Salt River (A Doc Ford Novel)

Product Description
The sins of the past come back to haunt Doc Ford and his old friend Tomlinson in this thrilling novel from New York Times-bestselling author Randy Wayne White, now in paperback.
Marine biologist and former government agent Doc Ford is sure he's beyond the point of being surprised by his longtime pal Tomlinson's madcap tales of his misspent youth. But he's stunned anew when avowed bachelor Tomlinson reveals that as a younger man strapped for cash, he'd unwittingly fathered multiple children via for-profit sperm bank donations. Thanks to genealogy websites, Tomlinson's now-grown offspring have tracked him down, seeking answers about their roots. . . but Doc quickly grows suspicious that one of them might be planning something far more nefarious than a family reunion.
With recent history on his mind, Doc is unsurprised when his own dicey past is called into question. Months ago, he'd quietly "liberated" a cache of precious Spanish coins from a felonious treasure hunter, and now a number of unsavory individuals, including a disgraced IRS investigator and a corrupt Bahamian customs agent, are after their cut. Caught between watching his own back and Tomlinson's, Doc has no choice but to get creative--before rash past decisions escalate to deadly present-day dangers.
Review
“[A] good time is had by all."—
Kirkus Reviews“As always, the fruit of White's research—this time, on deep-sea treasure hunting, red tides, and the technique of 'confused insemination'—will hold readers rapt on its own, supported, of course, by Doc's good heart and Tomlinson's mercurial personality.”
—Booklist
“Another rollicking adventure (and cliff-hanger ending) from White that will have them hooting.”
—Florida Times-Union
About the Author
Randy Wayne White 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 & Grille.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
ONE
It started in the galley of my wobbly old house during a lightning storm that fried a nearby transformer. A sizzling boom rattled the windows. Combusted ozone drifted bayward and sweetened the air while rain hammered the tin roof.
The lights went out.
"Perfect," my boat bum pal, Tomlinson, said. "Natural disaster is humanity's last hope. The internet has butt-ravaged us all and looted our privacy. I say bring on the pale rider. Might as well have another beer, huh?"
It was late but didn't feel late. In July on Florida's west coast, the sun doesn't set until almost 9. I waited in darkness for several seconds expecting my generator to kick on. It did not.
"If I don't get the darn thing started, my fish will be belly-up in an hour," I said. "And keeping fish alive has been tough enough lately. There's a kerosene lamp in the cupboard. Help yourself."
I'm a flashlight snob. Spend enough time in Third World countries, the dark becomes a foe. I have a phobia about being without a solid little LED handy, so they're in every room-including one on the bookcase, which I found before going to the door.
"Try not to burn the place down," I said.
"You're coming back, aren't you? I was just getting to the weirdest part of the story." Tomlinson had a little plastic lighter out. The way he stumbled around in the gloom, arms outstretched, reminded me of a scarecrow Frankenstein.
"It gets weirder? Good god," I said. "Shouldn't you be talking to a priest or something?"
"I am a priest," my Zen Buddhist buddy reminded me. "We're not into the whole confession thing-too risky, the way some monks are wired. Besides, donating to a sperm bank can't be considered a sin. Not two decades ago anyway . . . can it?"
I replied, "Forty-some donations in less than a month? If it's not a sin, it shou