The Keepers

by Dan Alatorre

  She stretched her yellow, one-piece bathing suit and let it snap back to her belly, idly repeating the action again and again. “Are you quite sure you’re doing that right?”

  “Yep.” He held the hook out to her. “You wanna try it?”

  Constantine took a step away. “I don’t like touching the worms. They’re squirmy. I don’t trust them.”

  “Hmm.” DeShear pierced the worm and slid it over the hook. “You’re gonna have to learn to do this if you intend to keep fishing. Guess they didn’t have this part in your video game.”

  Jaden Trinn emerged from the lower deck hatch, wearing a black bikini. “I wouldn’t trust a worm either, Constantine.” She went to the side of the boat and picked up her fishing rod, her long dark hair flowing over her tan, toned back. “But there are better baits than worms.”

  “Usually,” DeShear said, admiring Trinn’s long, tan legs.

  “Sorry, boss.” The captain sat perched on the front of the boat, rolling up the sleeves of his blue-striped shirt. “I grab the wrong cooler this morning. But my friend, he bringing us the good bait. You don’t worry.”

  DeShear shrugged. “Hey, accidents happen, Laquan. We used plenty of regular bait yesterday with Captain Mateo. At least you had some worms. And now we have extra beer, so it’s not all bad.”

  “If anyone wants to drink beer at seven in the morning.” Trinn smirked, lowering her voice. “Too bad Mateo got sick. He was a much better captain.”

  DeShear handed Constantine her fishing rod. “There you go. If you hook anything really big, make sure you bring it in, and it doesn’t take you out to sea.”

  Constantine lifted her chin. “I was best in my class at swimming. I could hold my breath longer than anyone else, too. Almost three minutes. I’m an excellent swimmer.”

  “Well, I’m not.” DeShear liked Constantine’s British accent, but her formal manner of speaking and extensive vocabulary were still a constant surprise. “So, don’t go overboard. If you go in, then I have to go in, and I don’t want to go swimming right now.”

  The five-year-old scrunched up her face, gazing at him in the bright morning light. “You’d go in after me?”

  “Yep. Where you go, I go, kid.” He wiped his hands on a rag and draped it over the railing. “That’s the deal. If you fell overboard or got lost in the mall or anything, I’d look for you and I’d find you—no matter what. Remember that. We’re a team, and my goal is to keep you safe. There’s no telling what’s out there.”

  “Tiger sharks out there.” The charter boat captain hopped across the front deck and swung himself into the wheelhouse. His unbuttoned shirt flapping in the breeze, he took a toothpick from his breast pocket and stuck it between his teeth.

  Trinn glanced at the captain. “What’d you say?”

  “Tiger sharks.” Laquan pointed west, toward the gently rocking horizon. A series of small islands jutted from the water. “Off the reef, just there. The cruise ships dump their trash before daylight break, so the sharks, they come looking every morning.”

  DeShear smiled at Trinn. “Stay out of the water until after they’ve eaten their breakfast, then.”

  “They half the size of this boat, boss,” Laquan said. “Believe that.”

  Constantine put a hand on the rail and looked over. “Tiger sharks are of the genus Galeocerdo. They prefer deep water. This doesn’t look deep at all.” She turned to the wheelhouse, holding her hand to her forehead to block the sun. “Captain Laquan, how many fathoms of depth are we?”

  “Fathoms?” He chuckled. “A good word for a little fisher-girl. The depth finder says one hundred feet, young miss.”

  “A hundred!” Trinn peered over the side. “It’s so clear. I’d have thought it was twenty feet to the bottom. Maybe thirty, tops.”

  “One hundred feet, ma’am. For sure. The instruments don’t lie.” The captain narrowed his eyes, staring over the bow of the boat. “In Bahamas, you got the best water in the world.”

  Trinn peered into the crystalline waves. “What are the dark spots on the bottom?”

  “That be the rocks, missus. Maybe little sea grass bed.”

  “Davy Jones’ locker.” DeShear nudged Constantine. “Don’t snag your line in there.”

  “Could it be dolphins?” she asked.

  “Not there, girl,” Laquan said. “Look here.”

  “What is it, Captain?”

