Savage Truth

by Jack Hardin

  “Where were they staying?” I asked.

  “At the Résidence Batelière. In Saint-Anne.”

  “Here.” He held out the keys to the Toyota to me. “Take the Land Cruiser. Use it as you wish.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You will keep me abreast of your investigation’s developments?”

  “Of course,” I lied.

  We thanked him and shook hands. Ellie and I retraced our steps out of the building, and I got in behind the wheel. Ellie went around and got in beside me.

  “Okay,” she said, “Where to?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  We drove out of Fort-de-France and used the A1 to connect to National Freeway 8. Saint-Anne was perched on the southernmost tip of the island, an hour south of the capital city. The road was circuitous, cutting through low rises in between rugged mountain peaks, and twisting back toward the coast before turning inland again and presenting a straighter path across a valley ripe with banana, coffee, and pineapple farms.

  We entered the seaside town and drove slowly down Domaine de Belfond. Signs along the road pointed inland, showing the way to popular hiking trails, and street vendors stood beside colorful booths that sold everything from Diet Coke to seashell necklaces and beach umbrellas.

  I continued on toward the beach where Edward and his son were last seen, parking in a paved lot on a low rise just above the beach, where a row of sturdy palm trees lined the edge of the pavement. Down past the parking lot, a network of buildings sat against the beach. Air-conditioned shops sold everything from ice cream to sunscreen and bikinis.

  Ellie and I got out of the Land Cruiser and looked down at the water.

  “Pretty,” she said quietly.

  “Yeah.” I knew what she was thinking. I was thinking it, too. When you came to vacation in a place like this, the underlying assumption was that bad things weren’t supposed to happen. You came here to get away from the crazy, the fear, and the struggles of everyday life.

  But for some reason, it hadn’t worked out that way for the Lathams.

  Ellie and I each had a picture of Edward, and one of Rory. Sometimes the only way to get things moving is just good old-fashioned gumshoeing. I looked down the beach and then back again. “Want to draw sticks?” I asked Ellie.

  She looked to our right, where the beach ran straight for two hundred yards and then jutted south against a natural breakwater formed of volcanic stone. “I’ll start down there and work my way back to the shop keepers.”

  “Meet back here in...” I glanced at my watch. “Two hours?”

  “It’s a plan.”

  We parted ways, and I made my way down the sandy slope and onto the beach. Tourists were out in droves, sunbathing, reading under the shade of an umbrella, and splashing in the water. Farther down, a couple of kids were tossing a frisbee, and a group of young adults was engaged in a game of volleyball.

  The sand was bright white and as fine as sugar, and the temperature hovered perfectly in the high seventies.

  I retrieved my wallet from my back pocket, tugged out the pictures, then proceeded down the beach, interrupting sunbathers, readers, and waders, asking if they recalled seeing the Lathams.

  No one had. Some of them had only arrived over the last twenty-four hours. Others had clearly been too inebriated or too busy having their own fun to recall an average middle-aged man with his son.

  I walked over two miles to the end of the beach and then turned back around, trying to identify anyone I had missed on the way down that I could present the photos to.

  I stopped at a high wooden-frame chair where a bare-chested lifeguard was sitting underneath a generous umbrella. “Excuse me,” I said and handed up the photos to him. “Have you seen either of these people in the last several days?”

  He took the pictures and studied them. “Yes,” he said in a French accent. “I’ve seen the boy. He was throwing sand at a young girl out near the surf. I called out for him to stop it.”

  “And you’re sure this is him?”

  “Yes. I am sure. He had that scar on his cheek.”

  “What about his father?”

  He looked at the photo of Edward again. “No. Not him.” He handed them back.

  “When was this?”

  “Two—no, three days ago.”

  “You’re sure it was three?”

  “Yes. I’m sure. I work five days on and five days off. It was my first day back on shift.”

  “What about after that? Did you see them yesterday?”

  “No. Why are you asking?”

  “They’ve gone missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “Did you tell the police you had seen him when they came around asking?”

  He frowned. “No. No, they haven’t been down here. No one has asked me about these people.”

  That contradicted what Chief Robine had told me and Ellie at his office. “Wait. The police haven’t asked about them? Maybe you weren’t here when they came asking.”

  “Like I said, I work five days on—six hours here on the beach...” He turned and pointed to another lifeguard sitting at the treeline. “And I work six hours back there.”

  That was a lot of hours for a lifeguard to get in in a single day. That would never fly in the States. Lifeguards there weren’t allowed to work more than eight or nine hours.

  He continued. “We take quick breaks for the restroom when we need to, but I wouldn’t have missed the cops coming around.”

  “Have you heard of anything unusual? Something about a couple of tourists being taken?”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  I thanked him and continued to retrace my steps. By the time I made it back to the beach’s entrance, the sun was low in the west, bleeding orange and red across the sky. Ellie was just coming out of a shop when I stepped onto the brick-paved sidewalk.

  “Any luck?” I asked.

  “No. The owner of the ice cream shop remembers Rory coming in twice a day for a cone of mint chocolate chip. She hasn’t seen him in two days. And a man renting out snorkeling equipment on the beach remembers seeing Edward. But not recently. What about you?”

