{"product_id":"mangrove-lightning-isbn-9780399576690","title":"Mangrove Lightning","description":"\u003cb\u003eThe ghosts of a 1925 multiple murder stalk Doc Ford in this electrifying novel in the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e–bestselling series.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Doc Ford has been involved in many strange cases. This may be one of the strangest. A legendary charter captain and guide named Tootsie Barlow has come to him, muttering about a curse. The members of his extended family have suffered a bizarre series of attacks, and Barlow is convinced it has something to do with a multiple murder in 1925, in which his family had a shameful part.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFord doesn’t believe in curses, but as he and his friend Tomlinson begin to investigate, following the trail of the attacks from Key Largo to Tallahassee, they, too, suffer a series of near-fatal mishaps. Is it really a curse? Or just a crime spree? The answer lies in solving a near-hundred-year-old murder...and probing the mind of a madman.\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eMangrove Lightning\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“White comes up with a novel way to re-examine historical crimes: reincarnate the criminals as fictional present-day killers. It's a crazy idea, and some crazy developments trail in its wake, but it works.”—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Showcases a quirky, ever-endearing cast…and, of course, White’s natural facility for old-school action. [P]lus there’s a spectacular face-off at the end …that will have fans remembering some of John D. MacDonald’s grisliest villains. Hugely entertaining, especially for longtime fans.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eDeep Blue\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “[A] high-tech, grand-scale adventure. White makes particularly good use of [the] always-potent crime-fiction theme—the knight errant who inadvertently brings trouble home to those he loves....This twenty-third Doc Ford novel will quickly assume its reserved seat on the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003eand most other best-seller lists.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Lively characters, enough action for three summer blockbusters, and plenty of plot twists make this a great addition to the bestselling series.”—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “As with every Doc Ford story, the writing is tight and the story fast-paced...[Fans of] thriller heroes from James Bond to Jason Bourne will find a lot to like.”—Associated Press\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A trip to the Gulf Coast with Doc Ford is never dull...and White doesn’t skimp on the action....This marine biologist increasingly lets his clandestine life as a government operative take him away from his quiet Sanibel Island home [and White] continues to find fresh ways to bring Ford into the chaos of world politics.”—\u003ci\u003eSouth Florida Sun-Sentinel\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “White continues to impress with detail and description of the high-tech marvels that have become a part of everyman’s life....\u003ci\u003eDeep Blue\u003c\/i\u003e is the author at his best. You will want to say ‘He is back,’ but he never left.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Florida Times-Union\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 On the phone, Tomlinson said to Ford, \"When the deputy's wife and      kids disappeared, moonshiners might've dumped their bodies in the      lake-it was during Prohibition. It wouldn't be the first time      karma has waited decades to boot justice in the ass.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Tootsie Barlow told you that story?\" Ford, a marine biologist,      was referring to a famous fishing guide who ranked with Jimmie      Albright, Jack Brothers, Ted Williams, and a few others as      fly-casting pioneers in the Florida Keys.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"His family was involved somehow-the Barlows go way, way back in      the area. I don't know how yet, but I will. He's in bad shape, so      I need to take it slow, but you're the one who told me about the      lake-Chino Hole. That's the connection. The access road cuts      through Tootsie's property.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I had no idea. He moved to the Everglades?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Smack-dab in the middle. One of those little crossroads villages      like Copeland or Carnestown. The property's been in his family for      years. I'm driving down this afternoon. Since he quit guiding,      it's probably easier for him to wake up and see sawgrass instead      of the Gulf Stream. The endgame, dude, for watermen like us, it      can be pretty damn sad.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I've heard the rumor,\" Ford said. \"As far as your story goes, I'm      still lost.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"So's Tootsie. How many fishing guides put away money for      retirement? He's broke, which is bad enough, but now he's afraid      that God has singled out his family for punishment. Like a      conspiracy, you know? Not because of something he did, more likely      something his father or a relative did. The cops won't listen, his      preacher doesn't believe him, so who else is he gonna call but the      Right Reverend, yours truly.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Tomlinson, an ordained Rinzai Buddhist priest, seldom employed the      honorific \"Right Reverend.