But we’re still on edge, Sara thought. And Joe and me, we’re going to have to step up and do something. But I’ve no idea what.
They walked back toward the bungalow, no one talking apart from Ryan, who continued to fulminate against Lomax and the ‘dumb, useless cops in this dump.’ Then Joe’s phone chimed. He checked his email, stopped, and told Sara that Philippe Laplace, the site manager, had finally surfaced.
Chapter 3: Lies and Visions
“I am sorry,” said Laplace. “I had hoped to have better news. But since the… since Mr. Hobart’s death, things have become very difficult.”
Joe and Sara were sitting with Laplace in the living room. Keri had tactfully dragged Ryan away for a scuba dive on the reef. The islander was about forty, slightly paunchy, with a shaven head. He was very well-dressed in a lightweight suit and fancy loafers. His watch looked expensive, but Sara thought it might have been a knock-off.
She thought the manager was handsome, albeit in a smooth kind of way. In other circumstances, she could imagine him being quite charming. But not at the moment. Now, Laplace looked sweaty and evasive under direct questioning.
“Every time I contacted you from the States,” Joe was saying, struggling to keep an even tone, “you said things were going well. Or at least okay. When I came over for a couple of days you made out like there were no major issues, like the lack of progress was entirely normal and the work was about to speed up. Now, we find the resort is weeks behind schedule, and a lot of basic stuff—like plumbing—has barely gotten started. I see heaps of pipes and half-built walls where there should be luxury tourist accommodation. Philippe, why all the bullshit?”
Laplace held up his hands in a defensive gesture.
“Before he—before his accident, Mr. Hobart told me to tell the other investors—your good selves, of course—that things were on course. I… I admit that until a couple of weeks ago, I thought I could turn it around, but I underestimated the problem.”
“Is this problem something to do to with les boucaniers?” asked Sara.
Laplace looked startled and was at a loss for words. Sara was irritated but still wanted to think the best of the man, despite his failure. Laplace was certainly not a very good liar. They might be dealing with a weak man, she decided, not a slick con artist with an answer to everything. Either way, though, the situation was bad.
“We’ll take that silence as a yes,” Joe said, his annoyance with the site manager now becoming more obvious. “Just tell us what happened, Philippe, for God’s sake. Did you do something to offend those people?”
Laplace looked down at the coffee on the table in front of him. He sighed and Sara felt, for a moment, that he might be about to come clean. But she wasn’t sure. She had worked in real estate for years and had learned to read people fairly well. Laplace seemed devious as well as weak, fundamentally untrustworthy beneath his superficial likeability.
“Yes,” said the manager, “les boucaniers, they did make a fuss. This cove, the reef, they see it as part of their heritage, you know? There was some vandalism, sabotage. Some workers left because they felt threatened. At first, I just employed security guards at night to safeguard the machinery when nobody was working here, but then the guards—they quit, either formally or they just stopped coming. Local people don’t like to antagonize les boucaniers. Then I… I tried to make a deal with them.”
It took Sara a moment to grasp what he meant.
“You paid them?” she said, aghast. “You let them blackmail you? That’s never smart. They’ll just keep coming back for more.”
Laplace nodded, and Sara saw an inadequate man forced to confront his failure. Joe, she could see, was furious again, and she put a hand on his arm, felt the tension.
“Did you skim money that should have been paid to the workers?” she asked. “Or for building materials? I’m guessing you didn’t dip into your own pocket.”
Laplace nodded, eyes downcast.
“How much?” Joe snapped. “How much of our goddamn money did you pay those people?”
“Three thousand dollars—I mean East Caribbean dollars.”
After a quick mental calculation, Sara felt some relief. It was not so bad as the raw figure sounded.
“That’s over a thousand dollars American,” she said. “Too much, especially since they’re still harassing us. And why didn’t you simply come and tell us this straightaway?”
Laplace glanced sideways, then, out of the living room window, then looked straight at Sara. She recognized the direct stare as a standard liar’s tactic, a way of asserting ‘I’m an honest man who just made a mistake, this is the real me.’
