“Okay,” she said after they ordered a couple of sodas and found a corner table. “Mr. Hansen, I need you to tell me everything about this. Omit no details, however trivial they may seem.”
***
Keri kicked and felt the wonderful surge of motion, the sensation of warm water flowing over her body. The reef lay ahead, a vision in greens and blues and grays, a shoal of silver fish darting among the fronds of kelp. She kicked again and looked back for Ryan but could not make out his bulky form.
He’s too far behind, she thought. I’ll wait for him to catch up.
Then a shadow fell over her, and she looked up to see the body plunging toward her in its sheath of bubbles. She knew the bleeding man would pass close enough to touch, knew she would see his silently screaming face, his eyes pleading for the help she could never give. But she could not turn away or close her eyes.
The man with the cut throat fell past her, wrapped in chains that crisscrossed his torso, bound his limbs. But this time, he was not dressed in the pale calico shirt and pants of an old-time sailor. No, he was wearing a modern wetsuit, and his face was half-hidden by a diver’s mask. The throat of the man still gaped, and blood that was black in the underwater light still left a cloudy trail. But even though the face was obscured, she could still see that it was not the face of a stranger.
She woke from her midday doze. Two nurses were gossiping in the corridor, a cart clattered along the tiled floor, a car horn blared in the parking lot. The dream was already fading, the identity of the dying man lost. Only a sense of overwhelming horror and powerlessness remained. That, and the certainty that she knew the victim who had plunged past her, his heart’s blood mixing with the warm, salty sea.
“Ryan?” she said to the empty room. “Oh God, was it you?”
She sat up and plumped her pillows before texting her boyfriend, the message all in caps. Then she fretted until he arrived. Ryan brought her magazines, flowers, and grapes. She found time to tell him that grapes were ‘little sugar bombs nobody should eat in a hospital,’ then insisted that they discuss her nightmare. Ryan listened sympathetically but seemed quite dismissive.
“You keep seeing whatever it was that shocked you, right?” he said. “But I just got a call from Joe that puts a different complexion on things. Seems like there’s a shady salvage outfit working on the reef; they want to scare people away from that whole area.”
Keri listened dubiously while Ryan explained the Deep Star situation.
“So you see,” he concluded, “it makes sense. These salvage guys and corrupt island politicians are probably using the boucaniers to put us out of business. It’s a goddamn outrage! I’ve already contacted Dad; he’s looking into ways to get Senator Falworth onto this. The guy’s had plenty of campaign donations from us; it’s about time he earned his keep, right?”
Keri shook her head.
“You can’t pretend this is all just… just dirty pool,” she insisted. “That dream was telling me something. It was someone close to me who was dying—dying at sea, a victim of that Devil Ship.”
“Honey…” Ryan began, but she cut him off.
“I’m not crazy, I’m psychic! And I feel bad about the whole setup. Sara… Okay, she was a bit of a bitch to me at first, and I felt kind of superior knowing… knowing about all that stuff. But she’s a good person, and I think it just stinks the way you two have kept the truth from her.”
This time, it was Ryan’s turn to interrupt.
“We’ve talked about this,” he said, taking her hand, not letting her pull away. “Sugar, it’s up to Joe to tell her, not me. He’s always been kind of the boss, you know? I’m the dumb rich kid who’s had things easy. Hell, you said it yourself—I’m a classic case of white male privilege, in spades. Joe—and Sara for that matter—they had to work for what they have. And they put all their money into Pirate Cove. If we tell them, it might screw this whole thing up so badly…”
Keri put both of her hands around his and drew him closer to kiss him.
“Hiding the truth just means it comes at you from a different direction,” she said quietly. “I’ll never be happy with this. But… I’ll say nothing. For now. We’ll keep your secret.”
