Sweet Paradise

by Gene Desrochers

  My name drifted in hushed tones from the far side of the boat. I knew that voice. He yelled something else, but the wind whipped the words away. Concerned about the eel in the water, I started to swim in the other direction.

  The voice yelled more forcefully, “Grab the rope!” I thrashed at the water. My limbs were losing feeling. Rough fiber brushed across my cheek. I grabbed the rope and held tight.

  “Boise! Boise!”

  A slap to my face brought me back. For once, Leber wasn’t wearing sunglasses.

  Chapter 30

  Jermaine’s left elbow burst in a shower of muscle and blood as he raised the crossbow. The harsh sea wind carried his howls away. The pain was not physical. It was the agony of being rendered helpless.

  The instinct to continue his onslaught on these men, his enemies, rose up in him like lava boiling through granite. Voices swirled in his head, a hurricane commanding him to kill. To never stop killing until he was at the top of the mountain.

  He’d eliminated Gilroy already. Who had shot him? He hadn’t been able to make out a face in the hazy, half-moonlit darkness. Did it matter? Everyone out here was going to die. He’d kill all the sharks, all the fish, all the whales. All of it.

  He braced himself against the helm of the boat, gaining purchase and rising to his knees. Using his good arm, he propped the butt of the crossbow against his shoulder. When the shooter came over the gunwale, he’d bury an arrow in the bastard’s eye, sweet as a flower in a lapel. He was the best shooter in the region, maybe the world. No, not maybe, he was the best. They just wouldn’t let him compete. Soon, they would pay. He had set a machine in motion that they couldn’t stop. No one would suspect a thing. No need to outwit security, they’d be the ones letting her into the arena.

  A thump on the side of the boat brought him back to the task at hand. The games were seven days away. He had to deal with this problem first.

  Chapter 31

  “D id you hit him?” I asked from my prone position on the soggy bottom of the row boat.

  My breath came out in labored gasps. We pitched and rolled so violently, it was hard to believe we weren’t capsizing.

  Leber gazed at the bobbing fishing boat as he answered. “I’m pretty certain. Question is, did I put him down for keeps?”

  Leber had to be one hell of a shot to hit someone on a swaying boat while this rowboat we occupied also pitched and rolled in the nasty swell. My time in basic training had made me a competent shot, but nothing special. Maybe he’d just gotten lucky. Leber struck me as the lucky type.

  I sucked oxygen in nose, out mouth, trying to calm my jangled nerves. My body shivered badly, the gusty conditions weren’t helping. When you got far enough away from shore, even near the Equator, it got chilly. Add having a crossbow and a gun stuck in your face for hours on end, and a little shock was understandable. I tried to forgive myself for not being tougher.

  “Just take a second. He’s hit, I’m sure of it.”

  I shook my head like a wet dog as a spray of water doused my face. “You don’t understand. This one’s like a guy on PCP. The bullet’s likely to make him madder.”

  Leber stared at me a while, then pulled a gun from his ankle holster. “I suppose you’ll need this if you’re gonna be any help.” I took the weapon and nearly fumbled it into Davy Jones’ Locker.

  Leber put a large hand over my shaking ones. “Can you do this?” he said, his face serious as stone.

  I nodded, stilled my convulsions and clenched my teeth. “What choice do I have?”

  He pushed the gun that I’d been pointing in his direction downward. He clicked off the safety. “Just point and shoot ... at the bad guys.”

  “There’s only one,” I said as he steered us alongside using the oars.

  “I saw two men with you, one at the wheel and ... ”

  “That was Gilroy Antsy at the wheel. He’s dead.” I quickly explained Gilroy’s demise.

  “So he’s using a crossbow?”

  “I think so. He likes arrows.”

  The rowboat bumped the side of the fishing vessel louder than we would have liked. Leber remained impassive. I re-engaged the safety and tucked the gun to climb aboard. My face and body ached from the beatings and the pepper spray and the hangover. Shit, maybe I was still a little inebriated.

