by Storm, Buck
Easy and Doc scrambled to the lines and sheets.
“Jibe ho!” she said.
She swung the wheel, and the men ducked as the big booms hesitated, then pulled to the opposite side of the boat as the sails reversed in the wind. Easy, Doc and Lan cranked to trim, and the Lazarus leaned hard to starboard.
“You’re becoming a regular old salt, Miss Scarlett,” Lan said, laughing. “So is your boy up there. Told you he’d find his sea legs.”
Paradise glanced at Doc. He’d found a pair of deck shoes somewhere that fit. His cargo shorts were soaked, and water ran down his shirtless torso. He stood out on the bowsprit, one hand on the forestay and back to the forward horizon. He laughed at something Easy said.
“I have to admit, he looks better than yesterday,” she said.
“No doubt about that. A whole lot better. Not green. The fish are disappointed he’s not feeding them, though.”
Turning the boat while sailing upwind, Paradise learned, was tacking. When away from the wind, jibing. At the moment, the Lazarus dug into the swells on a broad reach, with the wind off the port rail and a little behind them.
“I think I’m beginning to understand a little,” Paradise said.
Lan reached around her and made a slight direction adjustment to the wheel. “And what’s that, darlin’?”
“The attraction. Of being out here. The sun and wind. The horizon … It makes me want to see what’s on the other side of it.”
“Ah, now that’s the stuff that dreams are made of, isn’t it? Same feeling that pushed the Vikings across the Atlantic. Columbus to the Americas. Lewis and Clark across a continent. That horizon is an elusive mistress, let me tell you.”
Doc made his way aft and dropped into the cockpit. “I could get used to this.”
“You look like you’re having a good time up there,” Lan said.
“This is great, Lan. And how’s our girl doing? She yells like she’s the queen of the high seas.”
“Like a fish to water,” Lan said.
Doc lay across a bench and propped himself up on an elbow.
Paradise looked down at him. “What are you grinning about?”
“Are you glad that you decided to stay out here today?”
“Prepare to Jibe! Jibe ho!” Paradise shouted.
Easy and Lan grabbed sheets and trimmed as Paradise turned the wheel and the huge wooden booms swung hard across the deck.
“Okay, I admit it. I’m having fun,” she said.
Doc dropped to his back and put his hands behind his head, looking up at her.
“Stop that,” she said.
“Stop what?”
“You know what.”
As the western sun wandered away from the Gulf in search of the Pacific, the wind began to die again, though big swells still rolled under the Lazarus. Very unlike last night’s glass. Paradise, finally willing to leave the cockpit, helped Easy in the galley. Nothing fancy tonight—sandwiches, chips, salad and a pot of fresh coffee.
Lan and Doc dropped down the steps into the salon, and Doc headed off to find some dry clothes.
Lan poured himself a cup and took a seat at the table. “Dropped everything but the main and lashed the wheel. Old girl’s on her own for a bit. I’m starving, kids. Good day, yes?”
“Aye, good day, boss,” Easy said.
“Great day,” Paradise said. “So, Lan, after all that sailing, where are we now? I still can’t see land.”
“Funny thing about the ocean, isn’t it? I figure we made about a hundred and twenty-five miles today. But—and here’s the good news for you, Miss Scarlett—we’re right about the same place we started. We can get some sleep and then tool over toward Corpus in the morning.”
Doc came back in. Barefoot in a T-shirt and dry shorts.
Lan reached from his chair, poured from the pot and slid Doc a cup of coffee. “How about you, Doc? We still headed for the Yucatan? You, me and Easy? Find all that gold and the meaning of life?”
Doc sipped the coffee. “The coins indicated a place called Dia Perdido—the mission there.”
“I know Dia Perdido well,” Lan said. “Close to the coast but tucked back in the jungle and forgotten, really. Tourist business missed it somehow. The locals like it that way. Been a while, but the folks at the mission are friends of mine. It’ll be good to see them again. So that’s a yes? We sail to Mexico?”