\" The title had been bestowed by a Las      Vegas divinity mill after cashing his check for fifty bucks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Tootsie wants you to put in a good word with God, I get it. I      still don't see what this has to do with us . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"He wants someone to convince the cops he's not crazy. And there's      another connection. The deputy who disappeared was J. H. Cox. That      ring a bell? It should.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"When was this?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Nineteen twenty-five. A few years earlier, a woman was murdered      by a man named Cox. Same area; near Marco Island. I don't know if      it was the same man, but your Hannah Smith is a direct descendant      of the woman he killed.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mentioning the biologist's ex-lover, Hannah, was a calculated risk      to catalyze Ford's interest. In the background over the phone,      Tomlinson could hear a steel drum band. \"Hey, seriously, where are      you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ford, who was in the lobby of the Schooner Hotel, Nassau, Bahamas,      said, \"I'm in Lauderdale. At a convention for aquarium hobbyists.      I'll get back to the lab late tomorrow. Hopefully.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Bahia Mar, Lauderdale?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Close enough. Look . . . I've got a talk to give and I'm still      working on my notes.\" As he spoke, the child-porn dealer he'd been      tailing stepped to the registration desk. Ford covered the phone      and moved as if getting into line.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When he rejoined the conversation, his boat bum hipster pal      Tomlinson was saying, \". . . Tootsie's story is historical fact.      I've got the old newspaper stories to prove it. In August 1925,      Deputy Cox, his wife, and two kids all disappeared the night      before a bunch of bootleggers went on trial. Marco Island or      somewhere at the edge of the Everglades-get it?-all within a few      miles of Chino Hole.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Moonshiners would need fresh water,\" Ford reasoned while he      watched the clerk encode the porn dealer's room key.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"That's who the newspapers blamed, but there was other nasty crap      going on at the time, which I'm just starting to research. You      ever hear of the Marco Island war?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Come on, you're making this up.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It happened, man. Same time period. A bunch of heavy hitters had      their fingers in the regional pie-Al Capone, probably Joe Kennedy,      too, but they weren't the worst. The elite rich were stealing      homesteads, and smuggling in Chinese illegals to boot.\" Tomlinson      sniffed, and added, \"Lauderdale, huh? Dude, the satellite must'a      stopped over Nassau, 'cause I swear can I smell jerked chicken.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ford replied, \"Call you back,\" and hung up as the clerk addressed      the porn dealer by name for the third time-standard, in the      hospitality business-then handed over a key in a sleeve with the      number 803 written on it and circled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'll be checking out in about an hour,\" Ford told the clerk when      it was his turn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There were ceiling fans in the lobby and panoramic windows, beyond      which sunbaked tourists lounged by the pool. A brunette in a red      handkerchief two-piece was sufficiently lush and languid to spark      a yearning in the biologist-an abdominal pang he recognized as      discontent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Focus, he told himself, and returned to his encrypted notes. It      became easier when the brunette stood and buttoned up her beach      wrap. Every set of poolside eyes followed her to the door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e An hour later, the porn dealer reappeared in the lobby, wearing      shorts and flip-flops, and exited toward the tiki bar.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ford shouldered his computer bag, and crossed the lobby to the      elevators.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e From the eighth floor, Montagu Bay was a turquoise basin encrusted      with slums and ox cart traffic on the eastern fringe. Spaced along      the waterfront were resort compounds; postcard enclaves that were      separated from Nassau's realities by armed guards and tastefully      disguised concertina wire.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The biologist no longer wondered why tourists came to places like      this. People seldom traveled. Not really. Travel was too damn      unpredictable. Instead, they contrived daydreams. They chose      template fictions that matched, or came close enough to, the      vacation they wanted to describe to their friends back home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Near the elevator was a house phone. He dialed housekeeping, and      told the woman, \"I'm a dope. Can you please send someone up with a      key to eight-oh-three? I locked myself out.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Your name, sir?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"James Lutz.