  Leber secured the rowboat to the side of the larger boat as he hoisted himself up and lay down on the inside of the railing, just out of sight of whatever waited on the other side of the raised gunwale.

  I clambered up beside him and we positioned ourselves on the edge, our noses inches apart. I slipped off one of my soaked sneakers. Leber nodded, liking the idea. He pointed to the left and pointed at his chest, then pointed right and at the shoe in my hand. Finally, he pointed at me and straight up. After staring at him blankly for a couple moments, I nodded my understanding.

  Gun out. Safety off. I flung the shoe to my right, then both of us popped up, Leber going over to the left and I went straight over the top, guns out. We fired. Our bullets both entered harmlessly into the deck. Blood was splattered everywhere. Gilroy Antsy lay in the corner, a trickle of blood and that iron stench coming off him despite the gusting wind. There was another splatter of blood on the far gunwale. It appeared that Leber had indeed hit Jermaine.

  “Shit,” I muttered.

  Leber put a finger to his lips.

  We climbed down to the deck. Other than the wind and water, no sound. I started shaking again. Where was he? There weren’t a lot of places to go. I ticked off the options. Did he go over the side? Unlikely. Did he circle around the standing shelter to the bow? Possibly, but from the gunwale I hadn’t seen anyone there.

  Leber’s head rotated side to side, like a lighthouse beacon, scanning the deck, running calculations. Then, I saw it.

  “Hey, he’s not here. Can we fire this thing up and get back to shore? I think he went over. The guy’s fish food.”

  Leber looked at me. “You sure? You think he just went in the drink?”

  “Nut job like that? For sure.” As I said this, I pointed at the non-descript white bench that comes standard in every fishing boat to hold various nautical supplies like a fish bat, rope, flares, and life preservers.

  Leber leveled the gun at the bench and crouched, maintaining balance as the waves continued to rock us. “Yeah, yeah, ok, Boise. You get ‘er started, I go make sure my rowboat’s secure.”

  Without looking away from the bench, he nodded me toward the steering wheel. I went and started the engine. It fired up on the first turn, idling and sputtering as it kicked water and dirty fumes.

  Leber continued the act, boldly climbing on top of the bench, then getting up on the gunwale again where our boat continued to bang against the side of the fishing vessel.

  “Not quite secure, Boise,” Leber said, making sure it was clear to anyone hiding that he was now behind the bench with no clear shot. “I’m gonna tie it tighter.”

  I smiled and turned around, knowing that Leber was signaling we were both preoccupied and using our hands, therefore not holding guns. The lid inched open and the tip of the arrow peeked out, pointing right at me. I saw a reflection in the whites of Jermaine’s eyes,

  “Freeze, motherfucker!” Leber demanded.

  “I got your boy in my sights,” Jermaine said. His white teeth glistened as he grinned. “You ain’t faster...”

  Leber shot him twice from above through the lid of the bench.

  I hustled over and yanked open the lid. Leber maintained his position, gun still held by both hands in a classic shooter’s stance. Along with a shattered elbow, Jermaine now sported two red wounds center mass. His eyes and his mouth were all open, but neither recognition nor breath lived there any longer. The glock he’d been holding earlier was beside him, a back-up weapon in case he missed with the crossbow.

  Chapter 32

  After retrieving my phone from Gilroy, I found
it was drenched. I started to mash the power button.

  “Don’t try to use it. Put it in dry rice for at least a few hours,” Leber said. I stuffed it back in my pocket and extended my hand. He pulled out his phone. It slipped out of his fingers, plunking into the ocean.

  “Shit!” Leber yelled, his hands trembling.

  “Probably no reception anyway,” I said.

  “Goddamn case,” he growled.

  “By the way, how did you find me?”

  I DRY HEAVED OVER THE side three more times on the way back to shore. My stomach was as dry as an Englishman’s sense of humor. We got back to the guesthouse and demanded a whiskey after pounding on the bar to get Lucy’s attention.

  Lucy shuffled out of the kitchen. “Is seven in da morning, Boise. You need coffee, not whiskey. Maybe eggs.”

  The thought of runny eggs almost sent me into dry heaves again.

