Joe and Sara watched their workforce leave, and then stood holding hands by the beach. The sun was not far above the horizon. Soon, it would touch the sea and the swift tropical twilight would be upon them.
“It’s so beautiful,” Sara said, shielding her eyes against the dazzling light from the waves. “I thought we might grow old here, I guess. Old and happy.”
She felt Joe’s grip grow a little tighter, the reassuring squeeze she had felt so often before. Then she saw a pale shape, almost hidden in the sea-dazzle, just beyond the reef. She had seen it just a few times, but she recognized it at once.
“Those bastards,” Joe growled. “We won’t let them beat us.”
Sara almost said, “But they already have.” Then she drew strength from Joe, his perennial can-do attitude, his belief that hard work and a bit of business common sense could accomplish anything. She refused to believe he was wrong.
“What, what are we going to do next?” she asked. “I mean, assuming we don’t get charged with murder?”
“Win,” said Joe simply, putting his arm around her. “We overcome this, by any means necessary. If locals won’t work here, we bring in workers from Trinidad, or failing that, we fly them in from the States. We put down a marker.”
Sara felt buoyed by his courage and was slightly ashamed that she had believed they were beaten. But the image of Laplace’s body turning slowly in the breeze was hard to shake. And the squarish shape of the Deep Star cruising off the reef was a taunt, a reminder that the real killers might be beyond the law.
They went back into the bungalow. Joe talked to Ryan about the situation, then handed the phone over to Sara who wanted to speak to Keri. She asked the girl how she was, but Keri was—predictably—much more interested in ‘all this crazy shit going down.’ Sara tried to sound upbeat.
“Sara,” Keri said, interrupting, “have you seen anything? You know, anything small? Like, running around.”
Joe was making coffee while Sara sat at the kitchen table.
“Maybe,” she said, keeping her voice neutral, choosing her words with care. “Maybe just a hint, you know? This morning.”
“Be careful, then,” Keri said. “Did you get one of those charms?”
“Yeah, I got it,” Sara replied. “Not sure how much good it will do, though. Laplace had one.”
After the call ended, they drank coffee in silence. Then Sara asked a question that had been lurking in the back of her mind since Lomax had taken her statement.
“When that British cop asked you about the phone call, what did you tell him?”
A line formed between Joe’s eyebrows, his familiar frown of concentration.
“I just said Laplace was scared, he didn’t say who was after him.”
“And that he said something in French?” Sara asked. “Did you mention that?”
“Yeah, I said it was gabbled French, probably, and that we didn’t understand it.”
Sara took his phone and went online.
“Maybe we don’t need to. I heard ‘shellac ran’, how about you?”
Joe shrugged.
“I guess, why?”
It took her a few minutes to find a suitable translation app. She downloaded it, apologizing to Joe, and then spoke the phrase. The first couple of tries produced nothing. She adjusted her pronunciation, tried to shed her accent, and sound vaguely French. This time a phrase did appear. She held up the phone.
“I fear her,” read Joe. “From the French ‘Je la crains’.”
They looked at each other.
“You know Lomax’s dad is the police commissioner, right?” Sara asked.
“It would make sense, I guess,” he said slowly.
They joined a few dots. If a corrupt outfit wanted to search the reef for sunken gold, the logical thing to do would be to pay off those responsible for enforcing regulations on such matters. Politicians might well have been bribed or promised a share of the profits. But the police commissioner—and his daughter—would have to be squared as well, otherwise, they could easily throw a wrench in the works.
“But why kill Philippe?” Sara asked. “He was working for them, presumably?”
“Maybe he was greedy, or simply got cold feet,” Joe suggested. “Why else would he want to talk to us? A man scared for his life would go to the cops, right?”
Sara nodded.
“Unless the cops were the ones he was scared of. God, it’s so obvious now. But do you think Lomax killed him? And hung the body up there?”
Joe shrugged, got up, and walked to the window. Sara joined him, staring at the jungle. If it hadn’t been for the blue and white tape, she would not have been able to identify the fateful tree.
“It would take more than one person to hoist a dead body up there,” Joe opined. “Not so easy as hanging a monkey.”