After Ryan left, she dozed again. The pain meds had been reduced, but she was still a little woozy. She woke to find that the last ray of reddish sunshine was lancing through the high window and across the ceiling. Keri sat up and peered into the gloom in the corner where the chair stood. Gradually, a shape formed from the blur of shadows, something that crouched in an expectant attitude. It was motionless, but Keri felt sure that small, fierce eyes were peering back at her.
“Dinner time!”
The light flicked on, dazzling Keri. A cheerful orderly brought in a tray, placed it on the bed, and then bustled around tidying up, chattering. Keri’s vision was still adjusting when the nurse paused on her way out, snatched up a dark blue cardigan that had been flung over the back of the pale chair.
“I wondered where I left that!” she exclaimed. “I would forget my head if it wasn’t fixed on. Enjoy your meal, Miss!”
Chapter 7: At the Cove
Philippe Laplace was not, of course, present at the Pirate Cove site. Instead, Sara introduced herself to the foreman, a grumpy fifty-something Anglophone islander called Jimmy. She quickly categorized Jimmy as a man who saw obstacles everywhere and didn’t like to be ordered around by a woman. She had had plenty of experience with co-workers and clients like that. But she managed, by a combination of charm and cunning, to get him to admit that work could continue on the resort, albeit on a limited scale.
Workers were still reluctant to come to Pirate Cove, Sara gathered. But sheer financial need had driven a half-dozen to sign up as casual labor. Throw in an electrician who was willing to work for what would be considered a top hourly rate back in the US, and they had enough to proceed.
Getting things sorted took Sara nearly an hour, and afterward, she felt mentally and physically exhausted. She had unwisely not worn a hat and was getting a headache. She went back to their house, took some ibuprofen, and lay down on the bed after kicking off her shoes. Predictably, tiredness did not translate into even a mild doze. Instead, she found her mind working frantically, trying to analyze everything that had happened and might happen, and getting nowhere fast.
Eventually, she gave up on resting and checked her phone. There was a text from Joe saying he had talked over their problems with Charity Lomax. Sara wondered if the detective would be able to do anything. She had seen enough of small-town America to know that, where money greases the wheels, corruption tends to flourish regardless of well-meaning citizens or honest cops.
And, she thought, I’m still not sure it’s regular crime we’re looking at here.
She thought about the story Theresa Mountjoy had been telling her before Joe interrupted. Was it credible that a priest’s blessing the waters around Sainte Isabel had vanquished a pirate who’d sold his soul to the Devil? She looked out of the window, saw a bright yellow backhoe moving slowly and jerkily, getting into position. The world of curses and exorcisms seemed a long way from the practical world of business, the gritty facts of a construction site.
“People under pressure get to believing in weird things,” she said to herself. “Superstition, ghosts, legends.”
But too many strange things had happened for her to dismiss the supernatural completely. While she still thought Keri was a little flaky, Sara didn’t accept the rational explanation of what had happened out by the reef. Thoughts of Keri prompted her to make a call, but it went straight to voicemail. She left a message, asking the young woman to call her when she felt okay. Then her busy mind started to worry at the whole Ryan-Keri setup, which in turn, led her back to the Ryan Problem.
“Dammit, Joe,” she muttered, getting up. “What the hell is it with you guys?”
She got her laptop and logged on, cursing the woefully slow internet. It was one of the many things that should have been sorted ou
t by now. Eventually, she managed to log on to Google and started searching for Ryan, trying to find out anything significant about the guy. She was still half-convinced that he had something on Joe, that their supposed friendship dating back to college was tainted in some way. It didn’t fit her image of Joe, the man she loved, that he would just want to hang out with a jerk.
It wasn’t difficult to trace Ryan’s patchy history. His father was one of those modern tycoons who aren’t famous, but who have a finger in every tasty economic pie—property, banking, some defense research stuff. Sara had heard Ryan talk about his old man as if he were some amiable geezer who put up with his son’s wayward habits. But, in fact, Martin Gale was a shrewd, even ruthless, operator.
“Okay,” Sara murmured. “But what about his only son?”
