Ariel's Island

by Pat McKee

  We made it to the dock just before the packet boat was to leave heading to South Cat Cay. It was still early morning. I did my best to get into the character of a scruffy dockside electrician. Cabrini had given me a small emergency tool bag from the Donzi to stuff in my backpack as part of my guise. I hoped no one asked me to do anything that required me to demonstrate any mechanical or electrical skill. I could probably re-wire a light socket, but that was about it. Placido handed me the extra set of keys to the boat and boathouse he had retrieved from the marina. I had the chart I had studied in my pocket showing the channel from Louis Town to South Cat Cay, but the view from the harbor didn’t match the picture my imagination had created. I resolved to pay close attention to the route the packet took and not rely on what I thought the chart showed.

  “Once you help unload a few items, make sure no one from the island is watching, then wander toward the boathouse. Don’t worry about the crew. They will take no notice of what you do. I told the captain you will be doing some work on the island and will go back the next morning. The boathouse is just east of the Plantation House on the opposite side of the dock, surrounded by mangroves. Wait in the boathouse until Melissa arrives. As soon as she does, take her in the boat and head directly back here. You can see South Cat Cay from here,” Placido pointed to a low spit of land on the horizon, “but the house is on the other side. The trip takes longer than it appears because of all the sandbars, coves, islands, and inlets that have to be navigated, and it will take about twenty minutes to get back here in the fishing boat running flat out. We will be on the lookout for you and try to intercept if there’s trouble.”

  The packet boat was a 20-foot open skiff with an ancient outboard, loaded with iced flats of fresh groceries bound for the several smaller islands scattered in close proximity to Louis Town. In addition to the captain and a mate busy with the lines on the dock, there was a woman in blue shorts and a white shirt with a badge on one shoulder. Across the other shoulder she had slung a large, loose leather bag with a broad flap. She was the postal worker delivering the mail to the islands. She was sitting on a cooler in the front of the boat.

  I stood on the dock and caught the captain’s eye.

  “You the electrician?”

  “Yup.”

  “Well, don’t just stand there, you’ve already kept us waiting. Come aboard. Be careful of those lines. Don’t sit in the back, you need to sit up front to balance the load.” I bristled at the gruff treatment, used to being spoken to with more deference, but I fell back in my role, and took a seat next to the postal worker who barely glanced my way and then off again, a disdainful look on her face.

  “You gone be hot in dem jeans. No mahn wears long pants in de islands.”

  I looked up the dock to the marina, down the dock to the boats, everyone including my captain was wearing shorts. If I looked so out of place to the postal worker, I was likely to catch the eye of someone on the island. I reached in my tool bag in the backpack and pulled out a knife.

  To the entertainment of the postal worker, I slid my pants off, sat in my boxers, and cut my jeans at mid-thigh. I frayed the edges to make them appear as though they had always been that way. I pulled them back on and stashed the remnants in the dock-side trash can.

  The captain cranked the outboard, the mate cast off the lines, and we putted out of the marina. Once beyond the buoys we picked up speed, and the boat planed out. I watched for channel markers and landmarks for me to navigate back.

  I guess since I was willing to undress in front of her, the postal worker determined I was OK and decided to talk to me. I was annoyed at first, the effort to converse breaking my concentration on my navigation markers, but her lilting island voice made me realize I needed to practice talking more like a dock hand than a corporate litigator.

  “Hadn’t seen ya round de docks, whacha name?”

  “Grey”

  “Ahm Katie. Where ya from, Gree?”

  “Miami, out looking for some ‘lectrical work.”

  “Yeah. An I betcha running from sumpin, too.”

  Her perceptiveness startled me. I had hoped I wasn’t too obvious. I ventured a question I was not sure I wanted the answer to.

  “Why so?”

  “Good lookin’ mahn like you, no weddin’ ring, come to de islands, seen ‘em all de time. Uh huh.” She chuckled and patted my leg in a familiar way. “You come to de bar at de dock tonight, you forget bout dat gul.”

