The Devil's Deep

by Michael Wallace

Pardo didn’t know anything about Irish or Canadians, but he knew what he’d seen in El Salvador and Costa Rica. “Campesino is not a condition. It’s not a race. It’s not what you are, it’s who you are. You can take these people and send them to school and they’ll just be stupid, superstitious people who can read. That’s if they don’t drop out, run off, get pregnant, whatever, first. And the opposite is true, too. Look at those Quakers in Monteverde. They live on the same land and with the same government as the poor masses of Latin America, but they’ve built something. The only difference is that they were Quakers from America.”

  To his surprise, Bill, the younger, practical one, took his brother’s side. He was currently at the end of their little huddle and his voice sounded from over Pardo’s shoulder. “You know, my father didn’t have anything. His father was a day laborer, just a few years removed from the canal boats. My Dad worked his ass off and made something of himself. I’ve seen these peasants. They know how to work. Hard.”

  “So does a mule,” Pardo said. “When you’re driving it. As soon as you stop, it sits down and refuses to move.”

  “You’re studying to be a doctor,” Davis said. “Why? If you don’t like people, why bother?”

  “It’s not what I want, it’s what’s necessary. I need some way to support myself until I get my land back from the campesinos.”

  They had survived that night, and their trip. Here Pardo was, a quarter century later, and he still hadn’t reclaimed the family land. Davis was dead but Bill, at least, had realized his dream of taking over his father’s company.

  “Hi, it’s Pardo,” he said when Bill Carter picked up the phone. “You were right. Wesley didn’t go back to Massachusetts. Took a plane to Newark. And he wasn’t alone. ”

  “The girl? What’s her name?”

  “Rebecca Gull. The QMRP. You think they’ve gone to Costa Rica?”

  “Yes, that’s what I think. He’s latched onto this Rosa thing.”

  “So what do they know already?” Pardo asked. “And what do they guess?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” the man said. “They’ve gone too far. I tried to warn him. I tried to scare him. I tried to bribe him. There’s only one thing left to do.”

  It was chilling, Pardo thought, that a man could speak so coldly about his own nephew.

  “Question is,” Bill continued. “Can it be done with a minimum of fuss?”

  “It’s Central America,” Pardo said. “We can do anything we want there.”

  “Yes, I know.” A pause. “Okay, then, go ahead. Take care of the girl, too.”

  And it struck Pardo that this was more of the same. Bill Carter knew what had to be done. He just couldn’t go through with it without Pardo’s help.

  Chapter Eleven:

  Wes and Becca landed in Puerto Jiménez at ten the next morning, having flown from Burlington to Newark, then to San Jose, before finally taking a prop plane to the Osa Peninsula. It was an exhausting series of flights and layovers, but Wes felt his strength return at the first breath of Costa Rican air. The tropical sun burned overhead and the air smelled of salt water mixed with flowers and fruit.

  They rented a Land Rover, stopped at a market to pick up supplies, then drove south, toward Matapalo. Cattle grazed the fields of lush grass that lined the road. The fence posts were straight branches that had continued to grow after being planted in the ground; some were full-fledged trees. On the right, forested hills marked the edge of the Corcovada preserve. On the left, glimpses of the blue waters of the Golfo Dulce.

  “What happened to the road?” Becca asked when they reached the first stream.

  Wes downshifted to first, then crawled through the water. “This is actually a good road, by Costa Rican standards. Except for the last river crossing. You don’t want to hit that after a heavy rain.”

  “Tell me about the house,” she said. “You’ve been here a lot?”

  “My Grandpa Carter built it about forty years ago. There wasn’t any tourism in those days. That was the idea. He worked so hard the rest of the time, he needed a place to get away with the family where he didn’t have to think about cement, roads, or construction. He had two boys—my uncles Davis and Bill—and a daughter.”

  “Your mom.”

  “Right. They came here once or twice a year. My mom didn’t come for awhile after the blowup with her dad—that was before I was born—but then he died. My Uncle Davis let us use the house again, but I think it was my Aunt Charlotte who pushed for us all to get together that last year.”

