The overhead light became a far off star. His feet touched down and Zane kicked off horizontally, paddling through the murk with his light outstretched. His chances of finding coral receded with every descent. Thing was, the sun could reach this far. It was still possible to find what he needed.
A few healthy patches of it would get him to his goal. How badly he wished his child to have a better life, because this wasn’t living.
His light settled on a coral crop across the way. The red kind. The kind that lazed like slow motion brush fire. He kicked for it, thinking of Krill and how much of his life was currently in that sculptor’s hands.
Krill lived on the island’s north side, just beyond resort row. His high-level gift kiosk saw steady foot traffic. His sculptures were so popular that word traveled. They knew his name on the African mainland, and word of mouth brought plenty of curious customers looking to come away from vacation with an original Krill. He was open all day and night, residing in a little hut just beyond his commercial lean-to. Always working and selling. Perpetual hustle.
Zane couldn’t simply relax at home when he knew Krill was carving up coral like the world might suddenly run out. He had to dive. Had to keep the artist supplied with the good stuff, otherwise Krill would start looking elsewhere for a pipeline.
Past the waving red coral, Zane’s light hovered on the tips of floating pink. Another triumphant grin from behind his mask. Coral prices were based on color, saturation, and polish. If you managed to harvest red or pink, you got gold. Of course, there was literal gold coral to find, but you had a better chance of seeing Jesus down here helping you look.
The trickiest part of coral was that it was a lot of luck. Zane had recovered some pieces in the past that he thought would put him on easy street, only to have it cleaned and polished and turn out worthless. It all came down to polishing. If you got a piece where the color shimmered through like a jellyfish, you were set.
Krill would pay almost anything for those, because glimmering sculpts caught the eyes of rich tourists, who eyed them like they were blood diamonds. People with bread thought nothing about paying top dollar for extravagance, and Krill was the only sculptor on the island with the talent to get it done.
Zane swam toward his daughter’s academic future, reaching toward the coral. He closed his wet-suited hands around the thinnest of pieces, rocking it gently until it snapped and could fit easily inside the sack hitched to his belt.
While he worked at separating them from the floor, he felt a dozen vibrating sensations cross his body at once. A startled, bubbly growl escaped his mouth behind his breather. A large school of small fish raced past, knifing through the gloom toward the safety of further ocean depths.
Zane turned and stared into a cavern surrounded by jagged stones. He hadn’t previously noticed this entrance—too distracted by the loot, he supposed. The pink coral he’d spotted from afar was missing suddenly, leaving him to question whether he’d seen it at all.
He was ready to turn back when he saw it up close. His eyes widened and his heart seemed to push against the confines of his wetsuit.
A shark.
It tore through the water with such speed that Zane knew he was dead if it wanted him. He pulled his blade from its sheath, ready to stab the bastard through the eye should it get any ideas.
The fish didn’t appear to notice. It darted past Zane like it was in pursuit of those other fish.
Zane took a deep breath and figured that was likely. Then he turned back to the remaining coral. There was enough of it here to take a few days off. All he wanted to do was get home and get a little sleep before sunrise.
The coral broke off in his fists and he had a full bag before he knew it. Now he was starting on the second. He could see Krill’s approving eyes now and tried to remind himself this had been worth it.
He sheathed his blade and spun the flashlight around one last time to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. Especially that pink coral.
Zane was somehow closer to the cave now. He studied the obstruction, certain it hadn’t been here at first. And it wasn’t a cave. The stalagmites seemed to widen as the opening moved forward again, closing the distance between them. The fleeing shark made sense then, because Zane realized he was looking into the mouth of a much larger fish.
A fossil.
The open stone mouth enveloped him.
Zane kicked through the water to try and propel himself back through the opening. He rocketed toward it like a torpedo and only got half way.
The stalagmites closed fast. A spring-loaded trap that cleaved him in two. The surrounding water turned to bubbles, a ruby red fizz. Zane floated up over that mist, now level with an eyeball that seemed carved from stone.