  Relieved that Katie had not seen the word “Murderer” written on my forehead, I decided to play along.

  “Might do that sometime.”

  She patted my leg.

  “Don’t feel special, Katie comes on to every man who walks down the dock.” The captain didn’t bother to look at me, but grinned just the same.

  “You may be de cap’n, but I still whup you.”

  They bantered back and forth, a well-worn script with an impromptu new character, but I had little more to say and put my attention to memorizing the way back to the Louis Town dock. After about a half hour we turned an island outcropping and I saw the harbor, dock, and plantation house in the distance. As we got closer, I saw someone standing at the dock. The captain confirmed my fear.

  “Looks like Mr. Anthony is on the dock to meet us. Everyone needs to look sharp.”

  “Ya know Mr. Anthony?” I shook my head but kept it down, terrified that I might be immediately recognized and shot on the spot. “Nice mahn.”

  As soon as the mate moved forward to cast the dock line, I slid to the stern and readied to lift some boxes to the dock, my head down and back to Anthony.

  “Hello, Captain, I’m glad you brought my friend Katie. I’m expecting a package this morning.”

  “Got it Mista Antny.”

  “Brought your electrician, too.”

  “Now, who’s that? I don’t recall anything about an electrician.”

  “The marina sent him.” The Captain turned to me.

  “Boss man said he didn’t get your boat fixed right. Sent me over to check the runnin’ lights. Said they may a been shortin’ out the battery.” I kept my head down, not making eye contact.

  “So how are you going to do this?”

  I pulled the keys to the boat and boathouse out of my pocket.

  “You don’t need tools?”

  I held up my backpack.

  “Gree da bes ‘lectrician on de island.”

  Thank God for Katie.

  Anthony shook his head and looked directly at me. It felt like he saw straight through my disguise.

  “I thought I told you marina people that we have changed the security system on the boathouse. I gave them the code weeks ago and still they send you with a key. I don’t suppose they told you the code.”

  “No, sir.”

  “1,3,7,9. You remember it and tell them at the marina. So how are you getting back? I don’t have anyone to take you to Louis Town and you can’t stay on the island.”

  “No, sir, they sendin’ a boat to pick me back up in an hour, so.”

  “Good. Boathouse is over there. I’m sure the captain doesn’t need your help to carry the groceries to the house.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I walked to the boathouse without looking back, doing my best to survey the surroundings. Everything was closer than I imagined; the harbor much smaller. The two-story plantation house dominated the little harbor with what must have been the modest caretaker’s house right behind it; the dock ran out directly from the side of the house; just past the dock was a standalone boathouse big enough for two 20-foot boats. Not far off shore a floatplane was tethered to a buoy. Beyond the sandy beach of the harbor there was nothing but impenetrable mangroves lining the shore. It was all contained in less than a hundred yards.

  There was a door to the boathouse on the dock side. I was conscious of Anthony watching me as
I punched in the code, my hand still trembling from the unexpected confrontation. I reassured myself that he didn’t show any signs of recognition, my Grey disguise was apparently working, modified to become an island boat hand. I was comforted by reminding myself that, the only time Anthony had ever spent any time with me, he had drunk so much that he probably wouldn’t have recognized me if he’d seen me the next day.

  I left the door cracked to watch the dock, and so Melissa would not have to stand at the door punching in the code. Inside there were two boats hanging from the beams by electric winches. One was a smaller flat boat, the other a 20-foot Whaler, an open V-hull with twin 100 horsepower outboards, no doubt the getaway vehicle. I let the larger boat into the water, jumped aboard, took out some tools, and spread them on the gunwale. I tossed my backpack below the seats, and began checking out the boat. At least my activities were consistent with my cover.

  It was fully fueled as promised, and the twin outboards cranked as soon as I turned the key. I searched the under-seat compartments and found life jackets that I laid on the seat next to me. Now all I could do was wait.