  He pointed. About fifty feet away, a dark fin broke the surface in a graceful arch.

  “A dolphin!” Constantine gasped, dropping her fishing rod and rushing to the starboard side of the boat. She grabbed the rail and jumped up and down. “Look! Look! Oh, I do like them so much! Captain Mateo said they had names. Do you know its name, Laquan?”

  “Sure, little miss.” Another fin crested the water closer to the boat. “This gal is call Pinky Tree. She got a scratch on her back, look like pine limb.” A second dorsal fin followed, its owner’s backside glinting in the sunlight as it rolled through the waves. “See how that boy got a rip in the back of his fin? His name Mastiff. He a big fella, king of the ocean.”

  A smaller dolphin popped its head out, then ducked under with a splash. Constantine squealed in delight. “Do you know the names of all the dolphins in these waters?”

  Laquan adjusted the toothpick in his teeth. “For sure, little miss. A captain got to know everything in his ocean. Every rock, every coral, every animal.”

  Trinn reached across the vinyl bench seat and lifted a towel off her phone, snapping a few pictures of Constantine and the dolphin fins beyond her. When the passing visitors disappeared, she lowered her phone and checked the time. “Constantine, you’d better change into your clothes. We need to watch the sun out here.”

  The girl’s face remained pressed against the rail. “Aww.”

  “Hey, we had an agreement.” Trinn set her phone next to a stack of faded life jackets on the bench seat. “I love that your cheeks have a rosy glow, but you remember your sunburn from the other day?”

  Constantine’s shoulders slumped. “Melanoma is relatively prevalent for fair-skinned people who spend time in the tropics.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Okay, then. There’s a shopping bag on the table down below, with a new t-shirt and shorts from the hotel shop. The puppy print ones you liked. You can change in the bathroom.”

  Constantine shuffled away from the railing. “On a boat, the bathroom’s called ‘the head.’ Did you cut the tags off the shirts? They itch me.”

  “I did. Scoot. We’ll put on more sunscreen when you come back. And I got you a hat, too. It’s in the bag.”

  Frowning, Constantine descended the stairs. “I don’t fancy wearing a hat.”

  “I don’t fancy skin cancer.” Trinn slid her fishing rod out of the holder and cranked the reel, pulling in her line.

  “Use that front berth, little miss,” Laquan said. “The door is a bit fussy, so you pull it shut tight.” He held up the radio receiver. “Boss, my friend say he coming right quick now. We see him any minute.”

  “Sounds good.” As Laquan started the boat’s motor, DeShear slipped his arms around Trinn’s waist. He nuzzled her shoulder. “Having fun?”

  “I am.” She leaned back, kissing him. “It’s beautiful weather again today. What about you, Hank? Relaxing yet?”

  “I will be soon, I promise.”

  “Are you worried about Helena?”

  “A little,” he said. “We didn’t hear from her yesterday. She’d usually at least call Constantine, and she has that follow up procedure soon.”

  “We’ll call the hospital when we get back this afternoon.” Trinn patted his hand. “Constantine seems okay today.”

  “Yeah. After last night, I wasn’t sure we should come out.” He took a deep breath and rested his chin on Trinn’s shoulder. “All that screaming about ‘They’re killing her.” Who do you think ‘her’ was?”

  Trinn sighed, placing a hand over DeShear’s. “It might be PTSD. She witnessed some h
orrific events in that Château. She saw her friends massacred. Maybe we should find someone to talk to her.”

  “Yeah . . . I’m not sure I trust some Bahamian therapist. In the Caribbean, the head shrinkers shrink heads for real.”

  “Boss!” Laquan jumped off the upper deck. “You take the wheel. I cast a line to my friend.”

  DeShear craned his neck, peering over the bow. A boat with a red hull approached. “Autolycus II” was painted in faded white letters across its bow.

  Trinn patted his hand. “Go and steer the ship. We can talk more about this later.”

  “Okay.” DeShear crossed the deck and climbed the ladder to the wheelhouse. Corroded fish finders and an old GPS dotted the area above the cracked, faded fiberglass dashboard, all held in place with a variety of rusted screws.