\" That was the name the porn dealer was using.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"When security arrives,\" the woman added, \"show them your      passport, Mr. Lutz.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Have him bring a bucket of ice, too,\" the biologist replied.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He was palming a twenty-euro bill when a kid wearing a name badge      appeared, used a passkey, and bowed him into the room. \"Hang on,      I've got something for you.\" Inside the closet, as anticipated,      was a wall safe, which he fiddled with before giving up. \"Damn . .      . must have punched in the number wrong. What's the default code?      I need my wallet.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The kid opened the safe, and stepped back in deference to this      solid-looking American who exuded confidence, but in a friendly      way that suggested he was also generous.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Thank you, Mr. Lutz,\" the kid said, accepting the twenty. No eye      contact; he backed out of the room.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You're supposed to see this.\" The fake passport earned only a      dutiful glance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He has no future in the security trade, Ford rationalized when the      kid was gone. I did him a favor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e On the other hand, probably not. Child pornography was a      billion-dollar international industry. Nassau was the ancillary      stronghold for a Russian network that branched into Haiti,      Indonesia, and the Middle East, particularly Muslim regions where      daughters were treated as chattel. Children provided a steady      income to jihadists who enjoyed beheading infidels. When word got      out that a low-level dealer had lost incriminating files while      drinking at the pool bar, Jimmy Lutz, or whatever his name was,      would beg first for his life, then a painless bullet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e If he lived that long.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Wearing gloves and a jeweler's eyepiece, Ford secured an adhesive      keystroke transmitter to Lutz's laptop. The translucent tape was      two inches long and thinner than a human hair. Once mounted on the      screen's black border, it became invisible, which Ford confirmed,      before returning the laptop to its case.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Next, the safe. He photographed the contents: a wallet, two      passports, a bundle of cash, and half a dozen ultra-secure      biometric thumb drives. Three platinum thumb drives, three stealth      black. Ford's employer, a Swiss agency, had anticipated this, but      had provided him with only four stealth versions. He switched out      the three black thumb drives, and repositioned each exactly as      he'd found it before closing the safe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ford had also anticipated that Jimmy Lutz was in Nassau on a      working vacation. On the bed, a Dacor dive bag lay next to a      leather suitcase and a valet parking ticket. He unzipped the bag      and removed a buoyancy compensator vest attached to a four-hose      regulator.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The gear looked new.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Using a multi-tool, he popped a pin, removed the regulator's      cover; next, a lubricating seal and the main diaphragm. A      stainless valve seat and plunger were cupped within. With a drop      of water-soluble glue, he seated an object that would clog the      system when it broke free but would dissolve without a trace      within twenty minutes. He did the same to the backup regulator,      then returned everything to the bag.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There was no such thing as a zero signature robbery unless the      victim wasn't alive to report the crime. No guarantees when or if      it would happen, but a nice touch if the man had booked an      afternoon dive.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When Ford was done, he consulted photos of the room to be sure it      was exactly as he'd found it, then cracked the door and eyeballed      the hallway.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Damn it . . . Lumbering toward him was Jimmy Lutz after only      twenty minutes at the tiki bar. Maybe he'd left his wallet, or      needed cigars. Ford hurried past the bed, pocketed the valet      ticket, then exited onto the balcony, closing the curtains and      sliding doors.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You . . . bastard . . . get your hands off me,\" a woman said from      nearby. British accent. She sounded more startled than mad. A      neighboring balcony was empty, but billowing curtains suggested      the woman was in the adjoining suite. Ford's attention wavered      until a slamming door told him Lutz was in the room. Lights came      on within, then heavy feet flip-flopped toward him, as the woman,      voice louder, threatened, \"I'll call the police, by god, if you      don't get out of here right now.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lutz heard her; curtains parted. Ford hugged the wall while the      man peered out, his face inches away through the glass. Satisfied      the woman wasn't on his balcony, Lutz engaged the dead bolt and      swept the curtains closed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ford was trapped. He waited, hearing a mix of sounds from the      adjoining suite: a clatter of furniture; the woman gasping, \"Damn      you . . . that hurts,\" and other indecipherable noises that      signaled a struggle. Or was it a kinky twosome enjoying rough      love?