  I had gone through the boat, checking all the instruments and lines at least twice, making sure everything was ready and secure for a flat-out dash to Louis Town, when the sound of a door on the other side of the boathouse opening, one I hadn’t noticed, startled me. Melissa pulled the door behind her and looked around, letting her eyes adjust.

  I jumped up from the back of the boat and she grabbed the door handle to run back out.

  “Melissa, it’s me, Paul.” I pulled the hat and glasses off and stepped toward her.

  “Oh, thank God it’s you. I thought I had happened on someone trying to steal the boat.”

  “You did, and I am. Jump in and let’s get the hell out of here.”

  On board, Melissa warmed up to me and embraced me as one would someone risking their life to save you. At that moment Melissa made all the risk, sacrifice, and loss seem worthwhile, brushing all the doubt from my mind.

  She kissed my cheek, then rubbed my stubbly whiskers.

  “You’re going to have to shave the beard.”

  “Gladly, when we’re out of this mess. But back on the mainland I’m going to have to be Agent Grey for a while longer. I’m afraid your lawyer friend is wanted for a few murders.” I grabbed a life jacket, put it on, and tossed her the other one. “I hope we won’t need these, but you never know. Sit down and hold on.”

  I cranked the outboards, cast off the lines, and hit the switch to raise the overhead door in front of our berth. The door crept up, inch by inch showing more deep-blue open ocean in front of us, our escape route coming into focus.

  The door approached eye level. A shadow of an all-black hull crept into view, and more and more was revealed as the door rose, until I was looking at a cigarette boat now fifty yards off shore with Anthony at the controls and large man standing on the deck with an AR 15 pointed at us.

  “Good morning Mr. McDaniel. You need to turn those engines off, and the two of you walk out of the boathouse to the dock. Keep in mind that you are well within Mr. Brown’s range.”

  Mr. Brown pulled off a couple rounds into the air just to make sure I got the point.

  Eighteen

  “Mr. McDaniel, it will not surprise you to learn that you and Melissa will serve as bait to lure my brother to the island where I will finally be able to dispose of him, Melissa, and you, all at once. With a little luck I will be able to catch Cabrini in the same net. Your bodies won’t even have time to decompose before the worms and crabs devour your earthly remains.”

  As Anthony threatened, Brown loomed over me, an AR across his shoulder, and a handgun hanging at his side. I was strapped with nylon cable ties to a straight-backed chair in a bedroom of the plantation house.

  “You should be thankful that I intend to kill you quickly, rather than dumping you in the ocean and letting the sharks do it. I am told that is a terrifying and painful way to go. Should you give me more difficulty, I may change my mind.”

  I could see through an open window the dock and boathouse beyond. As far as I could tell from the mid-day light that streamed in the window I had been here for several hours. Melissa was nowhere in sight.

  “Mr. McDaniel, we need your help to contact Placido.”

  I kept my silence, out of terror rather than bravery. I wasn’t sure I could speak. Only the straps kept me from trembling.

  “Oh, come now, Mr. McDaniel, you know all about Ariel, as do I. But Ariel will not cooperate with me. My main problem is keeping Melissa’s thumb sufficiently still on her cell phone while I send a message to Placido. She seems to be able to thwart my efforts by moving ever so slightly before the message is complete. This appears to be one of the little failsafe mechanisms Placido built into the program. Hitting her does no good; she jerks around too much. And when she is unconscious there is no way to keep her thumb down without interfering with the message. Placido made the sensor an integral part of the keyboard, so I have been unable to secure her thumb without obstructing the keys.”

  Anthony paused. Brown smirked.

  “I am thinking about surgery. What do you think, Mr. McDaniel? That solves our problem, doesn’t it? We cut off Melissa’s thumb. I attach it to my thumb, careful not to obscure the print, and I send my messages to Placido. Melissa won’t be needing her thumb for long anyway.”

  Anthony had been stalking around the room as though delivering a well-considered soliloquy. Now he stopped right in front of my chair and locked his eyes on mine.