Zane’s disembodied legs floated past his head, moving toward the surface where Lullo’s searchlight might’ve passed for the promise of an afterlife.
Just before Zane’s gaze went forever black, he saw the fish lumber from the gloom, waving its large caudal fin back and forth as it swam up to greet his boat.
Nine
Mr. Reeves sat beneath the lean-to, noshing a papaya while Mr. Davis stood on the shore of Nosy Berafia, surrounded by agitated villagers. He was asking the residents of this jerkwater village if anyone here spoke English.
Mr. Reeves was glad the younger agent had gumption because, hell, someone needed to rub elbows with the undesirables. He wasn’t going to get his loafers dirty for this. Bad enough his Hawaiian shirt would get those really awful pit stains that didn’t come out, even after a couple of washes.
He didn’t give a good goddamn who down there spoke English because it didn’t matter. They didn’t know anything and you only needed to take one look at this sorry place to get it. Still, someone had to say they asked. They had a government to protect. And friends to avenge. Whatever Mr. Davis thought he was doing over there was nothing but a formality. Too green to know it was anything but a waste of time.
Mr. Reeves finished his papaya and was eyeing the banana on the table beside him when Mr. Davis jogged back.
“They see him or what?” Mr. Reeves asked.
“They don’t even think he’s on the island.”
“Ain’t that the way,” Mr. Reeves said. “They think we’re a couple of rubes.”
Mr. Davis was eyeing the banana now, too. “You gonna have that?”
“Yeah,” Mr. Reeves said and took it, peeling it down. “This is, what? A hundred calories?” He figured he could choke it down without going over his limit. And if he did, he just wouldn’t log it in his phone app.
“I can’t believe you just did that,” Mr. Davis said.
Mr. Reeves looked at him with a mouthful of banana. “Did what?”
“The nice lady who greeted us put two pieces of fruit out. They weren’t both for you. You took the papaya.”
“You’re the one who had three bowls of Corn Flakes on the flight. Now, quick, tell me how you understood what any of those people had to say.”
They were supposed to have a translator/guide, but he hadn’t been on site when Reeves and Davis landed. And Mr. Reeves did not like waiting for the locals to get their shit together.
Mr. Davis continued to stare at the half-eaten banana with longing eyes. It wasn’t until Mr. Reeves cleared his throat that he remembered he needed to answer. “Oh, right,” he said. “One of the youngest there speaks some English. Says the Pirate King has not been seen, but that one of his closest friends is some fugitive warlord, guy called Imani, and that we should find him if we want to know for sure where he’s at.”
“Oh bullshit,” Mr. Reeves said, spewing banana bits all over Mr. Davis, who brushed his thighs with a disgusted tsk. “They’re covering for his ass, it’s plain as day.”
“Not sure I agree,” Mr. Davis said. “You want the truth, everyone seems shook because they’ve got a missing person. Young guy who went to the marketplace yesterday and never returned.”
“Right,” Mr. Reeves said, watching a small boy
piss into the sand a few feet away. “Who would ever abandon this paradise?” He tossed the rest of the banana to the dirt.
“Probably wouldn’t have left,” Mr. Davis said. “Got friends and family here. And they’re all saying he’s dead.”
Mr. Reeves stood and brushed his hands on the thin bit of fabric that covered the lean-to. “I don’t give a shit about them. Know who’s dead? Marshall and Roy. Gunned down in some fucking Algerian hotel room. Killed by a fucking animal who calls this place home.”
“An animal we’ve got orders to capture,” Mr. Davis said at a whisper.
“Let’s go,” Mr. Reeves ordered. “We’re not going to learn anything off these aborigines.”
The two men began to walk off. Mr. Davis turned and gave the villagers a fond smile and a loud wave. Mr. Reeves hurried for the chopper. It was a mile away and he couldn’t wait to get back to air conditioning.
Ten
“This is the guy, huh?”