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Inside Lutz's room, a toilet flushed. A door suctioned curtains,      then banged closed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The porn dealer was gone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ford grabbed his tactical bag before testing the sliding doors.      Yes, they were locked. He swung a leg over the railing, ignored      the dizzying distance to the beach below, and made the long step      to the next balcony, which was screened by landscape foliage. A      potted plant crashed to the tile when he pushed his bag through,      then followed. Beyond billowing curtains, through open doors, the      room went silent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Standing, looking in, he was prepared to apologize to the couple      until he accessed the scene. A fit man wearing medical whites and      a name badge glared back-a massage therapist whose table had      collapsed on the floor during a struggle. Askew on the table,      still battling to cover her body with a sheet, was the brunette      he'd seen by the pool.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Didn't know you was there, sir,\" the man glowered. \"She want to      call the constables, fine, but what you think they'll say? She's      the one requested MY services.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In Nassau, even extortion threats sounded as melodic as a woodwind      flute.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Are you hurt?\" Ford asked the woman. He pushed the curtains aside      and stepped in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She was confused, and mad enough to sputter, \"I want this bastard      fired. If you work for the hotel, I want to file a-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"That man don't work here,\" the therapist said. Until then, he'd      been backing toward the door. Now, looking from Ford to the broken      pottery outside, he figured out the situation. \"Yeah, what the      police gonna say? This guest hire me, take her clothes off, her      own free accord. I already know who they gonna believe.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You cheeky son of a bitch.\" The woman tried to scoot away; the      sheet fell. She folded her arms to cover herself until Ford yanked      the sheet free and tossed it over her. He wore a baggy white      guayabera shirt, tails out to cover the waistband of his khaki      slacks. Again he asked the woman if she was hurt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Who are you?\" she demanded. \"For Christ's sake, call the manager      . . . or do something. This man tried to rape me.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Naw, come on,\" the therapist said in a soothing way. \"That ain't      true. You want to know the real problem? This fella come here to      rob you, that's what they'll figure out. Why else he climb over      that balcony? You being such a wealthy lady, they'll know a poor      boy like me wouldn't do nothing so stupid.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Bastard,\" the woman said, while the man grinned.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Ain't you the spicy one,\" he countered. \"I'm not the type to make      trouble, so tell you what. Mister, I'm willing to leave      polite-like-but I want compensation for all the fun I missed, plus      the coin you lost me. Sound fair?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Very fair,\" Ford said. He reached back as if for a billfold but      came up with a 9mm pistol and leveled the sights at the man's      nose.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Where do you want it?\" he asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The massage therapist, no longer smiling, said, \"Shit, man. What      the . . . Don't make me take that away from you, 'cause you won't      like what happens next.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Staring over the sights, Ford cocked the pistol, and spoke to the      woman: \"Get some clothes on and call the police, if that's what      you want. But not from here. There's a house phone near the      elevators.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The therapist turned to her. \"See there, Miz Cobourg! He plans to      shoot me 'cause he don't want witnesses,\" while the woman asked      Ford, \"Is it true? The constables won't believe me?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Not a chance,\" Ford said. \"You made the appointment through the      concierge?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Of course,\" she said, then understood the implications. \"Oh hell.      Yes, it was a damn fool thing to do, I suppose.\" She got to her      feet with the sheet around her, no longer afraid, just angry and      undecided.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It happens a lot in places like this. If you're worried about      headlines, I'd pack your things now and not look back. Or just      forget it.\"","brand":"G.P. Putnam's Sons","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303672828133,"sku":"NP9780399576690","price":9.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780399576690.jpg?v=1767732217","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/mangrove-lightning-isbn-9780399576690","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}