Randy Wayne White's Ten Thousand Islands was "one of the most satisfying thrillers in recent memory"-- Chicago Tribune "Of all the writers [in] the Florida mayhem boom, only White can claim to have created a series hero to match Hemingway's memorable outdoorsmen and John D. MacDonald's much-missed Travis McGee."-- Publishers Weekly (starred review) The past comes disconcertingly alive for Doc Ford in Randy Wayne White's most electrifying novel yet. On a working vacation to Guava Key, marine biologist Doc Ford notices two female joggers who follow the same route at the same time every day. He can't help thinking how easy it would be for a predator to become aware of them, too. As it turns out, he isn't the only one. There seem to be more and more predators these days. Forced to step in, Ford finds himself involved in a story of intrigue and revenge that becomes more dangerous with every turn-and some of them hit pretty close to home. Add to that a Bahamian relative he never knew he had, a letter leading to a treasure that may or may not exist, and some past history that becomes very alarmingly present, and his life has suddenly become very complicated. Not to mention the prospect of his death. . . . Filled with crackling power and atmosphere, and some of the best suspense characters in fiction, Shark River is a triumph of storytelling. Randy Wayne White is the author of seventeen previous Doc Ford novels and four collections of nonfiction. He lives in an old house built on an Indian mound in Pineland, Florida.   THE DAY I met the Bahamian woman who claimed to be my sister, and less than an hour before I was shot during the attempted kidnapping of a diplomat's daughter, my eccentric friend Tomlinson said to me, "Know how desperate I am? I'm thinking of having Elmer Fudd tattooed on my ass. Seriously, the cartoon character. You know who I'm talking about? The chubby guy with the red hunting cap, the one with the shotgun." My eccentric, drug-modified friend Tomlinson. I was lying in a hammock, leafing through a very old issue of Copeia, Journal of the American Society of Ichthyologists and Herpetologists. It contained an article on Gulf sturgeon, written back in the days when the occasional sturgeon was still caught in saltwater south of Tampa Bay. I paused long enough to straighten my glasses and stare at him. "You're kidding. From the Bugs Bunny cartoons? Even a regular tattoo, I've never understood the motivation. Something like you're talking about, I just can't comprehend." "I told you about the...difficulty I've been having." Yes, he had. Over and over he'd told me. Which is why I thought: Boy oh boy oh boy, here we go again. "I did tell you, didn't I?" "Yes, and I don't care to hear any more about your personal problems. It's sunset. In your own words: The Mellow Yellow Hour. I'm trying to relax before I change shoes and run. Don't screw with the molecular harmony--again, your words." "I know, I know, but this is serious." "So you keep saying." " Anything that concerns Zamboni and the Hat Trick Twins is serious. They're just not theirselves, man." Zamboni and the Twins--my friend's private name for his private equipment. He explained, "The inflatable monster has finally turned all control over to my brain's moral guidance system, which is like a stone cold downer." He made a fizzling, whistling sound. "Sooner or later, it happens to every man, right?... Right?" It was the fourth, maybe fifth time he'd asked me that question, but when a friend fishes for reassurance, you must reassure. "Of course. Very few exceptions." "Okay, so you at least have a minor understanding of the motive behind the tattoo. Picture it"--Tomlinson created a frame with his huge, bony hands--"Elmer Fudd on the cheek of my ass, aiming his shotgun toward the shadows and he's saying, 'Come outta there you wascally wabbit!' Lots of bold color, reds and greens, but still... tasteful. Something that lightens the mood but also makes a statement." I was nodding. "Yeah, choose the wrong shades, a tattoo like that could seem almost frivolous." "Sarcasm. My equipment hasn't worked dependably in more than two months, yet my compadre offers sarcasm." "Only because it's such a ridiculous idea. I still don't understand the motivation. Or maybe you're just joking." We were on the second-floor veranda of a tin-roofed house, eye level with palm fronds and coconuts. Looking downward through the palms, we could see clay tennis courts, a swimming pool, sugar-white beach, and bay. Florida's Gulf Coast has a couple of exclusive, members-only islands. Guava Key is the one you read about occasionally, always associated with the very rich and rigorously private. The island is south of Tampa, north of Naples: a hundred acres of manicured rainforest and private homes centered on a turn-of-the-century fishing lodge built on an Indian mound. It is an island with no roads, no bridges, no cars and no strip malls, so it has the feel of a solid g