  I relayed my conversation with the lifeguard. “He said the cops haven’t come around asking about the Lathams. He was sure of it.”

  “That’s exactly what the snorkel guy told me. He said he’s here all the time and hasn’t heard a thing about them going missing.”

  “Great,” I said. “So now we’re dealing with dirty cops. That helps to narrow the field.”

  We returned to our rise and pulled away from the beach in a slow-moving line of cars packed with sunburned tourists who were leaving with the sun. Ellie brought out her phone and recited our options for dinner. We settled on Les Otantick, a local favorite on the edge of the town square. Ellie selected a crepe with potato, ham, and Brie, and I ordered a sweet potato crepe with a side of baked chicken.

  I could see the concern in Ellie’s eyes. She clearly wasn’t an agent who simply wanted to get the job done, get back home, and put her feet up. She cared about the victims. That, I could respect in anyone. Being one of the good guys meant that if you didn’t succeed at your mission, others suffered as a result.

  As we ate, Ellie relayed stories of recent cases she had worked, and I told her about the time I came here with my wife what felt like a lifetime ago. I miss Megan more than I can say, and still wonder when, if ever, I’ll be able to move on.

  By the time we finished our meal, it was full-on dark. We paid our tab and drove across town to the Résidence Batelière, the hotel where the Lathams had stayed. It was a one-story motel built in an old colonial style, painted cream with dark green trim and dark green doors. The rooms were set along a network of covered, open-air breezeways, and at the crossways grew healthy hibiscus and banana trees.

  We grabbed our backpacks from the back and entered the main lobby. The young lady behind the desk was tall, with skin the color of coffee. “May I help you?”

  �
��Two rooms, please.”

  “Of course.” Her fingers worked over the keyboard. “I do not have any adjoining rooms at the moment.”

  “That’s fine,” I said and slid my Homeland-issued credit card across the counter. I signed the paperwork and after we were presented with our room keys, Ellie placed the two photos on the counter.

  The young lady’s expression told us that she recognized Rory and Edward.

  “Are you looking for them?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Ellie said. “Anything you can tell us would be helpful.”

  “I checked them in one week ago. The boy, he was serious. The father appeared happy to be here. Happy that his boy was with him. I remember that he kept ruffling the boy’s hair and saying how much fun they were going to have here on the island.”

  “Did the father seem nervous or concerned about anything?” Ellie asked.

  “No. As I said, he seemed to be happy. It was the boy who appeared to have reservations about being here.”

  “Did you ever see Mr. Latham here with anyone else or has anyone come in and inquired about him?” I asked. “Even before they disappeared?”

  “No. Not that I recall. The police came and retrieved the items from their room last night.”

  “Is the room still vacant?”

  “No. A couple on their honeymoon checked in this morning. They were given that room.”

  Ellie and I exchanged a glance. That was fishy too. You don’t clear out the room of a missing person and then rent it again while the case is fresh and active. I’m sure they did things a little differently out here, but a move like this violated common sense 101.

  We thanked the clerk and followed the signs out of the lobby and down the open corridor. Ellie’s room came up on the left. She slid her key card into the lock and yanked it out.

  “Ellie.”

  She pushed open the door and paused.

  “We’ll find the boy. I promise. We’ll find both of them.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I know we will. Good night, Ryan.”

  “Good night, Ellie.”

  She went in, and I heard her door click shut as I made my way down the corridor. After turning down two additional breezeways, I located my room and quickly found my way to the shower.

  The day had been a bust, as far as the investigation was concerned. But it was clear enough that Robine had lied to us and that the local police were complicit in Fagan’s scheme in one way or another.

  I got out of the shower, brushed my teeth, and got in between the sheets.

  After a long but unproductive day, I slept.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The telephone on my nightstand woke me, plucking me from a dreamless sleep when it was still dark outside. Groggy-eyed, I looked at the digital clock beside the phone: 05:20. It kept ringing, an ear-splitting cry that kept on at an obnoxious and unusually rapid-fire cadence.

  I leaned into an elbow, reached out, and grabbed up the receiver. “Yeah.”

  “Ryan, it’s Ellie. Come to my room. Quickly.” She hung up.

  I threw the sheets off and swung my feet onto the floor.

  What was that about?

  I walked over to the sink and splashed water in my face. After hurriedly brushing my teeth, I slipped on my cargo shorts, a polo shirt, and my sneakers. I grabbed my wallet, the car keys, and the room card and left the room.

  Reaching Ellie’s door, I rapped on it lightly. It swung open almost immediately. I stepped in, and Ellie shut it behind me.

  Another lady was in the room, sitting on the edge of the bed. She was dark-skinned and wore the crisp dress and apron of a room attendant. Her hands were fidgeting anxiously in her lap.

  “Ryan,” Ellie said. “This is Amandine.”

  I dipped my chin. “Hello.”

  “Amandine knocked on my door a few minutes ago. She wanted to tell me something. Once she started talking, I stopped her so you could be a part of this, too. Amandine, would you like to start over and tell Ryan what you told me?”

