Touching the Sun: A Harry Beck Thriller (The Bahamas Series Book 1)

by Len Maynard

  ‘But they weren’t carrying…shit! They both had briefcases. They must have carried the bottles in those. But why? Why do this to the old man?’

  ‘I’ve got a pretty good idea,’ I said. ‘But it’s a long story. We’ll get him cleaned up and into bed and I’ll tell you all about it.’

  We carried the old man up to the bathroom, took off his stinking clothes, and sponged his body down from head to foot. I was shocked at how emaciated he looked. His arms were withered and stick-like, and you could count his ribs through his sickly translucent skin. He’d lost his dentures somewhere along the line, and his face looked sunken, emphasized by a few days’ growth of grey bristle on his chin. He looked like a very old man; much older than his sixty-five years. And slowly, as I washed him, all the old bitterness I’d felt towards him for years seemed to drift away.

  Julius stooped down to lift him up and carry him to bed. I shook my head. ‘I can manage, thanks.’

  A brief smile flickered on Julius’s lips. ‘Sure thing, man.’

  I slipped one arm under my father’s knees, the other under his neck, and lifted. He was light; it was like lifting a child. I carried him through to the bedroom, and as I lay him gently down on the bed his eyes opened and he looked up at me. He said nothing, but for a long moment his eyes locked with mine and there was no drunken confusion in his expression. He seemed totally aware of what was happening to him. His mouth was working and he mumbled something I didn’t catch, then his eyes closed and he fell asleep.

  I asked Julius if he’d heard what the old man had said.

  ‘He said, ‘Thanks, son.’’

  It felt as though a ring of steel was tightening around my throat, and I found I couldn’t speak.

  Julius slapped me on the shoulder. ‘Come on, Harry. Let him sleep it off.’

  I pulled the sheet over my father’s frail, naked body, acutely aware that someone somewhere was systematically hurting the people closest to me.

  And I knew then that I was going to kill them.

  When we went back to the lounge, we found Nona clearing up the mess. I gave her a shaky smile but didn’t trust myself to speak. Instead I went out and sat on the veranda to smoke. From inside I could hear the Flood’s murmured conversation. I leaned back in the cane chair and closed my eyes, overwhelmed by fatigue.

  26

  Julius was shaking my shoulder. I opened my eyes, surprised to find the daylight had gone and night had arrived, filled with the sound of cicadas.

  ‘He’s awake, man. He wants to see you.’

  I walked into the bedroom to find my father propped up on his pillows. He motioned me to a chair at the bedside.

  ‘Never been much of a father to you, have I?’ he said, his voice as rough as gravel.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘You haven’t.’

  ‘Too late to change now.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

  His tongue flicked over his cracked lips. ‘Could use a drink.’

  Nona had put a carafe of water and a glass on the nightstand, and I poured some into a glass. His hands were shaking too much to take it, so I put the glass to his lips. Water trickled down his chin and I wiped it away with the corner of the sheet.

  ‘Alan’s in trouble,’ he said. ‘Those Cuban bastards were after him. Thought if they got me drunk enough I’d tell them where he was.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Didn’t tell them a damned thing.’

  ‘Do you know where Alan is?’

  His fingers plucked at the blanket, peeling off balls of fluff. ‘He was a bright kid, Alan. Always ambitious. Always trying to touch the sun. I used to worry that one day he would, and he’d get more than his fingers burnt.’

  ‘Looks like he has.’

  He carried on as if I hadn’t spoken, gazing at the wall as though a movie of the past was playing there. ‘You remember Jenny Lancaster, Alan’s mother?’

  I did, but vaguely. She rarely came to the Islands, preferring instead to stay at her family’s house in Boston. I remembered her mainly for her beauty. A willowy, blue eyed blonde with a face and figure that could start barroom brawls.

  ‘She was class. Too good for the likes of Bobby Lancaster, that’s for sure. She had brains. Alan takes after her.’

  I asked him again, ‘Do you know where he is?’ And again he ignored the question.

  ‘Her brains—my spirit. That’s what made Alan a success.’