  “My only problem is we have no surgical instruments or anesthesia on the island. The best I can come up with is some rusty bolt cutters the caretaker uses to sever the anchor chains of boaters foolish enough to haul up in our harbor. It should be sufficient to cut off a thumb, but it will be messy. And a person can die of shock from the most simple of injuries. Melissa needs to stay alive long enough to bring Placido into range of Mr. Brown’s heavy artillery.”

  Anthony bent forward, grabbed the arms of the chair, and leaned in.

  “This is where you come in, Mr. McDaniel. I am very aware of your persuasive abilities and your closeness to Melissa. Won’t you talk to her? She needs to understand that further struggle is useless. The only question now is whether you and she will die quickly and painlessly or slowly and in agony. Why, if you agree to cooperate, I might even let you and Melissa have a little conjugal visit before your demise. What do you think of that, Mr. McDaniel?”

  Anthony stood back, arms crossed.

  I still said nothing. I was so terrorized I was now quite sure I could not speak. I did my best not to betray myself.

  “Well, I will give you a little time to think about my offer—but not too much time. Placido needs to get a message from Melissa soon if we are to carry out our plan. If you won’t or can’t convince Melissa to cooperate this evening, I will let you watch Mr. Brown cut off her thumb with our bolt cutters. I promise it will not be the last unpleasant thing you will observe.”

  Anthony and Brown left.

  Almost as abruptly as he left, Anthony returned, this time alone.

  “Mr. McDaniel, I need for you to understand just how futile your efforts have been and how hopeless your cause. I know all about Ariel; Milano Corporation developed her. I have even used her services myself. But she only listens to Placido, and Placido has told her to thwart my efforts. So it took me a little time to figure out how Placido was using her to communicate with Melissa. I have been reading Placido’s messages to Melissa since she has been with me. But I must admit that getting around Melissa’s thumb print has proved more challenging. While law enforcement may have been unable to track you, I have followed your efforts with interest, certain you would bring Placido to me. Even though I expected you would come to the island by packet boat, your electrician disguise was good, and when Katie acted like she knew you, well, it did throw me a
bit. After all, I didn’t want to kill an innocent marina worker sent to work on my boat. I decided to let you and Melissa play out your hand, and you fell right into mine.”

  Anthony strode to the door, grabbed the knob, and turned.

  “Oh, and just so you don’t get any ideas, Mr. Brown is a former Navy SEAL. He doesn’t need a gun to kill you, and after your sophomoric attempt to rescue Melissa, he needs no further excuse. Now you think about my offer.”

  The door closed. Anthony was gone.

  I was overcome with nausea and heaved forward. My arms jerked against my restraints, my stomach knotted, and what was left of last night’s pizza landed on one of Milano’s Persian rugs. After a couple dry heaves, several minutes passed, and I hoped that I was finished. I found I had enough range of motion to wipe my mouth on my shoulder. I summoned a little saliva to rinse the foulness from my mouth and spat.

  Next came a wave of chills, a shiver through my body and my arms and legs shuddered. There was bleeding at my wrists and ankles from the slice of the nylon ties. I was thankful that I had relieved myself in the boathouse before Melissa arrived, or I was sure I would have wet my pants. Paul McDaniel. Chivalric rescuer. Soon to be fish food. Did I really think that one of the richest and most powerful men in the world would let me stumble onto his island, steal his boat, escape with his niece, and nary a shot would be fired? That’s how Cabrini and Placido painted it, and I, the fool in this play, found it plausible. At this moment the two of them were probably sitting at some island bar, wringing their hands that their plan had gone wrong, wallowing in their ineptitude, wondering whom they could next enlist to tilt at their windmills, calling for another drink while I faced summary execution. I would have been better off staying at Frederica Island facing a triple-murder charge.

  Now death was certain. Not in the sense that death is always certain, a far-off inevitability, the reason the prudent write their wills. Death for me was a matter no more than a few hours away.