Sara had a sudden, intense vision of the jungle at sunset, a tiny body twitching and jerking as it twisted slowly on the end of a rope. She staggered, grabbed the edge of the sink. Joe took her arm, asked if she was all right.
“We’re both exhausted,” he added. “Maybe all this coffee’s a bad idea.”
“No, it’s not that,” Sara gasped. “It’s… something else. I saw the monkey hanging there. From the same tree. It was a lot smaller then, but I’m sure it was the same.”
“How could you know that?”
Joe’s tone was sympathetic, but she sensed impatience lurking behind it. The last thing he wanted to hear was more mysticism, folklore, weird visions. But the vision had happened, an intense flash of perception striking through her mind like a lightning bolt.
“I just know, Joe,” she insisted. “Like you know a place you’ve been familiar with all your life.”
Joe frowned at that. It made no sense, of course, for her to claim familiarity with an island she had never visited before. But, just like the nightmare she had had on their first night in the bungalow, there was an overwhelming sense of having been here before, seen terrible things, even participated in them.
“Somebody once said the past is never really over,” she said. “In fact, it isn’t even past.”
“What? Come on, honey, this is no time to go full Keri on me.”
That brought her down to earth. She was torn between her need to support Joe, be a solid part of a team, and her intense conviction that there was something beyond mere crime going on. She smiled up at him.
“You’re right,” she said, “all this is messing with my head. Let’s work out the best way to kick up a stink back in the States.”
Joe reminded her that he had already asked Ryan to persuade his father to intervene. As always, when Ryan was involved, Sara was doubtful. But she had to admit that a tycoon with connections was the perfect ally at a time like this.
***
The next two days were a waking nightmare of confusion and fear. Nothing could be done on the construction site. Joe insisted they lawyer up but found it impossible to get any member of the island’s tiny legal community to work for them.
“First time a lawyer turned down ready cash,” he remarked ruefully. “But I can try to bring in someone from Trinidad, somebody who knows the British legal system that operates here.”
They were sitting at their kitchen table eating a hastily prepared evening meal. During the day, Sara had been quietly asking her few contacts about the police, trying to establish how corrupt they might be. Rudy Mendoza had been cagey but admitted there were rumors about Charity Lomax and her father. Theresa Mountjoy had professed ignorance. Hyacinth had said some ‘coppers’ were willing to accept bribes from bar owners to let them stay open late, but that was all she knew. Jimmy the foreman had refused to talk about such matters, point-blank.
“We’re not going down,” Joe insisted. “We’re fighting back. We need to get the US media on our side over this. Ryan’s old man apparently has this senator in his pocket, virtually, and the State Department is already looking at our case. If only there was an American consulate, but this island’s too damn small to
merit one.”
“I’ve already contacted this guy I knew in college, he works for some scandal-mongering website,” Sara said, feeling slightly inadequate. “I’m waiting for him to get back to me. The bigger the fuss we kick up, the safer we’ll be.”
She paused, reflecting on how wildly things had gone off the rails since they arrived a few days earlier. When they had arrived, they had been worried about the project being behindhand. Now, they were fearful for their lives. Joe was again fretting that there was no way he could legally obtain a gun.
“Maybe Rudy would know somebody,” he speculated.
“Don’t try to get a black-market gun, Joe,” she pleaded. “How could it help? You want to shoot it out with the cops? We’re not Bonnie and Clyde. Or are you planning to hide out in the jungle? What do you think the boucaniers would do about that? Sorry, I sound like a nag, but it’s crazy to think more violence would solve this.”
Joe lowered his head onto his folded arms. She knew how desperate he must feel. Ever since they had met, she had known he was a control freak, someone who hated to have power and initiative taken away. The Pirate Cove project was one of the few occasions when an idea of hers had grabbed him and he had run with it.
Joe’s phone rang. He answered it wearily, then sat up, alert.
“Yes, it is,” he said and mouthed the words ‘Ryan’s Dad’ at Sara. “Yes, we’re both here. I can put you on speaker… No, okay. Yes, it is a tricky situation. Yes, they took our passports. No. Yes. Yes, thank you, that would be… Okay.”
