cb\u003eMurder, sunken treasure, and pirates both ancient and modern send Doc Ford on a nightmare quest in this thrilling novel in the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e-bestselling series, now in paperback for the first time\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarine biologist Doc Ford has been known to help his friends out of jams occasionally, but he's never faced a situation like this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis old pal Carl Fitzpatrick has been chasing sunken wrecks most of his life, but now he's run afoul of the Florida Division of Historical Resources. Its director, Leonard Nickelby, despises amateur archaeologists, which is bad enough, but now he and his young \"assistant\" have disappeared--along with Fitzpatrick's impounded cache of rare Spanish coins and the list of uncharted wreck sites Fitz spent decades putting together. Some of Fitz's own explorations have been a little...dicey, so he can't go to the authorities. Doc is his only hope.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut greed makes people do terrible things: rob, cheat, even kill. With stakes this high, there's no way the thieves will go quietly--and Doc's just put himself in their crosshairs.\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eCaribbean Rim\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hats off to White for combining suspense and madcap adventure with such dexterity...Being an under-the-radar kind of guy, Doc Ford is likely not too happy at the way his adventures keep turning up on best-seller lists, but he’d better deal with it; the trend isn’t about to change.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eRandy Wayne White\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of the Doc Ford novels, the Hannah Smith novels, and four collections of nonfiction. He lives on Sanibel Island, Florida, where he was a light-tackle fishing guide for many years, and spends much of his free time windsurfing, playing baseball, and hanging out at Doc Ford's Rum Bar \u0026amp; Grille.1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Marion Ford spent Friday battling traffic, romantic issues, and      writing automated replies to thwart future intrusions, and by      Tuesday was in the Bahamas distanced by a turquoise sea.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Isolation. He craved it at junctures, the skin-on-bone reality of      a tent, zero electronics, miles of beach to run, the indifference      of saltwater, tide, wind. Two books, minimal supplies, a fire      starter for abundant driftwood. The process, not time, was      spatial. Whatever was enough to quell his own sense of drifting,      the weakness granted to sloth, pointless emotion, guilt. Love,      too-if \"love\" existed beyond the chemical bond that, in his      experience, clouded reasonable behavior.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Family was different. Those bonds were inviolable. The same was      true of friendship-a select few.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e After a week, he packed his seaplane, a Maule four-seater, and      returned to Andros Town not refreshed but newly focused. Luck is      an illusion embraced by those who are unprepared. Ford seldom was.      Two days later, he struck the trail of the man he wanted to find      but had no reason to hurt, let alone kill.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Someone on the island, he discovered, possibly did.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The man, a professor turned bureaucrat, was too caught up in      Lydia, his former student, to give a damn about being followed, or      anything connected with the past. To hell with the past. To hell      with bills, his job, his unhappy wife, and the new boss, too, a      supercilious business grad-not a qualified maritime      archaeologist-who wore Polos to show off his tattoos, for Christ's      sake, and was ten years younger.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"There's nothing wrong with a tat or two,\" Lydia, no longer a      student, had counseled, \"or smoking weed, for that matter. You      can't smell it on his clothes? I did when I came to your office      yesterday to apologize. The real problem is, he's just another      ambitious shark. They scare people like us. Admit it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This was eight months ago after he'd almost had her arrested for      using a metal detector in Ocala National Forest. And he would've      done it, called a ranger, if she hadn't . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Well, there were a couple ways to explain why he had fallen under      her spell. He remembered her from Advanced Anthropology, a night      course for working students. Lydia, bland-faced, thin, always on      time, always in the back row, off by herself. They were alike in      that way-outsiders, solid, responsible, both subdued by what the      mirror had failed to promise every morning since puberty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He was five-eight and bald. Lydia, an introvert, averted her eyes      while speaking. A slow, voltaic awareness evolved.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The girl often lingered long enough in the parking lot to call,      \"Good night, Professor Nickelby.\" And twice had waited with him      for Triple A to jump-start his pathetic old Volvo. Their clumsy      small talk was memorable only because she hadn't brought up      Indiana Jones. Lambasting Hollywood was how the socialite types      denounced a fantasy that had, in fact, flooded archaeology with      their kind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Not Lydia. The notebook she'd turned in was fastidious. Legible      cursive with footnotes in fine block print. No copy-and-paste      plagiarism, the new academic norm. And not a single goddamn emoji      or doodled happy face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e One exchange was memorable. The Triple A guy had been busy with      paperwork when, out of the blue, she'd asked Nickel by, \"Do you      ever wonder if things might be fixable? Like your timing's totally      off and it's up to you to change, to . . . I don't know, do the      unexpected. Something totally . . . risky.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I can't afford payments, so I'm stuck,\" he'd replied. \"The timing      belt was serviced at seventy thousand, just like the manual says,      and, safety-wise, I did the research. Volvos are the least risky      when it comes to . . .\" He'd rambled on in lecture mode even after      realizing he had totally missed her meaning.