She typed in ‘Ryan Gale’ and then hesitated. Eventually, she added the word ‘college’ and hit search. There was, it turned out, an eighteen-year-old Ryan Gale who had recently won a scholarship to a prestigious physics research facility in Switzerland. Sara scrolled past the stories about him and eventually found something pertinent to the Ryan she knew. She clicked on the first link, stared at the screen. It was an archived news item, twelve years old. In the headline, Sara recognized the name of Joe’s alma mater.
“Bingo.”
She checked a few other sources, but the facts were clear enough. Sara was almost disappointed; it was such a commonplace story, albeit a tragic one. At a fraternity party, someone had supplied a girl with Ecstasy. She had been dehydrated, very drunk, and had collapsed a few minutes later. There was some confusion over how long it took to call 911, but the conclusion was clear enough. The girl was pronounced dead on arrival. An autopsy showed she had taken ketamine and cannabis before the MDMA.
Several people had been questioned. Eventually, Ryan Gale, described as the ‘son of a prominent donor to the university’, had confessed to supplying her with the fatal drug. He had had the best lawyers, of course, and being a rich white kid had worked its usual magic. But Ryan had still done six months in a federal penitentiary.
Sara frowned as she closed the windows and sat back on the couch. The fact that Ryan had been an asshole in college was hardly surprising. That he had been the kind of asshole who supplies drugs at parties to dumb young people was, likewise, no great revelation. It left her feeling a little grubby, but also puzzled.
She thought back to the number of times she had seen Ryan’s mask of jock confidence slip. Sometimes, the guy just looked miserable and lonely. Keri usually acted as if Ryan was the weaker and dumber partner, for all the guy’s money. The fact that Ryan, a rich fat boy, had spent months in the state pen would explain why he was, to some extent, haunted. Even with his connections, he would probably have gone through a lot more than hazing.
But none of that explained the central problem. Why would a sensible man like Joe Hansen maintain a friendship with someone who had done such a dumb, destructive thing? Joe normally had no patience with idiots, people who made bad mistakes, people who goofed or drifted through life. Ryan was, in theory, everything Joe should despise. Yet he kept Ryan closer than any other friend.
Suddenly, a thought occurred to Sara. It was horrifying in several ways, and she tried to dismiss it. But it worried at her mind because it fit the facts. What it did not fit was her view of Joe and Ryan, and pretty much everything that was most precious to her in life.
“No,” she said firmly. “No way.”
She closed her eyes, listened to the discordant sound of the backhoe smashing its way into the dense island soil. The pounding racket seemed likely to bring back her headache. She got up and started to search for a pair of earplugs, gave up, and decided to put a hat on and go outside.
She would stifle her worries by getting involved in the job, right up in Jimmy’s grill. Probing Ryan’s background had unsettled her and made her unhappy. Now it was the foreman’s turn.
***
Joe returned to Pirate Cove, satisfied that Charity Lomax would take his concerns to her boss, the commissioner. He agreed that it was possible the commissioner was corrupt, or at least already aware of any corruption. But, as he pointed out to Sara, what else could they do if they suspected a crime?
“You play by the rule book,” Joe said emphatically. “It might not work, but it’s the right thing to do.”
Sara nodded and bit her tongue. She wanted to say that she had unearthed the story about Ryan’s jail term, his stupid crime. But she knew that it would probably just spark a pointless argument and it wouldn’t change Joe’s attitude toward his old pal. Sensing that something was a little off, Joe asked what kind of day she had had so far.
“Oh, I’ve made friends with a lovely guy called Jimmy,” she said and brought him up to speed as they walked over to the construction site.
Together, they made a good team. Joe’s expertise and Sara’s eye for detail helped them get the workers focused on what mattered. Sara noticed a few of the older men kept glancing at the jungle during conversations, but there was no sign of any actual interference. The Hansens scouted the perimeter, just inside the tree line, and found nothing remotely suspicious.