“I was ashamed,” he said. “I understand that you will want my resignation, and I will give it…”
“No!” snapped Joe. “You stay on another month and help us fix this mess. We don’t have the local contacts you do, and we need details—inventories, certificates, safety issues, a whole lot of stuff. I want you to earn your salary, Philippe.”
Laplace’s reaction to this was off, Sara felt sure. It was as if he had expected to be fired and seemed confused by their decision to keep him on. Again, his eyes darted to one side. He was apparently looking out at the beach. Or, Sara realized, out to sea. What was out there to make him anxious, when the source of all his troubles supposedly lay inland?
“What do you think happened to Randy Hobart?” she asked.
The blunt, unexpected question threw Laplace off balance. His eyes widened and he took out a blue silk pocket square, dabbed at his face and bald scalp. The man began to speak, hesitated, started again, then stalled again.
“Come on, Philippe,” Sara insisted. “Officially, the guy got drunk and fell off a boat at night. But there’s more to it, isn’t there? Why did the girl he was with end up in some psychiatric facility back home? And what happened to the boatman? He seems to have just dropped off the map, nothing in the local press about him at all.”
Laplace shook his head and would not meet her eye.
“Perhaps you should ask… someone else,” he suggested. “It is something locals do not talk about. They think it is bad luck to speak of death when the moon is full.”
Joe snorted in contempt at that.
“Aw, for God’s sake…”
At that moment, they heard the front door open and Hyacinth called a cheerful greeting. Laplace looked relieved at the interruption as the maid bustled in, then paused, and apologized for interrupting.
“No,” Sara said, smiling at the girl. “We’re done. Mr. Laplace is just leaving.”
“But we’ll catch up with him soon, won’t we, Philippe?” added Joe.
After Laplace had slunk off and Hyacinth set about her chores, Joe and Sara walked down to the beach and discussed the situation. They had invested so much of their wealth in Pirate Cove that it would be impossible for them to pull out. It was a commitment that had to be made to work, somehow. But the issue of les boucaniers had to be dealt with.
“Find out more about them,” Sara suggested. “Do some research. We’re strangers on this island, outsiders. We need to know how things work. We relied too much on Randy Hobart for that.”
Joe had to agree.
“We can’t tell Detective Sergeant Lomax about the blackmail,” he added. “Not yet, at least. I get the feeling she doesn’t want to confront these boucaniers. Not head-on, at least. We can handle this ourselves, for now. We’re a strong team.”
He paused, then went on.
“Why did you ask him about Hobart’s death? Was it honestly that mysterious? I mean, that girl did see a man die—big trauma, right?”
Sara shrugged.
“Laplace is still hiding something,” she said. “I feel it, my spider-sense is tingling. He looked out to sea several times. Why? What did he think was out here that might, I don’t know, implicate him? I just fired off a question, and it fazed him. So, what’s out there, apart from clear blue water and a whole lot of fish?”
They both lo
oked out, across the shallows to the line of foam that marked Wreckers Reef. It was an idyllic vista, the perfect view from a tropical paradise. The white vessel they had seen before was still beyond the reef, apparently anchored. She wondered if it was a dive boat from Port Louis, or simply a fishing party. It looked a little too large to be either, though.
“Could it be that Laplace was concerned about that ship?” she asked. “It’s been hanging around for a while. If it’s got a glass bottom it could just be showing tourists the reef, which is fine. But maybe it’s something else.”
Joe shaded his eyes and peered at the white ship.
“I guess we could ask around, find out who it is,” he said. “But it’s the inlanders who are the problem, not some rich guy on his yacht, or whatever. So far as we know, anyhow.”
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s get started. We’ll hire Rudy and get into Port Louis. If you check in with the government on all those permits and stuff, I’ll find out more about les boucaniers. I’ll bet Rudy knows exactly who I should talk to.”
“Maybe we should get a rental car,” Joe suggested. “I mean, I love providing work for Rudy, but we might have to do quite a bit of commuting.”