Doc’s eyes searched Paradise’s. She focused on cutting a tuna sandwich. “Of course, he’s going.” She didn’t look up. “It’s important, Doc. You have to.”
“And you? You’re really going back? You can’t give it a few more days?”
“There’s no point. If the studio can protect me like Arnie says, then there’s no reason for me to be here.”
His sadness was palpable.
“Doc, I didn’t mean it that way. You know I didn’t.”
“What do you want, Paradise?”
She thought the question came from Lan. The knife dropped from her hand to the counter, causing her to jump.
“What, Lan?” she said.
Lan sipped his coffee. “Did I say something?”
“Didn’t you just ask me what I wanted?”
Lan eyed her with curiosity. “Nope.”
Later, food gone and dishes done, Lan opened a cabinet and turned on the stereo while Easy made his way topside to check on things. Nat King Cole reported that it was only a paper moon. Easy dropped back in and pulled a deck of cards from a drawer. The four of them played rummy for the next couple hours, Easy winning almost every hand. No one seemed anxious to turn in. At last, Easy put the cards away and headed back up topside to take first watch. Lan stood, stretched, said his own goodnights, and ambled toward the aft cabin.
“So. Tomorrow, then,” Doc said. “You’re really going?”
“Yes, tomorrow … Will you come visit, Doc? I’ll miss you, you know. I really will.”
“I’ll come with you if you want. All you have to do is ask.”
“I’ll be okay. Burt won’t bother me.”
“Burt has nothing to do with it.”
His face—so earnest in the dim light of the salon.
She bit her lip. “We’d better get some sleep.”
Doc sighed. “Yeah. But I’ll always tell you how I feel. I don’t care if you’re the biggest movie star in the world or living out of your Olds. I won’t hide my feelings or lie to you.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
She managed to force emotion down but later, alone in her bunk, listening to the water rush by just inches away, a tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it with a hard hand. What was going on? The situation had gotten out of control. For years, she’d dreamed and worked, hoping against hope that this day would come. Now here it was, and all she could think about was the way a baseball player had danced with her in a bar.
Ridiculous. Pull yourself together!
“What do I want?” she whispered to the darkness.
No one answered.
“So now you’re quiet? Too busy, suddenly? Out saving the world or something?”
She rolled over and stared through the porthole. Spray blew up, glowing green with luminescence.
“Shouldn’t I go? It’s so hard. What about Arnie? What about Ash? No, I have to go. I’ll be happy … finally.”
Her muscles ached from the long day. Fatigue cracked the door, and sleep crept in on quiet feet.
“Be famous to me, Paradise,” the water whispered as it met hundred-year-old wood.
Then she dreamed of the ship’s wheel and the sails and water dancing in the sun high over the bow.
CHAPTER FORTY
Whales
A loud knock jolted Paradise upright. Then Lan’s voice. “Paradise, you there? Wake up. Need everyone on deck.”
Paradise hung her legs over the edge of the bunk and started to stand. Something boomed against the hull and the Lazarus listed to a crazy angle. She tumbled onto the hard floor.
Lan kno
cked again. “Paradise! You coming?”
“Yes!” She struggled into her clothes. “What’s going on?”
No answer. He must have headed up. Paradise followed, reeling down the hall and through the salon. The view through the cockpit door seemed something right out of a Landon Prescott movie. The big man gripped the wheel like some insane pirate king. Rain and seawater streamed off his hair and beard. As Paradise climbed through the door, the force of the wind struck—a giant fist. Lan grabbed her and pulled her to him, strapping her into a harness and placing her body between his and the wheel.
He shouted into her ear, the wind yanking his words into the wild night. “You hold tight here! Hold this course, you hear me? Watch the bow and don’t wander if you can help it! We want to quarter the waves. See what I mean? At about a forty-five degree angle.”
She nodded. Please let this be a dream!
Lan shouted again. “We’re in it now, girl! This is a real blow. Came out of nowhere! Nothin’ on the satellite. Gonna take all of us on deck for a while! I need to help the boys reef the sails. Set her up for the storm before it shreds the canvas. You just do as I tell you and hold her here!”