“We’re not being watched,” Sara said. “I know it sounds dumb, like something Keri might say, but it’s true. My skin isn’t crawling. The boucaniers have, well, maybe not given up, but they’re not around at the moment.”
Joe shrugged.
“Maybe word’s gotten out that we’ve been turning over a few stones,” he suggested. “With luck, they’ve also got the message that we’re not going to be scared off. We’re here to stay.”
Sara took his arm, pressed up close against him. The Ryan situation, the supposed pirate curse, all seemed distant and trivial now that they were together and getting their dream project built. She suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to make love. It was ridiculous, but the unspoken thought passed between them, and Joe smiled down at her.
“Seriously?” he asked. “I know it’s been a while, but are you sure…”
“Oh God, yes,” she said. “Now that Keri’s not sitting in the kitchen with a speargun, I’ve discovered that whole tropical romance thing.”
They walked back to the house, trying not to look too guilty. Jimmy the foreman took off his hard hat, wiped his brow, and said nothing as they passed. Sara felt that the foreman was one of those people who made saying nothing into an art form. They just managed to make it inside before she doubled up, giggling like a lunatic.
***
“So,” began Joe, “did you actually find out about the monkey?”
It took her a second to figure out what he meant. She’d been in the moment for quite a while. Then she laughed, slapped him playfully on the arm. She propped herself up on one elbow and waggled a finger at him in mock reproof.
“You rudely interrupted before she could finish her lecture,” she said. “I hereby rebuke you for curtailing my knowledge of island folklore.”
“Like all that stuff isn’t online,” he said and reached for his phone. “I bet it’ll take me two minutes to find out anything old Miss Mountjoy could take a couple of hours to tell you. I mean, it’s all just stuff for the tourists. Like the Jersey Devil or the Mothman. The idea is for people to troop off the cruise ship and go straight to the nearest stall and buy a monkey t-shirt. Or a ghost pirate paperweight.”
“Do people still need paperweights?” Sara asked. “You old fart.”
As Joe surfed the web, Sara argued that the Mothman was founded on real-life incidents. Just because something could be turned into a tourist gimmick didn’t make it a lie. “People might find Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster tomorrow,” she added.
“Yeah, but they’re not going to find a ghostly pirate captain and his demonic monkey,” Joe scoffed. “Come on, it’s too far-fetched. See, here’s the story, or one version of it, anyways. According to this guy, there are almost always different accounts of local legends, as these stories tend to be handed down by word of mouth and only p
reserved in writing centuries later, often by unsympathetic writers keen to mock or dismiss so-called ‘primitive customs.’”
“That’s telling ‘em.”
They lay in bed, tired and sweaty, as Joe read out the story. After a while, Sara insisted that he take it more seriously.
“And don’t do that silly accent,” she added.
***
“I don’t see why I should be here at all,” grumbled Father Bertrand. “I have performed my duty!”
The governor looked down at the priest from his horse. The priest rode a small mule, a recalcitrant beast that had a tendency to try to bite its rider.
“It is only right that the Holy Mother Church should be represented in this final battle with the forces of darkness. And we may need you to throw in some more prayers, just in case.”
Dupont rode on ahead, berating the colonel commanding the ragtag force of colonial militia, marines, and regular troops. Bertrand snorted, flapped at a hovering mosquito. He hated the jungle, hated the buzzing insects and stinging vines, and above all, he hated the sensation of being watched. He knew the boucaniers were out there, following the progress of the column, perhaps even taking aim with their long-barreled muskets. A fat priest on a slow mule would be an easy target.
“How do we even know Lemaitre will land tonight?” Bertrand protested.
“We have good intelligence for a change, Father,” said an officer.
The young militia captain, who was trudging along the muddy jungle path along with his men, walked alongside the priest. Holding on to the mule’s harness, the officer spoke earnestly of informers and coded messages, of unprecedented cooperation between rival powers. Dupont, it seemed, had called in favors from other governors, from all the imperial powers. And it was Spain that had provided useful information, albeit by covert back channels.
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