  “Aunt Charlotte was your Uncle Davis’s wife, right?”

  He nodded. “Right. She’s a great person. And you know, it all went fantastic. Until my uncle drowned not long after I got back to Vermont.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “I didn’t know him all that well. We had a couple of awesome dives together and it seemed like everything was changing with my mom and her brothers. But here’s the thing. My grandpa didn’t want the company falling apart after he died. And he was still kind of pissed about how my mom had sold back her shares. So he put everything in control of my Uncle Davis. After Davis died, Bill badgered, bullied, whatever, my Aunt Charlotte into selling back the majority interest in Northrock. Probably a good thing. From the sake of the business, I mean. But she wouldn’t get rid of Casa Guacamaya. Far as I know, nobody has been down since. That was about five years ago.”

  “So what happened to the house?”

  “Still the same, I guess.” He reached the second stream, crossed it, then said, “There’s a local family that takes care of it. Shouldn’t be hard to convince them to give us the key. I’m sure they’ll remember me, even if they don’t recognize me right away. And they might know something about the dive operations on the peninsula.” He carried the receipt for that fateful charter tucked into his wallet.

  Pastures gave way to forest and the road grew more rutted. But the surface was damp, cutting down on dust, and they could drive with the windows down. Bird calls filled the air. A coati crossed in front of the Land Rover. Becca scrambled for her camera, but it was gone before she could get the lens cap off.

  “Don’t worry,” Wes said. “We’ll see more. Probably sneaking into the house to steal food. If the monkeys don’t beat them to it.”

  “This is awesome,” she said. “I’m glad I didn’t just cancel my vacation.” She hesitated. “Thanks, Wes.”

  He smiled, enjoying seeing how happy she was. “I always love coming here. And you know, this is where I learned Spanish. All those years playing with soccer with the local kids. And a few lessons,” he admitted.

  “Sounds like a great childhood,” Becca said. “We never could have afforded to go somewhere like this.”

  “To be honest, we couldn’t either. The house was free and we put our food and supplies on the Carter account at the pulpería. I think Uncle Davis paid it off, I’m not sure. We came when we could scrape together money for plane tickets. Even then, Mom sometimes had to fly back early because of her job.”

  “You keep talking about how poor you were,” Becca said.

  “That’s because we were.”

  “Relative to your grandpa and your uncles, you were poor. Relative to a family like mine, I don’t think so.”

  “No, really, we were poor,” Wes protested. “We rented our house for fifteen years before my mom managed to buy it. Sometimes we lived on ramen noodles and mac and cheese. My mom would pick up extra shifts at work, and once she got a second job waiting tables.”

  Becca turned to look at him. “Then how does she afford Riverwood?”

  “She doesn’t. If it wasn’t for state money, we’d have to move my brother to a place in Burlington.”

  “That’s the thing,” she said. “I looked through Eric’s paperwork just a couple of days ago, remember? Riverwood is expensive, because we take so many high needs residents. The state wanted to move Eric to Champlain Acres in Shelburne a few years ago.”

  “Yeah, I remember,” We
s said. “It would’ve been an hour each way to see him and that would have been tough for my mom. But she petitioned, and the state caved.”

  “No, they didn’t.” She gave him a funny look. “What happened is that your mom started to pay out of pocket instead of moving Eric.”

  He shook his head. “Sorry, but that can’t be right. It’s got to be what? Thirty thousand a year to keep him there?”

  “Way more. Starts at six grand a month, depending on the level of care. But let’s say six thousand. That would be over seventy a year.”

  “My mom is a nurse. She doesn’t make that kind of money.”

  “All I know is that she’s paying for Eric’s care. I have no idea where she gets the money. But she’s been paying for over two years now. Out of pocket.”

  If she hadn’t been so certain, Wes wouldn’t have believed it. They’d never had much money. He had no idea how much those early misadventures of his father’s had cost, but it had to be on the order of tens of thousands of dollars. They’d only just avoided bankruptcy. There was always food and a roof overhead, but Mom was also setting thermostats to 64 degrees in winter and making do with beat-up cars and home haircuts. They almost never ate out. Things had been better in the last few years, but she still worked long hours.