The resort’s courtesy cart carried Sara and Blake down the long stretch of twisting pavement where the road was flanked by candy-colored flowers.
The barred entrance gate was swinging inward and Sara spotted a guy who had to be an island guide sitting on the hood of a dumpy green jeep across the street.
“Kahega,” Blake said.
Whatever his name, he was the enemy. The son of a bitch who’d fleeced her out of ten grand.
Sara had checked their account balance earlier this morning while her clueless husband snored his way through dreams of fortune and glory. A little more than half their joint bank account was now in this guy’s pocket.
Did Sara believe Blake’s delusions of grandeur? She wondered. Spent the last few hours thinking on it and decided she didn’t know. Maybe that inconclusiveness was because, deep down, she wanted him to be right.
It would be the easiest way through.
The night was on its way out. In the distance, a band of golden rays threatened to overtake the dark horizon.
The guide straightened his posture upon realizing it was his marks who were puttering toward the gate. With a cigarette stuffed into the corner of his mouth, he smirked.
The cart stopped on the sidewalk and a menthol cloud floated across the street to greet them.
Sara hopped off and tipped the driver three singles. She left Blake to drag their baggage over the crosswalk. The guide watched with folded arms and a slightly emboldened smirk. It was the only thing about the guy Sara didn’t hate.
“Miss Jovish.” Kahega reached for her hand.
Sara snubbed him.
Kahega was not the least bit phased. “I have heard so very much about you. Forgive me if I say you are even more beautiful than your husband describes.”
“Ain’t heard a damn thing about you.” Sara hopped into the rear seat and threw her backpack down on the cushion. At her feet, a few cylindrical alloy steel tubes poked through the choke point of a fabric sack. Rifle barrels.
Jesus, Sara thought and moved her legs away from them. Last summer she’d been maid of honor in her friend’s wedding. They’d gone to a rifle range as part of the bachelorette party. Sara had never held a gun before then, and while she had to admit there was something uniquely satisfying about every trigger squeeze, it was more responsibility than she ever wanted to feel.
Kahega turned the ignition while Blake did all the loading. The two men exchanged partner’s nods once he settled into the passenger’s seat. Neither one bothered to connect their eyes to Sara’s.
The guide stomped the gas and did a U-turn without yielding. A few approaching tourist busses scattered to the sound of irritated horns.
Sara kept eyes on the gate, expecting to catch Guillaume and Jean-Philippe tailing them.
“How did these letters get all the way to Maine?” she asked.
Sara’s question went unanswered as the jeep zipped along the eastern coastline, offering a postcard view of an ocean that was one long stretch of aquamarine.
A piece of her was excited to get out on the water. So much of her job had been reduced to cubicle life that she was glad for any opportunity to get the ocean beneath her.
She might’ve been touched by a nautical gesture had Blake thought to spin it. Suddenly he was too dumb for that. In college, he’d prepared two hundred oceanography flash cards during the week of finals—marine life, including every species of fish long extinct. On the day before Sara’s exam, he spent the entire afternoon quizzing her until the material was second nature. And he’d done it all while prepping roasted lamb and mint sauce for dinner.
That was the thoughtful man she’d fallen in love with. This guy...
At last, Blake turned, as if remembering she’d asked a question. “We talked about that.”
“We?”
Blake lifted his thumb to Kahega. “These letters first became known to the public sometime in 1976. They were found in the basement safe of a private collector after he died.”
“Everyone wanted those letters,” Kahega said. “I suspect they were smuggled off the island in order to remain hidden.”
“By the Burning Man?” Sara asked. “I don’t know his real name.”
“Milago,” Blake said.
“I have asked around,” Kahega said. “Between the time you contracted me and your arrival on Madagascar, I spoke to some here who claimed to know this man. Milago fled during the fall of the Barre government sometime in 1986.”
“He didn’t stay gone though,” Blake added.
“Even though he begged you to let it burn,” Sara reminded him.