  It took a few seconds to register what he’d just said, and then it hit me like a hammer blow. ‘You and Alan’s mother?’

  ‘You always were slow on the uptake.’ A smile spread across his face. ‘Alan’s your brother.’

  Suddenly my past and my relationships with both Alan and my father began to make sense. Long days aboard The Majesty. My father taking the time to show Alan how to navigate, how to steer, how to recognize the cays and channels that made up the Bahamas. Leaving me to find everything out for myself. And me telling myself that he was only taking special pains with Alan because he was my friend. I also remembered how conversations between the two of them would dry up as soon as I approached.

  ‘Alan knows you’re his father.’ It wasn’t a question…it was a statement of fact.

  ‘Has done for years. Why do you think he’s looked after you so well? You could have been a rich man by now if you’d taken advantage of every opportunity Alan put your way.’

  Yes, and I’d probably be up to my eyes in the child pornography business as well.

  ‘But you always were a fool. I watched you two grow up together, and I never had any doubts which of you would be a success. Alan’s proved me right.’

  I walked across to the window. Outside the stars were blinking in a black velvet sky, and Nona Flood was playing her Bob Marley tape again.

  I couldn’t bring myself to say anything to the old man lying in the bed. I could no longer think of him as my father. It seemed now he was just a person I once had a fleeting acquaintanceship with. I could not even hate him for all the slights and the lack of love he had showed me; nor even for the astonishing lack of sensitivity he’d just shown. Surprisingly, I found it easy to hate Alan Lancaster, my brother, for all his lies over the years.

  ‘Why tell me now?’ I said finally.

  ‘Because I’m dying, slowly I know, but I’ll get there sooner rather than later. Alan needs your help, and you, as his brother, are honor-bound to give it to him.’

  I wheeled on him then. ‘That only goes to prove that you’ve never really known me at all. I’ve been trying to help Alan for the past few days. I held his child in my arms moments before she died. Did you know that? Your granddaughter died because of Alan and what he’s mixed up in; or hasn’t that fact sunk in yet?’ He didn’t even flinch. ‘You must be really proud of him, selling kids to perverts. You probably applaud his entrepreneurial spirit. Until I walked into this room I was still going to try to help him if I could, but now, after what you’ve just told me, I wouldn’t cut him down if he was hanging.’ I walked to the door and opened it. ‘And you’d better pray that the Cubans find him before I do.’ I walked out, slamming the door behind me.

  I was almost at the harbor before Julius caught up with me. ‘Harry!’ He caught my sleeve and spun me round. He saw the anger in my eyes. ‘You going somewhere, man?’

  ‘Home, Julius. I’m going home.’ I shrugged him off and carried on walking.

  ‘But your pa, Harry.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He needs you, man.’

  I climbed aboard The Lady. ‘No, he doesn’t. He needs Alan, he needs you and Nona. He certainly doesn’t need me. Untie me.’

  Julius reached down and untied the stern rope. ‘I know you’re upset, Harry, but running away isn’t the answer.’

  I looked at him sharply. ‘You knew?’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s history, man.’

  I said nothing. I started the engines and switched on the navigation lights.

  ‘I know how you feel,’ J
ulius shouted over the noise of the engines.

  I eased away from the mooring.

  ‘Don’t do this, Harry. Don’t just sail away. He needs you!’

  Julius Flood’s voice was a thin sound drifting over the water as I broke from the harbor and found open sea. I didn’t look back at Barracuda Cay. I had come to here to rediscover my family. I was leaving having gained a brother I never knew I had, and certainly didn’t want…and lost everything else.

  27

  The channel was impossible to navigate in the dark, and not even the canopy of stars could help me. To find my way through the channel I needed to see the water. The color of it; dark green in the deeper areas, lightening to a pale blue over the shallows. The wave patterns, sudden white eyes betraying rocks and reefs hiding beneath the surface. In the darkness I had to admit I was lost. I switched off the engines and dropped the anchor, preparing to wait out the night. I went below and lay flat out on my bunk, letting the gentle swell lull me to sleep.