  So how the hell did she pay seventy thousand a year to Riverwood Care Center? Probably the same way that Rosa paid for her expensive apartment. Someone with money did it for her. Uncle Bill?

  They came to the big river crossing with its steep descent and even steeper climb up the far side. Becca closed her eyes and put her hands on the dashboard as Wes took the river. They reached the turn-off for Casa Guacamaya a few minutes later. The house was just as he remembered it.

  Casa Guacamaya was made of bamboo, raised on poles above the ground to keep out animals. Didn’t work for the monkeys, who just swung in from the trees. The coatis, relatives of raccoons and just as mischievous, often found their way inside, too. The shutters were closed against animals and trespassers, but you could prop those open and fill the house with an ocean breeze.

  Although the house was shut up, the trees were well tended, the bushes trimmed, and leaves, husks, and coconuts had been swept from the grounds. A basket sat on the ground, filled with clippings and half-eaten fruit dropped down by monkeys and birds.

  A man in shorts with no shirt or shoes came through the trees, apparently drawn by the sound of the car.

  “Sorry,” the man said as Wes and Becca stepped out. “Private house. No beach access.”

  “Hola Javier,” Wes said. “It’s me, Wesley Pilson. Davis and Bill’s nephew.”

  “Pura vida!” Javier exclaimed and his face lit up. “Nobody told me you were coming. My wife cleans the house with broom this morning. She has good time, no?”

  “Great timing.”

  “Yes, I mean timing. Let me check the radio and my wife can bring, uhm…blankets for beds.”

  “Thanks,” Wes said, “but there’s no prisa. We have milk and things to put in the fridge. After that, we’ll take a walk on the beach. You can take care of things, then. Sorry we didn’t call.”

  “No problem, Mr. Pilson.”

  “Just Wes, please.” He turned to Becca. “This is Becca. And Javier Lopez.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Becca said, holding out her hand.

  Javier shook her hand. “Pura vida. Welcome to Costa Rica.” He turned to Wes and said, “Very pretty girl that you have,” in that blunt, friendly way of Costa Rica, where little old ladies pinched the cheeks of small children and called them gordito—chubby—in an affectionate way.

  Wes smiled, but didn’t dare comment on that aside, one way or the other. “How is your wife? Lula, is that right? And two children?”

  “Yes, you remember good. One daughter, one son. Let me help with your things.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Wes said. “We don’t want to interrupt whatever you were doing.”

  Javier gave a dismissive wave of the hand. “I am fishing is all. Let me get the key. It will be only a minute.”

  He disappeared into the trees and returned with the key, then helped them bring everything into the house. The house was clean, but plastic tarps covered the furniture. It was hot inside with the windows closed. A moment later and they’d propped open the windows on the ground level and to the upstairs bedrooms and verandas.

  “You go to the beach,” Javier said. “I bring back sheets for the bed and clean this all up.”

  Wes glanced at Becca. She was out on the veranda, looking across the trees to the beach. He turned back to Javier and said, “Can you make two bedrooms?”

  “Claro que sí.”

  “Ooh, look at that!” Becca exclaimed as Javier left. “Hurry, it’s a parrot.”

  Wes came out to see. “A scarlet macaw.” It sat on a branch and let out a rasping squawk. “Tons of them around here.”

  “Hey, don’t ruin it for me. It’s pretty damn rare for me.”

  He laughed. “That’s not what I meant. What I mean is that this is the best place in the world to see scarlet macaws. That’s what Casa Guacamaya means in Spanish. Macaw House.” The macaw squawked again and lifted into the air.

  “It’s beautiful. Look, what’s that bird?” A small flock of colorful birds flew overhead, but disappeared before he could identify them. “This place is awesome,” Becca added. “Come on, let’s check out the beach.”

  He hurried to keep up. She ran down the path, stopped to exclaim about the land crabs that lived under the coconut trees on the edge of the beach, then stripped off her shoes and socks, rolled up her pants and ran for the ocean. Becca splashed through the waves. She came out a minute later, her pants wet where they’d started to fall.