  “Yes. Okay.” Her voice was soft, and I had to strain to hear her.

  “Elodie is my best friend.”

  Elodie was the name of the lady who checked us into our rooms last night.

  “She told me that you are here from the United States looking for the man and his boy.”

  I glanced at Ellie, but her attention was fully fixed on Amandine.

  “I think I might know something that can help you,” Amandine said.

  “Amandine is a room maid here at the hotel,” Ellie said. “Her shift doesn’t start for another half an hour, but she came to the hotel early to speak with us. She’s afraid that someone might learn that she spoke with us.”

  “I’m sure Ellie told you that we’ll make sure that doesn’t happen,” I said. “We won’t tell anyone about this meeting.”

  Amandine nodded, as though she was trying to muster up the courage to keep talking. “They are dangerous. If they knew… they would hurt me. And my mother.”

  “Go on,” Ellie pressed. “It’s all right.”

  “My cousin, he works for the gendarmerie—the police. He was at my home two nights ago, having drinks with my older brother. It is a usual thing for them to do, perhaps two or three nights each week. The back porch is near my bedroom window, and sometimes I can hear their conversation. It’s usually about things I am not interested in, but the other night their voices suddenly lowered, and because I was curious, I tried to pick up on the conversation.”

  Amandine slid her hands down the front of her apron, as though trying to smooth out the wrinkles. “They began to speak about ‘the boy’ and ‘the father.’ They did not speak any names. But when my brother said that the money was very good, they both laughed and toasted each other.”

  “Did they say anything else that might have been more specific?” Ellie asked.

  “Just that the boy already had one more scar to add to the one on his cheek.”

  Ellie met my gaze. “What is your cousin’s name?” I asked Amandine.

  “Matthieu Sepion. And he is one of the police who came to get Mr. Latham’s belongings from the hotel.”

  “And where can I find Matthieu?”

  “He is no longer on the island. Both he and my older brother went to Saint Lucia. I do not know when they will return.” She frowned deeply. “My cousin is not a good man. How he became a police, I do not know. He used to break into people's houses before he joined the police.”

  “Do you think that the Lathams are on Saint Lucia?” I asked.

  “Perhaps the father is. The boy is here, I think, on Martinique.” She looked over at Ellie. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to give you wrong information.”

  “You’re doing fine,” Ellie said. “Why do you think Rory is here and not with his father?”

  “The next day I heard whispers among the hotel staff that the Lathams had gone missing—our local news has been quiet about it. And I began to wonder if that is what my brother—Liam—and Matthieu were in discussion about the night before. So I followed Matthieu last night to Les Anses-d'Arlet. It’s a small town on the west side of the island. They drove to a small building set back into the trees. I couldn’t see well from where I was, but I waited and when they came back out, they were carrying something. At first I thought it was a large dog—it had a sack over its head. It was thrashing a little. But then I saw a pair of shoes. It had to be the boy.”

  “Did you follow them after they left?” Ellie asked.

  “No. I should have. But I was too scared. It’s in the country. I was afraid that they would see the lights of my car.”

  “You did great,” Ellie said. She picked up a pen and small writing pad bearing the hotel’s logo from the nightstand and held it out to Amandine. “Can you provide us with the address to the place you went?”

  Amandine took the offered items, scratched something across the paper, and gave them back. “After what I saw, I could not sleep last night. So that’s why I came to you. If that
boy is what I saw, then I cannot be quiet.” Her hands flexed in anger. “It is not right. Why would they take a boy like that?”

  “They want his father to do something for them,” I said.

  “I hope you find them,” she said. “The boy, he plucked a blossom from a hibiscus in the breezeway one morning and offered it to me as I passed.”

  “Why do you think your brother and cousin suddenly went to Saint Lucia?” I asked.

  “I asked my mother last night. She said she overheard Liam talking about having to go guard the prisoner. She didn't seem to think much about it, but my brother is not a guard. And my brother is not a policeman. Why would he go with him?”

  Amandine stood up, and Ellie saw her out, promising once again that we would keep her name out of everything. When the young lady was gone, I said to Ellie, “Why don’t you call your team in Fort Myers and see if they can’t track down the phone locations on these two goons. I’ll rent a boat and run down to Saint Lucia. Why don’t you stay here and track down the kid?”

  “Okay.” She brought out her phone.

  “Ditch the Land Cruiser,” I said. “There's a fair chance they have a tracker on it.”

  She smiled and held up her phone to me. The Enterprise Rent A Car app filled the screen. “Way ahead of you.”

  “Call me if you need anything.” I opened the door and stepped to the threshold. “Be safe, samurai.”

  She looked up from her phone. “I can handle myself.”

  Something about the way she said that left no room for doubt.

  I took a cab to the Saint-Anne Marina and rented a 23-foot Bowrider with a 250 horsepower outboard. A ferry, known locally as L’Express des Iles (“The Express of the Islands”), makes a daily run to cover the twenty miles between Martinique and Saint Lucia. It was a 420-passenger ferry, fully equipped with a stocked restaurant and bar, an in-house entertainment system, as well as an air-conditioned deck.

  But since I wasn’t here to party, I skipped out.