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The silence that followed lasted seven years. He married. He      changed jobs, although remained an adjunct professor because the      State of Florida didn't pay crap. More than once, alone in the      stucco confines of a home he couldn't afford, he had replayed that      conversation in his head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Do you ever wonder if the way things are might be fixable?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jesus Christ, he'd been an idiot. The Volvo's timing belt had      nothing to do with it. The girl had wanted to explore bigger      issues. Archaeology as a profession, possibly. Or she was talking      about life. Her life, his life. All screwed-up lives.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It's up to us to change. To do something . . . risky.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This was a tantalizing fragment. Had she been addressing their age      difference? Him close to tenure, her not yet twenty years old. If      so, my god, it was the way a shy student might attempt to seduce      an older man without compromising his career.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That brief voltaic awareness took root as his marriage crumbled.      Humiliations he suffered in the bedroom sought refuge in fantasy.      The girl, rather cute, not bland at all, came alive in his mind.      She had glistening brown hair, a thin body, but not so thin her      clothes-jeans and tank tops often-didn't reveal taut hips and      small stiletto breasts. Sloped valleys, too, one night in the      parking lot when she'd knelt to retrieve a book, then stood as if      to prove he was taller.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The fantasy motivated him to finally do the legwork.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lydia Johnson had dropped out midway through her sophomore year.      She had forfeited an academic scholarship and a housing grant      based on economic need. It made no sense. A straight-A student on      the fast track who also had minority status-an unexpected twist.      DNA results proved she was nine percent Native American.      Documentation had been provided after acceptance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This was an eye-opener. Sweet, shy Lydia was also damn savvy. In      academia, minority status was the golden umbrella. So why the hell      had she left all those perks behind?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He dug deeper, and it all began to unravel.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Campus police and a court hearing had been involved. No details.      Her record, if any, had been expunged, and the file sealed. A      theft of some type, possibly, but more likely drugs-selling, not      just using. The dorms would be empty otherwise.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Fantasy could not tolerate the realities of Dr. Leonard Nickelby's      respectable, stuffy world.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Seven years passed. When he thought of Lydia, which wasn't often,      he winced at what might have happened that night in the parking      lot. Then, a year ago, there she was in Ocala National Forest,      wearing earphones, sweeping a path with a metal detector. He      didn't recognize her at first. Not consciously. Then she turned      and flipped him the bird in response to what he'd yelled, which      was, \"That's a felony, you idiot. Don't bother running, I've got      you on video.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It took her a long moment, too. \"Professor Nickelby?\" The way her      face lit up caused him to fumble his phone. Thank god, because he      had park headquarters on speed dial. He wouldn't have heard her      add, \"You have no idea how many times I've thought about you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He'd stammered something pompous about switching jobs, and she      should consider herself damn lucky to be his former student. Five      minutes of talk was all he could spare. Steaks were on, and a      group of lobbyists awaited him at a nearby pavilion-a picnic      intended to win the ear of government officials.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"A meat eater,\" she'd chuckled. \"I used to wonder if anyone else      saw that side of you. Congratulations. I always knew you'd be a      big success.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Huh?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The fantasy could not end with another question mark. After three      sleepless nights, he would've phoned if she hadn't shown up at his      office to \"apologize,\" then suggested they meet the next day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I can't,\" he told her at the door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You will,\" she replied. \"What worries me is, you'll never      understand why.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lydia and her cryptic remarks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Yet she was correct. They were alone on a riverbank when she      referenced his boss, a handsome shark who smoked weed. \"They scare      us-people who think doing exceptional work will be enough, but it      never is. Admit it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e What he wanted to talk about was that night in the parking lot.      Instead, he nodded wisely. \"I'm certainly not frightened of him or      any of my colleagues, but, for argument's sake, let's say you're      right. Is that why you dropped out of school?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e No, Lydia had been asked to leave-she offered no explanation-and      went to work for a treasure salvage company based in West Palm      Beach. The company's founder was in jail after refusing to reveal      where he'd hidden four hundred million in gold bars and coins.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Not surprised, professor? In your new job, you must deal with      treasure hunters all the time. They're not all thieves.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The job wasn't new, he'd been at it six years. He knew enough      about the guy to say, \"Maybe not, but they're all con men, the way      they think, the way they live. You worked for Benthic Exploration?      Jimmy Jones must've hired you, so you understand why he's in jail,      right?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jimmy and her eighteen months with Benthic were not topics to be      discussed. \"Benthic was a good group to work for at the time,      that's all I know. I learned a lot.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lydia's stubborn deference irritated Nickelby. \"What? You'd rather      be a thieving pirate than sit behind a desk, I suppose, and      enforce state statutes.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It would be a lot more fun than what I do now, which is doctor      cattle for a bona fide creep. Here, relax-\" She produced a joint      that was twisted at the ends not unlike pre-Columbian cordage.