  She laughed and Wes found himself laughing back. “You’re different out here,” he said.

  “What, you mean not a bitch?”

  “You’re not a bitch,” he said. “I wouldn’t even call you cynical anymore.” He searched for a word. “You’re intense. That’s what you are.”

  “It’s the only way I can survive working under Saul Cage.” She put a hand over her mouth. “I swear, that’s the last time I’ll say that name on this trip.”

  “Does that mean you’re not planning to call Vermont and find out the results of the state inspection?”

  “God, no. Come on, let’s check out those rocks.” She ran across the sand and Wes ran after her.

  Later that evening, exhaustion from the trip setting in, they sat on the upstairs veranda, drinking a couple of beers and eating chips, cookies, and sliced papaya. Neither had felt like cooking. It got dark in a hurry in the tropics and they used a single fluorescent bulb to light the veranda. The house was solar powered, which meant you had to watch the electricity at night, or the battery would exhaust itself by morning and the fridge and the fans would shut off. The light attracted bugs.

  Becca had changed from her travel clothes and wore a pair of shorts and a white top with spaghetti straps. No scrub top here. Dressed down and barefoot, she was a different person. Mellow, relaxed. Not to mention that he had a hard time taking his eyes off her.

  She set down the novel she’d scavenged from her bedroom, picked up her beer, and propped her feet on the end table. “I’d love to hang out here for the next few days, sipping piña coladas and walking barefoot on the beach, but we’ve got to come up with a plan for finding Rosa. Or at least her family. Any ideas?”

  Wes had given the matter some thought. “Problem is, there’s a lot of people who rent boats on the Osa Peninsula. Several places take fishing charters, and there are water taxis to cross the golfo. And fishermen. They rent their boats sometimes.” He took the receipt from his wallet and handed it to Becca. “See, there’s no address or letterhead, so it might be an off-the books operation.” She handed it back and he put it away. “Maybe Javier has heard of them. If not, there’s a dive shop in Puerto Jiménez. They might know.”

  “We need to be careful,” she said. “Scope t
hings out, first.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If nothing happened to Rosa we’re going to look like idiots if we blunder up to her house making claims. Or maybe they don’t know anything is wrong, because it’s only been a couple of weeks. They’ll freak out and start calling people and stuff. It will make it hard to look into this other stuff with your uncle.”

  “Believe me, I learned my lesson with Lieutenant Stiles,” he said. “It matters how you say things and in what order.”

  “The other thing is—well, it’s weird and I can’t put it together. Your uncle who died, Rosa who came to Vermont. Your other uncle and your mom and maybe your aunt—the dead guy’s wife. They’re all mixed up in something and maybe the Solorios aren’t innocent bystanders, if you know what I mean.”

  He did, and he couldn’t make any more sense of it than Becca had. “We might have to tell them who we are sooner or later. Or at least who I am. Because I want them to take me where my uncle died.”

  “You thinking of taking a dive?”

  “I’d like to, but without a dive buddy, I’ll have to snorkel instead. I can free dive—you know, what I can do on a breath of air—and swim down as far as possible.”

  She took a sip of her beer. “Why can’t I be your dive buddy?”

  “No time to get you certified. Certainly not for deep water.”

  “See, you protest that you grew up poor, but there’s something, I don’t know, upper class about the way you talk. And the way you make assumptions.”

  He blinked, confused. And wondering, all of a sudden, if everyone saw him that way. Didn’t matter at Harvard, of course, but everywhere else…what exactly, did she mean by that?

  “I’m already open water certified,” Becca explained. “Just funny that you didn’t ask. I’m not advanced open water, so I don’t want to go deep or try anything too funky.”

  “Where have you dived?” he asked, pleased.

  “Lake Champlain and once in Narragansett Bay, in Rhode Island, with my boyfriend. My ex-boyfriend,” she added quickly. “Anyway, I have my own dive computer, fins, mask. Got a wetsuit, but I looked online and they said I wouldn’t need it here, so I left it home.”