“Yep, I’ll get that done,” she agreed.
They embraced and kissed. For the first time in weeks, Sara felt oddly secure. After the uncertainty following Hobart’s disappearance, Joe’s obvious guilt over misjudging the guy, they were now together and facing the challenge. They were in too deep financially to do anything other than keep on fighting.
“We can do this,” she murmured.
***
Keri Pedon glided expertly along the margin of the reef, taking delight in almost everything she saw. Coral, seaweed, and fish a myriad of colors and shapes were a wonderful show. She paused occasionally to let Ryan catch up. He was, she knew, out of shape for a man in his thirties. She had taken extra care to check his scuba gear before the dive. She also knew that Ryan was sloppy and likely to make mistakes with even this basic equipment. She cared about him far too much to let him endanger himself.
Ryan was almost out of sight when she stopped this time, a vague shape in the blue-green world. A shoal of tiny silver fish suddenly swarmed between them, then parted with mathematical precision as Ryan swam through. Keri put her hands on her hips and then wagged a finger at her boyfriend as he finally reached her. He tried to grab her bikini top, but she powered away with her fins, moving further along the reef.
If he’s going to keep pawing at me, she thought, with mild annoyance, he can spend a little alone time back there. Gotta train him up, encourage the decent man inside the overgrown frat boy.
Keri loved Ryan. It was that simple, and that complicated. She knew a lot of people—mostly Ryan’s dumb jock buddies—saw her as a gold digger, a bimbo just smart enough to snare herself an heir. But the truth was that she saw herself in Ryan—someone whose life had gone off the rails and who needed help getting back on track. Her heart ached to heal him, to be the one to give him comfort and support, such as she had not been given.
As if to spoil her mood a little more, she found a tangled mass of plastic covering part of the coral. It seemed to be a mixture of old fishing lines, garbage bags, and less identifiable detritus. Small fish darted in and out of the ugly patch of waste. Keri hated to see pollution of any kind, detested the thought of Mother Nature being poisoned and disfigured.
A shadow fell across her. At first, she thought it was simply a cloud, but it was too hard-edged. She looked up and saw a black bulk, blunt at one end, pointed at the other. It seemed to be a large boat. There was, she recalled, a narrow passage into Pirate Cove, through the treacherous reef. Keri had thought only small craft could get through, though. But obviously, someone had decided to risk it in a ship maybe a hundred feet long or more.
Keri frowned inside her mask. There was something strange about the vessel looming about twenty feet above her. It was moving, slowly but steadily, stealing more and more of the Caribbean sunlight. Yet she saw no churning turbulence at its stern that would be caused by a propeller.
A big sailboat, that’s all. Kind of quaint.
But in that black shadow, Keri felt cold, as if all the warmth had been drawn out of the tropical sea. Which was quite impossible, she knew. She instinctively looked for Ryan, but he was out of sight. She had never lost him like this before and felt panic. He was the less qualified diver and she had neglected her duty as his dive buddy. And, if she was honest with herself, she was suddenly afraid to be alone.
A black object appeared alongside the black hull. Keri peered up, wondering if someone had decided to dive in. What looked like a human figure was descending in a sheath of bubbles. She prepared to greet whoever it was. They would be surprised to find her there. Then the cold grew more intense. Whoever was coming down was not diving, but sinking. Fast, and feet first, sheathed in a column of bubbles. They would pass a few yards away from her if they continued to plunge straight down.
Somebody’s in trouble.
Keri had to help whoever it was. Perhaps an unwary tourist had fallen overboard. She kicked strongly, planning to intercept them, share her air. She had never performed that kind of rescue before, but she had to try. As she got closer to the descending figure, the underwater twilight grew slightly brighter. The ship was moving on, and now Keri could make out what seemed to be a man in a pale shirt and pants. He was leaving a trail of black fluid that swirled amid the dwindling column of air bubbles.