  ***

  I was standing on a flat disc of limestone watching a thirteen-year old Alan hop bare-footed from rock to rock as deftly as a mountain goat. He was dressed in his summer uniform of cut-off denims and a baggy black tee shirt, this one bearing the legend Surfer Dude in fluorescent yellow. His pale hair was long and flopped in front of his eyes, and after every jump he’d sweep it away with his hand. As he moved the hair away from his brow you could see the sunlight reflecting from the tiny droplets of water trapped in the fine silk hairs on his arm. He reached the edge of the rock-pool and stared down into the water, watching the small shoals of fish darting away from his shadow. Beneath them multi-colored anemone and coral swayed in the currents made by the fish. The bay never attracted tourists. There was no room for sunbathing on the narrow slash of sand between the sea and the rocks, but it was the perfect playground for two thirteen-year old boys with adventure in their hearts. Jack wasn’t with us on this occasion. I couldn’t remember why.

  It was here we played out our summer scenarios. We were both huge fans of espionage books and films, and spies were our heroes. James Bond, Harry Palmer, Adam Hall, even George Smiley all had roles to play in our adventures, with Alan leading the charge against the red menace.

  I was usually cast as the hapless sidekick, mere cannon fodder, destined to die at the height of the game, justifying Alan’s bloody vengeance. You’re dead. You’ve been shot, stabbed, poisoned, bitten by a deadly spider…it depended on the book we’d just read or film we’d just seen; and I would dutifully fall to the ground, clutching whichever part of me had been targeted. I never questioned the hierarchy. It was the natural order of things.

  In the next scene he was in the water, swimming lazily across the rock pool, rolling over onto his back, floating there, shielding his eyes from the sun and squinting up at me. ‘Going down!’ he called, then twisted, jack-knifed, and swam down beneath the surface. I watched him swimming through the crystal water, exploring the cracks and fissures of the rock wall of the pool. A moray eel stuck a curious head out of one of the cracks as Alan approached. He reached out and stroked the head before darting lower into the pool.

  Finally, he surfaced, sweeping a curtain of wet hair away from his eyes. ‘I’ve found it.’

  ‘Found what?’

  ‘The perfect dead-letter drop. A crack in the wall, and I can get my whole arm into it. Perfect. We can leave secret messages for each other and no one will ever find them. Come on in. I’ll show you.’

  The crack opened out into a smooth-sided chamber about eighteen inches deep and about four inches in diameter. I turned to Alan, who was grinning widely, tiny air bubbles escaping from his nostrils and the corners of his mouth and eddying up to the surface. I gave him the thumbs up. Perfect.

  Perfect!

  ***

  I jerked awake, the memory of the dream as clear as the crystal water of the rock pool.

  The dead-letter drop – look where you’d least expect it?

  It was possible my subconscious had solved the riddle that had been bothering me since I received Alan’s note. Long-forgotten childhood memories drifting up to the surface after being submerged for decades.

  I started The Lady’s engines. Dawn had broken and the channel was visible again. I headed back to Freeport.

  The bay looked no different from the memory of it. It was still deserted. A few crabs were sunning themselves on the strip of sand, but there were no people. The rock on which I’d stood to watch Alan swimming in the rock pool was still there, though a little more weed-strewn. I stripped off my shirt, donned a mask and snorkel, and eased myself into the water. It was colder than it looked. I drew in a deep breath and swam down.

  It took a while to get my bearings, to remember where the crevice was, but eventually I found it. It was a smaller than I remembered, but that was simply because I had grown a lot in the ensuing twenty years. It took an effort, but I still managed to slip my arm inside.

  I found it almost immediately.

  My fingers closed over a small, polythene-wrapped package no bigger than my fist. I would never get my hand out again clutching the package, so I hooked my finger through the tape, securing it, and withdrew it carefully. Once I had it in my hand I surfaced and climbed back onto the limestone disc. I hadn’t thought to bring a towel, but the sun was high in the sky and my skin was dry within minutes. My shorts took a little longer.

  I sat crossed legged on the rock and peeled back the layers of polythene, almost holding my breath as I unwrapped the parcel.