  Laquan waved to the red boat as he lifted a coiled-up rope from his deck. The Autolycus II pulled alongside and Laquan tossed the line to them, then ran to the front of his boat and threw another line over. Several men in the red boat grabbed the ropes and pulled the boats together, nose to tail.

  “Nothing like fresh bait, boss.” Laquan tied his line off. “We fix you up good now.”

  A stocky, muscular man in a dirty yellow tank top hauled a large cooler off the Autolycus II. He balanced as the boats rocked, then stepped over the rail and landed onto Laquan’s rear deck, slamming the cooler down. Standing, he glared at Laquan, sweat brimming on his forehead. “Best help with these, Conchy Joe. The ice melt in this hot sun.”

  Laquan scampered toward the cooler. “Yeah, Rally. You fix us up. Thanks, mate.”

  Rally looked at Trinn, his eyes lingering on her legs. “Her boongie big, bey.”

  Trinn picked up her towel and wrapped it around her waist.

  Licking his lips, the large stranger slowly turned back to Laquan. “Got a few nice lobster in there, too. If you want, I can cook up some nice dinner tonight for the lady.”

  DeShear stepped to the rear of the wheelhouse. “She can take care of her own dinner plans, friend. Thanks for the bait.”

  Rally lowered his eyes back to Laquan. “All straight now, friend?”

  “I straight now, Rally.” Laquan shifted on his feet, the toothpick bouncing back and forth in his mouth. “Was a leg short, but you fix me up.”

  “No. We not quite straight yet, friend. You got the sail? For Jonah?”

  “Right right! The sail is below. All fetch and ready.”

  With his eyes fixed on Laquan, Rally shouted. “Jonah! Come and get the sail.”

  Laquan glanced at DeShear. “I get them a sail for their other boat, boss. We trade out here, is all. We don’t be a minute.”

  “It a nice sailboat, sir.” Rally smiled at DeShear. “Maybe you come take an evening cruise with us. Bring the lady, watch the sun set.”

  As a deck hand jumped on board and went below, Rally leered at Trinn. “He a low fence, your captain. He mix up like conch salad. Forget your bait and ruin your trip, pretty Miss. But we fix you up good now.”

  Laquan stepped between them. “You—you fix me up, right right. Thanks, mate.”

  The boat motors idled, their hulls bumping together with the waves.

  Rally glared at Laquan. “You perfect in your pocket?”

  “Yes, man.” Laquan wiped the sweat from his brow and glanced at the hatch. “All good.”

  Jonah hauled a large, rolled up sail up from below, and put it on his shoulder. It dangled past his waist, front and back. Putting a foot on the deck of the Autolycus II, he lunged across and carried it below deck.

  “Well, thanks for the fresh bait, mate.” Laquan patted Rally on the shoulder.

  Rally glared at him. “You all kapoonkle up, boy. Me and you ain’t no company.”

  Laquan pulled his hand away, looking down.

  As the deck hand untied the lines, Rally turned and spit over the rear railing of Laquan’s vessel. “Enjoy the bait, friend. All fresh caught.” He looked Trinn up and down. “And a good day to you, Miss. And you, sir.” He nodded at DeShear. “Safe travels.”

  DeShear chewed his lip. “Thanks for the bait.”

  Rally crossed over to his boat. The engine revved and the vessel pulled away, cutting through the turquoise waters and sending a wave of white out from its bow.

  As Laquan rummaged through the bait cooler, the phone in the wheelhouse rang.

  “Grab that for me would you, boss?” Laquan held up a handful of frozen shrimp from the cooler. “I need to get these on ice or they be nothing but chum. Got fish goo all over my hands.”

  DeShear stared at the other fishing boat as its white wake rolled over the water. He glanced at Trinn. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah.” She pulled her towel tighter around her, scowling. “That guy was creepy, but I’m fine.”

  The phone rang again.

  “Boss, the phone.”

  “Yep, got it.” DeShear went to the dashboard and picked up the handset. “Hello?”

  The phone line was filled with static. “Is this Hamilton DeShear?”

  “Yeah.” DeShear recoiled.

  How did someone find me out here?

  “You’re a private detective, right?” the man said. “I need you for a case.”

  “Well, I’m kind of on vacation. Call me again in a week.”