  “Lucy, after the night we had, I need a whiskey. Single-malt.”

  “I save your life once already today. I ain’t doin’ it again.”

  She was right. The only reason Leber had even known I was kidnapped was because of Lucy, sitting up late on the porch again, playing solitaire. She’d spotted Gilroy and Jermaine shove me into their car and take off. She found Leber’s business card on my bedside table.

  “The only place I could think to go was right back to where we’d found Francine. Crooks are so unimaginative,” Leber said.

  “In a rowboat? In the dark?”

  “I row before sunrise in that harbor every morning.”

  “Lucky me,” I said.

  I pulled out Leber’s ankle gun, a Kel-Tec PF-9, and handed it to him. He studied the gun, then handed it back.

  “You know how to shoot this?”

  “Sure, I can handle a basic weapon like this.”

  “You keep it. I just acquired another.”

  “Aren’t you worried about the registration?”

  “Nope, but you’ll have to get your own ankle holster,” he said.

  I pocketed the gun right before Marge popped up from behind the bar and poured me a Balvenie, two-fingers neat. I clutched her wrist and tilted another finger’s worth. The golden medicine warmed my gullet as I slumped over the gouge in the smooth surface made by a bullet years ago.

  “One day you’re gonna have to tell me the story of this bullet hole,” I said. “They all have a story, right?”

  Silent Marge proceeded to run water into a sink under the counter.

  Hours later, I dozed on the couch under the check-in desk where Lucy slept when expecting a late night or early morning arrival. I hadn’t had the energy to trudge up the stairs to my room, and Leber was too drunk to carry me when he’d left. I rolled over to find Lucy’s knees at eye-level. She was greeting a guest; I waited patiently for her to conclude the transaction.

  When I tapped her knee, she leapt back, cawing like a crow. “Boise! Watch those hands.”

  She shooed me into the kitchen where Marge pulled an icepack from the freezer and placed it in my hand before gently pressing my hand up to my black eye. Marge held up ten fingers, closed one hand and opened another five fingers, then pointed at the egg timer. It ticked.

  Fifteen minutes later, I forced myself to plod upstairs. I brushed and flossed for nearly ten minutes, chasing it with a warm shower. When I tried to shave, the hot water burned my raw face.

  Moments after I was back in my room, my landline rang. Dana.

  “Do I get an exclusive?”

  This woman had a one-track mind.

  “You back?”

  “No,” she said in a pouty voice. “Fucking Pickering wants continuing coverage. They’ve got television here, too. Something to do with Jarl. It might involve the governor.”

  “Ours?”

  “No, silly, the one here in Tortola. Anyway, this story’s good, but nothing’s as good as murder. I hear you’ve got the killers.”

  “Yeah, we got ‘em. Problem is there’s no trial. One killed his partner and then a cop killed him.”

  “Which cop?”

  “Leber. You know him?”

  “Yup. A bit unconventional. I like him.” I could hear Dana grinning through the phone, her own teenaged giddiness. My cell phone buzzed from a bowl of rice in the corner.

  “Gotta go, Dana.”

  “When can we do this? Pickering wants a story.”

  “You’re doing it by phone?”

  “Yup.”

  We arranged a time later in the day after I got some shut eye. I had already spent hours giving the cops my story and helping Leber fill out paperwork. He had helped it move along, but a fuller statement was in the offing. She said Pickering wouldn’t like it. I told her to call Leber in the meantime and to let Pickering know that Gilroy and Jermaine were the ones who ransacked Savannah’s house looking for Kendal’s notes. She said she’d tell him.

  By the time I hung up, I’d missed the cell call. Sleep first, call back later.

  It turned out my ordeal was enough for Pickering to bring Dana back to interview me in person, as well as to work on some other story cooking here in St. Thomas.

  “It’s not a big deal,” Dana grumbled. “Tortola’s twenty miles away. There’s a bridge in Louisiana that’s longer. Besides, you’re worth it.”