The call ended. Joe stared at the screen as if it had performed a minor miracle.
“Martin Gale doesn’t waste words,” he said. “He says things are moving in Washington. Pressure is being brought to bear on the Deep Star consortium and the British governor here. And stories are being planted in the national press, it seems.”
Sara’s brain whirled. She had never doubted that vast wealth bought a lot of influence, but seeing it happening close up and personal was still shocking. She felt a mixture of guilt and gratitude toward Ryan Gale and wondered if Keri was right about the guy.
“Things are looking up,” she said and laughed.
“Something funny?” Joe asked.
“Rudy can’t fail,” she said. “Just popped into my head. We need, I don’t know, an anthem maybe? Go with me on this.”
She used her phone and found a video on YouTube, despite the island’s painfully slow broadband. Then she played the song.
“What the hell is that?” Joe asked, smiling in spite of himself.
“‘Rudie Can’t Fail’, by The Clash,” she explained. “Apparently, Rudy’s dad was a rude boy—that was like a black New Wave kid in London back in the days of punk. Come on, let’s dance!”
“To this?” Joe was incredulous.
“It’s reggae! Kind of,” she said, taking his hands, dragging him to his feet. The song filled the kitchen, the phone’s tiny speakers perfectly suited to the gritty, rough-edged sound of guitars and drums and brass, the harsh, almost off-key vocals. Despite himself, Joe had to smile and tried to keep the beat. He had always been a terrible dancer, and Sara had no idea how you were supposed to move to reggae but guessed a lot of hand gestures and butt wiggling would be involved. Soon, they were laughing, tension released, shouting the chorus.
“Rudie Can’t Fail!”
Joe stumbled, she tried to catch him, and they collided with the table, laughing insanely. Then the lights went out. They froze, eyes adjusting to the dark. The light of the full moon seemed to flood into the bungalow. The song came to an end.
“Crap,” Joe said. “Fusebox.”
“Flashlight,” Sara added, going over to the kitchen drawer.
As she was groping for the flashlight, her shadow appeared on the wall in front of her. She heard Joe start to say something, then a sharp sound. Sara turned in time to see Joe reeling across the room and collide with a countertop, then slump to the floor. Blue-white light dazzled her.
“What… Who is it?” she asked.
“Police,” said Charity Lomax. “Now, we can do this the easy way… Or I can enjoy killing you and your man here. Your choice.”
“Stay back!” Sara shouted, dismayed at how scared she sounded.
She grabbed for the heavy, rubber-insulated flashlight, waved it like a club. The detective’s flashlight still dazzled her, but she could see that Lomax was moving around the table. Sara tried to retreat but was instantly backed into a corner.
“You’ll never get away with this!” Sara shouted.
“Why not?” said Lomax. “I am, after all, going to be the one investigating your deaths. We’ll find your suicide note on your laptop, too. You killed Laplace for skimming all that money from your dream project, then you realized we were closing in, so you just swam out into the lagoon and…”
The cop’s flashlight beam drooped, illuminating Sara’s shoes. She didn’t realize what was happening until Lomax’s sneaker connected with the side of her head, slamming her sideways into a cupboard. Lurid orange and green shapes blossomed in front of her eyes as she tried to stay upright. Lomax grabbed her, twisted her arm up her back.
“Stay quiet, and I’ll be gentle,” hissed the detective. “You’ll both need to drink some booze before you drown; it’ll look better in the coroner’s report.”
Sara started to struggle, but Lomax was far too strong. She slammed Sara against the kitchen counter, winding her badly. Then the flashlight beam flickered aside again, before holding steady. Lomax had put it down so she could use both hands. Sara tried to fling her head back, hoping to connect with the cop’s nose, but Lomax just laughed and wrenched Sara’s other arm up behind her back as well.
“Coming here, thinking you could walk all over us,” the woman snarled. “You Americans don’t own the world. I think maybe I’ll take my time. I can say the current took your body out to the reef and the sharp coral cut you up.”