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You work on a ranch?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"For a vet clinic. My boss is a hormone pusher, the type cattle      barons love.\" Lydia exhaled through her nose and passed the joint      to him, a man who didn't drink or use drugs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nickelby felt as if he was dreaming. Stared at the joint between      his fingers and worried about residue accumulating on his skin      until she said, \"Your beat-up old Volvo-do you remember the night      we waited for Triple A? I wanted to talk about it then, how to      deal with being like us. You know, smart, dependable-conformists      by nature-but not other people's idea of . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Fashion models?\" he suggested when her voice faltered. \"You're      wrong. I've always found you quite attractive, but-\" In a daze, he      put the joint to his lips, inhaled, then had to deal with a      coughing fit, before explaining, \"I was too darn stuffy to take      the chance. To do something risky. Those were your exact words.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Her eyes actually began to tear. \"You remember.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Of course I do. Almost every night for I don't know how many      years.\" He took a more aggressive hit. \"But the age difference . .      . If you meant what I think you did in the parking lot, why would      you . . . Why me?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I don't date boys,\" she replied, studying him in a way that meant      something. \"I never will.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Oh come on. You didn't wait all these years just because-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I didn't say that. Waiting and not moving ahead are two different      things. I've seen the future too often. Women like me, with      brains, and the train wrecks they end up marrying because they're      too fat or too thin, or their background isn't quite suitable.      Whatever. Another caged bird, professor-that's the way I felt when      I met you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Her face, framed in smoke, was suddenly lucent in the sunlight.      The sense of loss Nickelby felt was numbing. \"I . . . I don't know      what to say. But, at your age, you truly have no idea of the      responsibilities that come with my-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Shut up, Leonard. I'm the only person you've ever met you can say      any damn crazy thing that comes into your head, and it'll be      okay-as long as it's the truth.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Her boldness, so unexpected, wasn't an epiphany. More like a kick      in the butt toward a door he'd never found the courage to open.      \"You shouldn't speak to me that way.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I just did. After class, all those nights I walked you out, I      felt like a fool because-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You don't think I wanted to?\" He puffed, held his breath,      coughed. \"Goddamn right, I wanted to. I was an idiot back then. A      coward, okay? Who followed every rule because that's what I've      done my entire fucking life. Risk jail and my career for an      underage student? Brilliant. But that's exactly what I should've      done. I just wish to heck I would've-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You still can,\" Lydia said. She took a step back, stripped off      her tank top, and unsnapped her bra, then held it to her chest,      watching him all the while. Several seconds passed before she did      it, bared her body for him to see-ribs beneath pale skin, erect      nipples-then stood nose to nose. \"Do you like?\" she whispered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Oh my god . . . Beautiful, yes.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm not and I never will be. Don't ruin what's real by saying      crap like that.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You are to me.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"No more talking.\" Her fingers found his belt buckle, a metallic      sound as it popped free. Next, his zipper as she knelt. Shaded by      trees, the river flowed while Lydia made it all become real.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Eight months later, he was still married but willing to risk      everything when she produced a chart of the Bahamas and said, \"The      next step is, we need money.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 2\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mars Bay, South Andros, is a mangrove village born of a freshwater      spring, not commerce or ease of access. Ford arrived on a      Wednesday, mid-July, and started asking around.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I don't understand why people care 'bout a loudmouthed little      fella like that,\" the dive shack owner said. \"He was nice enough,      kind of fun even, but that voice of his. Sort of high-pitched,      like a bird, you know? But formal in an educated way.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm not the first to ask about those two?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The owner's name was Tamarinda Constance, according to the sign.      Tamara, for short, she'd told him. She was big-boned, observant,      and had appeared slightly bored standing outside her tin-roofed      dive shack, beachside. Ford had spent half an hour on      pleasantries, discussing local dive spots, before risking a      question about the runaway archaeologist who was also a thief.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"No, sir. A few days back, there was a big fella-well-dressed, he      was-with an accent. Cuban, I thought at first, but he had money,      so he could be from South America. Spain, maybe. He asked did a      man claimed to be an archaeologist come to rent tanks and      regulators. What's so important about him?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"The guy,\" Ford said, \"supposedly he's the quiet type. Leonard      Nickelby. Are you sure we're talking about-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Same name on the dive card he used to rent equipment. Doctor      Nickelby, is the way he said it. Bald fella who got louder and      louder when him and his girlfriend, or niece-could be, she's so      much younger-when they started drinking rum punches over there at      the Turtle Kraals CafŽ.\" Tamara's eyes swept bayside to a thatched      palapa, where there was a driftwood bar, stools upturned on      tables, shaded by palms. Overhead, in the high green fronds,      parrots rioted in the tradewind heat.","brand":"G.P. 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