  The Greenhouse was quiet, as the brunch crowd had already deserted and, for whatever reason, the televisions were on the fritz, so no football to entice people into drinking in the middle of their Sunday afternoon. Dana had selected a table in the far corner, away from prying ears.

  “Love you, too,” I said, giving her a hug.

  “You hug me like I’m a guy. Why is that?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s how I hug.”

  “No, I’ve seen you hug other women without the pat on the back and the closed fist between.” She proceeded to demonstrate, puffing out her chest and deepening her voice. “Hey, dude Dana, what’s up? Hug. Hug. Pat. Pat.”

  I laughed in spite of myself. “I do that. It’s my way.”

  “Uh huh. Well, just ‘cause I’m a lesbo doesn’t give you permission to treat me like a dude. I’m fem.”

  “Hmmm ... ” I extended my hand and made the kinda-not-really gesture.

  “The point is, I’m a woman, so hug me like a woman. Now, here’s your beer. Start talking.”

  “Did you order a burger, too?” I said hopefully.

  “With fries. Bloody as hell, all the fixings. Anything else, Sugar Ray?”

  She licked tomato juice off her top lip after taking a sip of her Bloody Mary. I always worried about the celery stalk going up my nose with those drinks.

  “I want more free ads for bringing Pickering another paper-selling story.” Dana just stared, so I back-tracked. “Nope. Perfect, right down to you nagging me. Did we get married?”

  “You are so much a part of the patriarchy.” She glanced at her watch. “Okay, let’s get down to brass tacks. What happened?”

  She tapped record on her phone. I relayed my tale, leaving out anything I deemed irrelevant or embarrassing to my clients. She got what counted, the abduction and my escape ala Leber. It would read like an action-adventure. I also omitted that I was passed out when they snatched me. Instead I said they’d grabbed me as I was walking up to The Manner and knocked me out.

  “You have a concussion?”

  “Don’t know,” I answered, licking some Guinness foam off my upper lip.

  “Get it checked.”

  “Doc said I’m fine. Pepper spray has no lasting effects.”

  “Doesn’t Leber have a partner?”

  “Yeah, Barnes. I got the feeling Barnes is a nine-to-fiver. Leber, he’s a lifer.”

  “A man after my own heart,” Dana said.

  The waitress bopped over and swept away my empty plate. I ordered my fourth beer. Dana put a stop to things after tw
o Bloody Marys.

  “That’s it, huh?” She pursed her lips and hit stop on the recording. She typed something into her phone, then gave me a serious look. “Boise, I’m worried about you. You really don’t look good.”

  I shifted in my seat. She had this nasty habit of pop-analyzing my psyche out of nowhere on occasions when I was in no mood for it.

  “Ouch.”

  “Don’t give me that. You don’t really care about your appearance, or you wouldn’t have on that sweat stained tank-top and flip flops.”

  “Jesus, Dana, what’s with the harsh judgments?”

  “I’m worried about the way you’re conducting yourself.”

  “I didn’t ask for you to intervene. I’m doing fine. Yes, I’m a little burned out. I got careless.”

  “You left a couple things out of that story you just told me.”

  I shook my head. The hot needle was rising. Who was Dana to start patronizing me? When we’d first met, she slathered some bullshit pop psychology on me about Evelyn dying and my depression.

  “I have clients to protect.”

  “Not what I’m talking about. I understand if you protect sources and clients. What I don’t understand is exactly how those thugs kidnapped you. That part doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

  She stared at me. I squirmed, a beetle under a magnifying glass on a sunny day. My beer tasted good and cold. Not cold enough, but I remained pinned to my seat. Heave-ho.

  “Power-drinking another beer isn’t going to scare me off.” She waited. “Neither is the silent treatment. Boise, talk to me. Where’s your head? Is it Evelyn? What about that flyer I gave you?”

  My eyelids drooped. Sleeping in this chair in this bar on this island seemed like a lovely idea. Out on the waterfront, a wave crashed on the breakwater then receded, leaving only an oily slick on the gray, shell-laced concrete. I stood shakily. My shorts puckered to the back of my legs.

  “You got this?” I asked.