  The accent isn’t Bahamian. Maybe French.

  “This is a missing persons case, Mr. DeShear. I think you’ll be very interested in it.”

  A small knot formed in DeShear’s abdomen. “Okay, I’ll bite. Who’s missing?”

  “The little girl we just took off your charter fishing boat. I believe you call her Constantine.”

  Deshear dropped the phone and leaped from the wheelhouse, grabbing the sides of the hatch and hurling himself below. “Constantine?” The door to the front berth was shut. DeShear raced forward, grabbing the knob and pulling. The door didn’t budge. “Constantine!” He jerked the knob. The thin door strained at its hinges.

  Please let her be in there. Don’t let her be gone!

  “Constantine!” Gritting his teeth, he pulled again, grabbed the top edge of the door, and broke it open.

  Splinters fell from the door latch as he peered inside.

  Constantine wasn’t there.

  A tiny, yellow one-piece bathing suit lay crumpled on the bed, next to the empty shopping bag from the resort.

  “Constantine!” DeShear scanned the small berth, yanking the thin mattress from its frame. The storage underneath was filled with mildewed boat lines and threadbare life preservers.

  He whipped around, inspecting the dimness of the lower deck. None of the cabinets were big enough for her to hide in; the only other door was to the bathroom. Heart pounding, he raced forward, the flimsy wooden door swinging open and shut with the rocking of the boat. DeShear heaved the door to the wall and looked inside.

  She wasn’t there.

  His pulse throbbed in his ears.

  I missed her. She’s above deck.

  Somehow, I didn’t see her go up.

  Gunshots rang out. The window next to the bathroom exploded. DeShear hit the floor, glass falling next to him. Another shot put a hole in the side of a cabinet. Sunlight streamed inside.

  Two more shots fired, followed by a thump from the deck above.

  They’re trying to kill us all.

  “Trinn!” he shouted. “Get down!”

  A chorus of gunfire erupted, filling the walls of the lower deck with holes. Covering his head, DeShear buried his face in the floor. Wood and glass fell around him, followed by pots and pans from the galley, broken coffee cups and fishing reels. Dust and smoke filled the cabin.

  When the firing stopped, he leaped to his feet and bolted up the ladder onto the main deck.

  The red hull of the Autolycus II bounced over the water, its large motor churning the sea into a white froth.

  Trinn lay on the deck, alone, blood seeping over her fingers as she clasped them to the side of her bare midriff. A trickle of bl
ood rolled down her forehead.

  “Jaden!” DeShear rushed forward and dropped to his knees, sitting her up and pulling her hands away to inspect her wound. The reek of gasoline filled the air. “Jaden, can you hear me?” Blood trickled from the bullet wound in her side.

  Trinn lifted her head, her eyes half open. “I . . . I think I got shot.” A trickle of blood ran down her forehead.

  DeShear wiped the sweat from his brow.

  Constantine is gone. I have to go after her.

  But Trinn might be dying.

  He pushed her thick hair back to expose a small laceration. “You banged your head on something, too.” Grabbing the towel from the bench seat, he pressed it to her side. “Did you see Constantine? Is she on deck up here somewhere?”

  His eyes darted over the boat.

  Constantine is nowhere in sight, and Trinn is gushing blood.

  What do I do? There’s no time.

  “Constantine . . .” Trinn winced. “She went below. To change.”

  DeShear shook his head. “They took her—Laquan’s friends from the other boat. They had to.”

  “What!” Trinn leaned forward, grimacing.

  “Easy.” DeShear put his hands on her shoulders. “Laquan must have gone with them.”

  We need to get after that boat.

  “Did you see anything?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” Her words came in short bursts as she fought the pain. “When the shooting started . . . I was casting my line. I . . . don’t know if I got shot and hit my head or . . . or if it happened the other way around.” She leaned her head back, gasping. “I might have blacked out for a second.”

  “Okay.” He glanced at the red boat, speeding away in the distance. “Don’t—don’t try to talk.”

  This is bad. Jaden looks rough.

  But Constantine’s on that boat. Every second we spend here, we’re losing the trail.

  “Hank, I’ve been shot before.” Trinn gasped. “I’m not dying, I promise. Go after her.”