She was only a few feet away now, her momentum falling, her hands outstretched toward the man. But she could not process what she was seeing and suddenly forgot about any kind of rescue. The man was wrapped in chains. His throat had been cut open. Blood still gushed from the wound as he plummeted past her. As his face came level with Keri’s, his eyes opened. His mouth screamed silently, air bubbles flooded out, mingling with the dying man’s blood.
She screamed, thrashed wildly, tried to kick away from the horrific sight. She lost track of time, spluttered and gasped as her mask came partly loose. Then arms wrapped around her, and she flailed in panic. It took several long seconds for her to see Ryan’s face, his eyes wide. She gestured at the surface and kicked upwards, obsessed now with reaching the air and sunlight. Ryan tried to hold her back, but she shoved him away, kicked again, desperate to reach light and air and sanity.
She was almost at the surface when she got control of herself again and understood the risk she was taking. But now, Keri knew, it was already far too late. Their little boat was anchored just a few hundred yards away, but the distance seemed immense. She struck out for it, knowing that if Ryan was sensible for once, he would not emerge for a good ten minutes or more. Keri would have to explain to him what he needed to do. If she could still speak by then.
***
After another fast and bumpy ride in Rudy’s cab, Joe and Sara separated in Port Louis. It was around ten-thirty and the streets were quiet. A few older people sat on verandas or stoops, and some groups of tourists were checking out shops and stalls. Out in the harbor, a few small boats bobbed. Sometimes, Caribbean cruise ships visited Sainte Isabel, but between times, things were quiet.
As she paid Rudy for the journey, Sara asked about the disappearance of Randy Hobart. Rudy’s normally cheerful expression faltered for a moment.
“It was a bad business,” he said. Then he surprised her by adding, “My cousin, he was the boatman. He has not been good since it happened; he has stopped working. Word gets around, you know? People think he is unlucky.”
Sara sensed that Rudy knew more than he was letting on, but did not want to push, at least not yet. She asked about the local car hire firm, and Rudy offered to show her the way. As they walked, Sara asked a few general questions about the island, trying to turn the conversation to the people who lived inland.
“Oh,” said Rudy, “they are kind of eccentric, you know? Not bad, exactly, but—well, look around you. There are two kinds of islanders. We can tell them apart,
but can you? It is all in the face. But do not stare, they don’t like it.”
Now that Rudy had pointed it out, it was obvious. The islanders did fall into two categories. Most seemed open, cheerful, easygoing types. The way they interacted with the American tourists was good-natured, not obsequious but very friendly. However, one or two stallholders were much more serious, almost wary. They, Sara noticed, were the ones selling handmade stuff—not fake designer goods or Sainte Isabel t-shirts. No, the serious-looking locals were offering carved wooden statues like small idols, hand-woven baskets, plus pendants and other trinkets made from scrap metal.
She paused at one stall, which was presided over by a strikingly beautiful young woman in a bright turquoise turban. The stallholder nodded politely at Sara then looked past her, out at the harbor. There was no attempt to give her the hard sell so typical of tourist resorts. Sara examined various items, noting that the trinkets were modestly priced. Then she frowned, looked more carefully, and turned to Rudy.
“What, no monkeys?”
The stallholder looked up, her expression a mix of mild disapproval and curiosity.
“No, madame,” she said, in a gentle, high-pitched voice. “We have no need of such things. They are not for us.”
Rudy gently touched Sara’s elbow and they continued along the boulevard.
“Les boucaniers have always had their own ways,” he said quietly. “They see things differently.”
“So, they don’t take part in the festival, the monkey-hanging thing?” Sara asked after they were out of earshot of the woman.
Rudy shook his head. “They always leave town, go back to their villages in the hills, during the festival. Ah, here we are!”
Sara wanted to ask more questions about the inlanders but could see that Rudy was uncomfortable with the subject. So, instead, she went into the rental car office, but only after promising she’d be using his cab for weeks to come. Sara had just begun to fill out the relevant forms when her phone rang. It was Ryan, panic in his voice as he told her what happened.
Devil Ship: Supernatural Suspense with Scary & Horrifying Monsters (Devil Ship Series Book 1) Page 5