“It consumed his life,” Blake said. “He didn’t have a pot to piss in at the end. He’d blown every last dime on periodic expeditions back here. He was a contractor for North Central Construction. I checked with them after he died and discovered he made trips here in ’92, ’99, and ’04. Whenever he had enough capital and vacation time banked. He was so sure he was going to find it. Never did.”
“Oh, but we will, right?”
“Yes.”
Blake’s lack of awareness astounded her. She watched him small talk the guide and tried to ignore the sack of weapons at her feet. Tried to forget about the hollowed out bank account. She tried not to cry as hopelessness turned her mind toward annulment.
Kahega cranked the radio so there could be no talking during Patrick Swayze’s “She’s Like the Wind.”
It annoyed her so much, Sara got loud. “It’s not the 80s anymore,” she said.
“And that is too bad, I think.”
“You can’t get any new music shipped in from the mainland?”
“Where do you think we are,” Kahega said. “I could get a new radio that connects to your iPhone if I wished to spend my money on something so foolish. I do not wish it, and that is beside the point.”
“What is the point?” she said.
“The world moves too fast,” he said. “We do not even have time to forget things anymore. That to me is all the more reason to remember. To celebrate the world as it once was, lost treasures as valuable as the one we hunt.”
“Nobody’s getting rich off listening to the Dirty Dancing soundtrack.”
“It’s not always about getting rich, Miss Sara.”
“Right,” she said. “Can I have my money back then? If you’re too woke to take it...”
The men exchanged an indecipherable look and Sara couldn’t decide which of them she hated more.
No, actually, it was still Blake.
The jeep brought them to the port of Antalaha. The guide said they were looking to rendezvous with a ship captain. And they would find him inside a bar with no name. This place was one big shantytown. Hard to believe they’d find anything amidst the chaos of wrecked boats and collapsed homes.
“What happened here?” Blake asked.
“A cyclone touched down a few years back,” Kahega said.
“No rebuilding efforts?”
“Our government promised to, but...”
“Why am I not surpris
ed?” Blake growled.
They crossed black dirt onto a rickety pier that looked to be made of matchsticks.
“Funny how they leave this lingering destruction off all the tourism sites,” Blake said.
Sara braced for another of his impotent spiels about the evils of the west when a child’s scream halted them.
They looked around, but the locals didn’t so much as stir. On the shoreline, a little boy stood with his feet submerged up to his ankles. The palm of his hand was outstretched to show his mother a bloody gash.
Blake started down the incline and Sara followed. Kahega threw his palm on her shoulder and gave a slight squeeze. She turned to question it and his eyes were gravely cautious. Do not, they said.
Blake approached the shore, a hand buried up to his wrist inside his satchel bag. He produced a cap of Neosporin, tore a strip of gauze, and began dressing the child’s wound. The boy’s screams intensified, then quickly receded as the ointment soothed him. The mother stood with her arm around her child, listening to Blake’s instructions on how to treat the injury moving forward. He left the tube and the gauze roll in the palm of her outstretched hand.
“Onward,” Kahega said and they resumed their march.
It was hard to believe this is what passed for civilization one hour from paradise. Destitute faces watched them pass. Hungry eyes roved their thirty-dollar Old Navy shorts. Sara’s sleeveless linen top made her feel like a pariah. Whenever she made eye contact, faces smiled back attentively.
“There’s no commerce here,” she said. “How can anyone afford to run a bar?”
“People here find work on other parts of the island,” Kahega said. “Many in the resorts to the north. Some have money. And there are precious few distractions to make them forget about their day.”
On the waterfront, everyone was too busy to pay them any mind. The old pier probably hadn’t changed much in forty years. The boats seemed that old, but the people manning them moved with all the precision of engrained daily routine. Nets of fish came off the boat, handed to carts that waited on the dock. Once they were filled to capacity, the cart runner moved inland toward one of the many shacks set up to process the day’s catches.
Ocean Grave Page 6