Sara felt something sharp push into her back and screamed, sure that Lomax was stabbing her. But instead of piercing her flesh, the sharp object withdrew. What’s more, the detective’s steely grip on Sara’s arms suddenly slackened. Sara twisted, lunged sideways, and broke free. She stumbled against the refrigerator, then turned around, ready to dash for the door, thinking to grab a phone on the way out if she could. But then she paused.
Charity Lomax was standing perfectly still, her face just visible in the reflected glow of her flashlight, which lay on the table. The woman’s eyes were wide and staring, but not at Sara. Sara, panting with fear and pain, could just make out a gurgling sound. Then Lomax coughed a bout of blood. Sara screamed again, edged sideways, not grasping what was happening right in front of her. The next moment, Lomax collapsed to the floor.
Behind her stood the undead intruder from Sara’s nightmare. He was holding a curved sword, which was dark to the hilt with blood. The face, almost devoid of flesh, was fixed in a permanent grin. The skeletal figure stepped over Lomax, and Sara shrank down, trying to make herself small, feeling herself begin to lose all thought and reason.
“Get away from me!”
A claw-like hand reached out to her, over Lomax’s unmoving body. Sara flinched, backed into a corner, as ragged fingernails grazed her cheek. She slapped at the hand, panic overwhelming her. There was a rattle of bones scraping together.
“Joe!” she shouted. “Joe!”
But Joe was as motionless as Lomax. Only the interloper moved, stepping over the body of the detective and standing over Sara as she curled up, covering her head with her arms. She heard clicking, creaking sounds as it moved. She wanted to leap to her feet, hurl herself at the grotesque figure. But she was paralyzed with fear, quivering, and sobbing.
“Leave me alone!” she cried, turning up her head to plead with the creature. “Why won’t you just leave me alone?”
In the indirect light, she could not see the face when the entity leaned down to kiss her. That was a mercy. She could smell the stench of something that
had died in the ocean, though, that distinctive whiff of brine and rot. But she still felt the hardness of cold, damp bone on her lips before she blacked out.
***
In her dream, she was dancing in a ballroom that was also the deck of a fine ship, a vessel tricked out with gilt carvings and gaudy with splendid banners. There were also mirrors reflecting candlelight from vast chandeliers, and a lush carpet under her silk slippers. A small orchestra played as she trod an elaborate measure, not a waltz but one of the more courtly and formal dances of earlier times. A saraband, perhaps, or a galliard.
She wished she could see the other dancers’ faces, but this was a masked ball. All that was visible were grotesque papier mâché parodies of faces—some human, some animal, some creatures of myth or imagination. There was a cat, a wolf, a dragon. And a monkey. The monkey dancer was a tall man dressed in an elegant velvet coat of dark red. He carried a sword at one hip and kept reappearing in front of Sara, taking her hand, circling, bowing, performing the dance that was also, somehow, a ritual. A ritual designed to conjure up something she did not want to see.
As the dance progressed, Sara found herself increasingly disturbed by the simian mask. The monkey’s mouth was open, sharp teeth exposed, as if the creature had been frozen in a scream of fury. The dance moved into a new phase, one in which each lady paired off with a gentleman by turns. The monkey-masked dancer was, of course, her partner in this figure, and suddenly they were heading toward a tall mirror. In it, she saw herself reflected. She saw a magnificent dress, fine jewels at her throat, splendid hair piled high in an elaborate coiffure, and a domino mask that just covered the upper part of her face.
They were in front of the mirror, and all around the ballroom that was also a ship’s deck, the dancers were unmasking. From behind a cat, a woman’s face emerged—ancient and wrinkled, gap-toothed, the eyes small and pale with cataracts. A wolf mask fell to reveal a foul visage raddled with boils and weeping sores. And so it continued, as one face after another was revealed to be hideous, diseased, disfigured.
Then came the turn of her partner. She raised a hand in protest, but he had already doffed the monkey-mask. Behind it was the face of a swarthy, dark-haired man with piercing black eyes, a Roman nose, thin lips turned up in a hint of a smile. He was not exactly handsome, but the contrast with the other faces was striking. He exuded power and confidence. This was a man used to having his way.
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