  Finally, I was left with a small self-sealed polythene bag, the type drug dealers used to distribute their wares. Inside the bag was a computer flash drive, a small black plastic capsule with a USB plug on one end; and contained within the capsule, I hoped, were all the secrets Alan wanted me to know.

  I slipped it into the top pocket of my shirt and sat for a little longer watching the crabs moving across the sand. I had another problem. I didn’t own, and had never owned, a computer, so accessing the information on the stick was going to prove problematic. I knew people who did own the infernal machines, but I didn’t want to get any of them involved in this. I was left with only one option.

  28

  Sam had told me he was staying at the Princess Hotel in downtown Freeport. I knew the hotel and the street on which it was situated by reputation. It was a hangout for pimps and pushers, whores and petty criminals. The fact he was staying there told me he was speaking the truth when he’d said he had no publisher’s money to finance his project. The Princess Hotel was little more than a flophouse, and was not the kind of place anyone in their right mind would choose to stay.

  I pushed my way through the revolving door and was immediately confronted by the mixed odors of marijuana and cheap booze. There was a bell push on the stained wooden reception desk. I leaned on it and a few moments later an elderly black woman hobbled out from a back room. She was wall-eyed and looked as old as Methuselah. She fixed me with her one good eye and snapped, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is Sam Goldberg staying here?’

  She reached under the desk and pulled out a heavy-looking faux-leather-bound register. It seemed to take all her strength to open it, but once she had she ran a wizened finger down a column, stopping at Sam’s entry. ‘Room 408,’ she said, then slapped the book shut, replaced it under the desk, and returned to the back room without so much as a backward glance.

  The elevator had a hand-written OUT OF ORDER sign taped to the partially open door. I shrugged and took the stairs.

  I found 408 and rapped on the door with my fist. It was opened immediately by a young woman with bobbed chestnut hair, a slim physique, and the most kissable mouth I had ever seen. Even that improved when she smiled.

  ‘Sam Goldberg?’

  ‘Nice try,’ she said. ‘Billie-Jean Martinez. Billie to my friends. Who are you?’

  ‘Harry Beck.’

  ‘Ah, the man who kidnapped Sammy and took him on a cruise out to Abaco, only to leave him to find
his own way home. He still hasn’t recovered from the crossing, you know. Sammy’s no sailor.’

  ‘He’s told you about me then?’

  She smiled. ‘You’d better come in. He’s on the phone.’

  I accepted the invitation, and found myself in a squalid little hotel room that smelled badly of stale smoke and sweat. Sam looked around as I entered the room, gave a small wave with a hand clutching a cigarette, and then turned away, lowering his voice.

  ‘He won’t be long,’ Billie said. ‘Talking to his agent. Can I get you a coffee?’

  I could have used something stronger, but doubted the room possessed a mini-bar. ‘Yeah, coffee’s fine.’

  An electric kettle was perched precariously on the edge of a cluttered table under the window, and she shook it to see if it contained enough water, then flipped the ON switch. She crossed to the bed, where an array of camera parts was strewn across the counterpane, and drew her legs underneath her, picked up a cloth, and started polishing a lens.

  ‘Do you live in Freeport?’ she said.

  ‘Born and bred in Port Lucaya,’ I said. I pulled up a hard chair, reversed it, and sat astride.

  ‘Lucky you. I love it here.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Hong Kong. My mother’s Chinese. My father was an airline pilot…Irish American by all accounts, but I never met him.’ I could see her heritage in her eyes. They were almond shaped with a slight Asian cast, but were also quite a startling blue.

  ‘Quite a mixture,’ I said.

  She chuckled. ‘Oh, it gets worse. My paternal grandfather was Spanish. When I was growing up I didn’t know whether to dance the Irish jig, the flamenco, or the dragon dance.’

  ‘Tough choice.’

  ‘Tell me about it. So, what about you? Were both your parents born here too?’

  I nodded.

  The kettle started to boil. She uncurled herself and padded across to make the coffee. ‘Sugar?’

  I shook my head. At that point Sam hung up the phone and turned to me. ‘I didn’t expect to see you so soon,’ he said. He was scowling. The trip to Abaco Island had obviously affected him deeply.