Again she nodded. “I’m scared, Lan!”
“Ha! You should be, girl! This is the ocean! This is God in his glory! You’re scared, but you’re alive! Really alive!” He turned his face to the sky and gave a great rebel yell.
Lightning turned the night to instant daylight, followed by the deafening roar of thunder.
Lan moved to the front of the wheel, and his eyes met Paradise’s. Even through her terror, his smile was contagious.
“Be alive, girl. Be alive!” Over his shoulder a massive mountain of water rose, dwarfing the Lazarus. Paradise’s heart leaped to her throat.
“Lan!” she screamed.
Turning, he grabbed the wheel again. “Hold on, girl! She’ll ride it out!”
Lazarus rose, climbing up the face of the monster wave. The boat crested, then raced down the other side, a ninety-foot child’s toboggan on a watery slope.
Lan gave another yell. This time Paradise followed suit.
“You got her?” Lan shouted.
“I got her!”
Lan patted her shoulder, then half ran, half crawled over the bucking deck to where Doc and Easy were scrambling to secure the sails and lash things down, the three of them wearing harnesses of their own.
Lightning crashed again. Truck Stop Jesus grinned from the bulkhead.
“You don’t look worried!” Paradise shouted.
Thumbs-up.
The storm raged on, and the Lazarus crested mountain after mountain of raging water. Eventually, the three men made their way back to the cockpit.
“It don’t look like it’s letting up, boss!” Easy said.
“Nope, it’s a wild one, sure enough. Well, boys and girls, you said you wanted to go sailing! We’re sailing now!”
Lan took the wheel again, and Paradise collapsed to the cockpit bench next to Doc. He put his arm around her, and she didn’t pull away.
“You did great up there, Doc!” Lan said. “Glad you were here!”
“What now?” Doc shouted.
“Now we hold on and wait! There’s no off switch for a storm! You might try to get some sleep if you can. Me and Easy will get her hove to and keep the mast-side up.”
Paradise gratefully tumbled into her bunk. Though she’d manned the helm but a short time, her body felt as if she’d run a marathon. The Lazarus yawed and heaved, creaking against the elements. She listened for a voice in the rushing sea and wind but heard none.
“You picked a heck of a time to check out of the conversation,” she mumbled.
“I didn’t know we were having one. I do most of the talking.”
“Where have you been?”
“Everywhere. You need to go with Doc to Mexico.”
“What? Are you telling now? No more asking?”
“It’s just my opinion. Not that any others matter.”
“What if I don’t?”
“You ever heard of Jonah?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
The storm raged, unabated and unconcerned by any conversation going on in Paradise’s fatigued brain. The sky lightened only a fraction, with the coming dawn bringing a pale, green light to the porthole by the bunk.
Sleep came.
And Paradise dreamed of whales.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The Lost Day
Hollister stared out at the soggy day. “I hate rain.”
Crystal counted out sit-ups on the tile floor. “Ninety-nine … a hundred.” She stood and flopped onto the bed.
Not even out of breath. The woman was a machine.
“Enjoy, moron. Don’t be a whiner. Look how pretty the jungle is,” she said.
“I hate the jungle.”
“Think of it as a second honeymoon. Free trip to Mexico.”
“I hate Mexico. And what do you mean second? When was the first?” Hollister said.
“The first was Catalina Island.”
“Catalina? You got drunk and almost killed that bouncer, remember? I spent three days sitting around waiting for them to let you out of jail.”
“That’s what made it so sweet, moron. You waited.”
While everyone on the planet had heard of Cancun, no one north of the border ever heard of Dia Perdido, or “Lost Day” in English, according to the tourist maps. At least not outside of a few rum-soaked ex-pats and surfers who somehow found their way down here. A thirty-mile, rut-riddled road wound through dense jungle, providing the only way into the place. The road turned to potholed asphalt and stone on one edge of town, then back to dirt again at the other where a sign made from a broken surfboard said “Beach-3K.”
Who knew how the ancient buildings edging what passed for Main Street withstood the insane heat and humidity of the Yucatan Peninsula? Let alone how any human being survived? These were mysteries above Hollister’s pay grade. And somehow—he especially couldn’t wrap his brain around this one—the drenching rain brought no relief from the heat.
Ain’t life grand … What is it they say? This ain’t hell but you can sure see it from here …
Lost day? More like a lost world.
Casa Vieja Cabra. The name rolled off the tongue like it should be a five-star hotel. The desk clerk informed Hollister it meant the Old Goat, then eyed him like he’d be a good fit for a mascot. Whatever—the place offered the only reasonable option for accommodations, and after a bone-jarring, two-day road trip through the cheerful opulence of the Third World, Hollister accepted the place, if not with gratitude, then at least with resignation.
And then it had started raining.
And raining …
And raining …
Hollister groaned. “What is it, like a hundred and eighty degrees? How do people live in this? I feel like I should swim instead of walk.”
Crystal ignored him.
Sweat streamed off every exposed part of her body in rivulets, soaking her spandex workout clothes. Her Mohawk lay sideways—tired and limp.
“What happened to Simmons, anyway?” Hollister said.
“He’ll be here. Quit whining.”
“I still can’t believe you told him about the coins. You know the greedy idiot is gonna try to take anything we find at that church. Assuming there’s anything to find.”
Crystal took a long swig of some concoction she’d managed to wrangle the poor woman who worked in the kitchen to blend for her. She proceeded to burp the alphabet, only making it to G. “What’s your problem? We get the princess. Get the forty large. Find the gold with Simmons’ clues—which we wouldn’t have had, if I hadn’t told him, by the way—beat the snot out of him and his daughter. Dump ’em in a ditch and live happily ever after. Why do you always have to make everything so complicated?”
“This is Mexico, Crystal! You ever been in a Mexican prison? It’s not a day spa.”
“Who said anything about pris
on, moron? Anyway, Simmons already said I could pound Little Miss Muffet—which you lied about—so that’s not even a crime. And who’s he gonna tell? Since he’s the one telling us to beat her up?”
Hollister rubbed his temples. “As usual, none of what you just said makes any sense. I don’t know what you’re talking about half the time anymore.”
“’Cause you’re a fat-old-man-soft-lazy-moron. I’m gonna take a shower.” Crystal dropped for thirty more push-ups, hopped up, shadowboxed the mirror, then headed for the bathroom, stripping off her sweat-soaked clothes and humming the theme to Footloose.
Hollister went back to staring out the window. “What’s the point of anyone showering in this dump? You’re always wet anyway.” Not that he’d complain about Crystal cleaning up a little.
What had happened? Where had life gone? There’d been a time—a hundred years ago—when he and Crystal were happy. Was that possible? Or as happy as a stuntman and a cage fighter could be. Which, come to think of it, was pretty happy. He’d even liked her stupid humming back then.
At what point in a relationship does cute become crazy? Well, they’d passed it, brother.
A knock on the hotel room door jerked him to the present. Must be Simmons.
It wasn’t.
“Hola, señor.”
“Who are you?” Hollister said.
A tall, thin man stood on the veranda. He wore loose-fitting, black cotton slacks and a white guayabera shirt. Rain and sweat rendered the guayabera semi-transparent, showing a dirty undershirt beneath. A gold crucifix hung around the man’s neck, and a nasty scar split his thin mustache.
The man removed an American ball cap from his head and shook the rain off it. “Señor Simmons, he sent me.”
Hollister ran his eyes over the man again. “Man, what did Simmons do, look in the local yellow pages under B-grade Mexican thug?”
The man gave a slow blink. “You don’t have to be rude, señor.”
“Excuse me?”
“Maybe you hurt people’s feelings sometimes, talking like that.”
“You carrying a purse?” Hollister said, nodding at a canvas bag looped over the Mexican’s shoulder.
“No, it’s a carry-all.”
“Huh, same difference if you ask me.”