With that, he reached out and thumped the vehicle door. “ Y’all better get goin’ now if yer gonna make it back. Remember to stay in the tire tracks that’re already there.”
David gave a half salute, Diane waved and they pulled away, heading toward the Gulf. After a minute, David stopped and shifted into park. The rental jeep shimmied on its chassis from yet another blast of wind. He turned to Diane. “You sure we want to do this today? It’s your call.”
Diane glanced at her watch. She knew what David was thinking: They had been thrice warned. Last evening the Padre Island Visitor Center’s recorded message reported tropical storm development fifty miles offshore with deteriorating weather and beach conditions.
This morning, throughout Corpus Christi Airport, Diane heard fretting about the coming weather, in Spanish as well as English. And Maria, the car rental agent, had all but insisted that they purchase extra insurance after David requested a four-wheel drive vehicle that would handle well on the beach.
In a stern, motherly tone, Maria asked if they were aware the National Park Service did not tow vehicles. And the cost for a private wrecker could be several hundred, even a thousand dollars to come “down island”—that was if they could even call for help. Cell phone service out there was spotty at best. Then there was the possibility that the wrecker wouldn’t even be able to get to them.
Now, they had the park ranger’s assurance that it wouldn’t be just another day at the beach.
Diane rolled the permit into a cone shape, then rubbed it flat against her knee. “What are the chances the storm will wash Woodwind back out to sea? If, in fact, it is Woodwind.”
“We don’t know how far up on the beach the boat is. Of course, the higher the tide and the rougher the surf, the greater the chance she’ll be dislodged.”
Diane turned and made eye contact with David. “Then we’d better get to it today.”
“Here we go.” He reset the trip mileage log, put the jeep in four-wheel drive and headed out.
“David?”
“Yeah?”
“Have you ever driven on sand?”
“I grew up near here. Learned to drive on the beach.”
“Good.” Her voice cracked. “Thank you for coming.” She glanced at her watch again. It was 10:30 a.m.
The tracks the ranger spoke of were partly blown over with fresh sand. David watched for deep spots while Diane kept an eye on the columns of angry surf marching in from an inky backdrop on the distant horizon. Sand dunes loomed to their right, a reminder that they had limited space for retreat when the moon saw fit to pull the tide back in their direction.
A half hour south, the well-traveled path ran closer to the surf over teeth-jarring washboard sand. From time to time, they voted on whether to plow through the water or ford the uncharted sand above the tide line.
Ahead of the storm, hordes of suicidal Portuguese men-of-war smashed themselves onto the beach and flocks of worried sea birds paced at water’s edge rather than taking flight.
The jeep zigzagged through soft sand and splashed through water. All the while David recited the mantra: “Just keep moving, just keep moving….”
At eleven-thirty the trip log read five miles. Diane pulled the binoculars out of the back seat and scanned up ahead. She couldn’t make out anything but more beach and dunes and surf. She offered the binoculars to David.
He scanned one-handed, but the vehicle’s erratic motion made focusing difficult. Just as he handed the binoculars back to Diane, the front tires rolled off an edge and buried themselves in the sand. David weaved the jeep back and forth trying to grab some traction, but to no avail.
He muscled the door against the wind, jumped out and checked under the front tires. “Dammit,” he shouted. Diane climbed out of the jeep and was assaulted by a blast of sand. Her sunglasses protected her eyes, but her face stung and her teeth felt gritty.
David pointed behind the front tires. The jeep straddled a large tree trunk that was piled with sand on one side, which had made it invisible.
Diane zipped up her windbreaker and shouted over the surf and wind. “What can we do?”
“I know a few tricks. But first let’s climb the dunes and look down island.”
The wind played havoc with them as they stumbled up the side of a partially vine-covered dune. It was higher and steeper than it had looked from the jeep. Sliding sand filled their shoes and abraded their feet, making each step more painful than the last.
Arriving at the top, they felt they had climbed Everest. Except for the temperature, conditions couldn’t have been much worse. Sand blasted their skin, and the howling wind made hearing difficult and knocked them off balance at times.
David dug his feet in the sand and aimed the binoculars down the beach.
“There they are,” he shouted. I see two sets of campers. One pick-up truck. One Humvee. There’s a large form in the surf, not far from the Humvee. That’s probably our destination.”
David offered the binoculars to Diane who hesitated, then put them up to her eyes. She scanned the beach stopping at the dark shape in the surf. “Let’s get the jeep unstuck,” she shouted in a quivering voice.
Diane and David filled their shoes with surf water, ran it back and dumped it around the front tires, then wedged the floor mats under the rear wheels.
They climbed into the jeep, brushed the sand from their faces and gulped some of the water they had purchased on the other side of the causeway.
David started the engine and horsed the jeep around, spinning and weaving until it broke free. He pulled ahead to some hard-packed sand, and Diane ran back to retrieve the mats.
They were underway again. But driving hazards were no longer their primary focus. Diane sat quietly picking sand from her jacket, grain by grain. What if it was Woodwind down the beach? Despite pressure from Vincent’s family and her friends, she had been clinging to the belief that a memorial Mass was premature—what a joke if Vincent walked in on his own wake… But now…
David glanced over at her, then back to the beach ahead. “Why did Vincent go on that race?” His voice was gentle.
After a short silence, Diane said, “It was a lifelong goal.” She continued picking sand.
“How did you feel about that?”
“I knew that offshore racing had been his dream… and I had always been supportive of the idea…” Her tone was sad, resigned.
David waited.
“But when he chose that particular race…” she struggled with the words she had never said out loud before. “…the timing pointed to influences other than self-actualization.”
“Like what?”
“He was dissatisfied… suspicious.”
“About what?”
“You name it… the fate of Peruvase, Bellfort’s business practices in general. And he missed the University—his position there.”
“His suspicions, were they just hunches? Or did he have proof of some wrongdoing?”
Suddenly, Diane looked up from her labors and spotted a dark form just ahead. She grabbed for the binoculars and focused on the stern of the beached boat. Her breath caught in her throat. Her heart constricted. Her denial phase was over.
Diane stood beside the wrecked hull, unaware of the wind’s assault on her skin and the surf washing over her feet. Woodwind had met her lee shore. The boat lay heeled over to the starboard side, her stern angled in toward the beach. It was a somber sight.
David had gone over to thank the turtle watchers for reporting Woodwind’s beaching and for keeping an eye on her. Diane walked slowly past the stern, then around to the starboard side, which lay buried in sand. That’s when she saw the damage.
Part of the bow, just forward of the mast, had been chewed off. The leading edge of wood and fiberglass appeared as though some macabre vivisection had taken place with the use of a giant hacksaw. She covered her mouth to suppress a cry.
David reappeared. His arm reached around her shoulders. “Are you okay?”
> Dazed, Diane leaned into him. “What in God’s name could have happened out there?” she wailed.
Diane felt the sudden need to get on board. Maybe Vincent had left some clue. Maybe the video camera was still there and in working order. She could see its brine encrusted case from where she stood. She freed herself from David’s grip and headed for the boat.
Using the steering wheel as a handle, Diane pulled herself up into the near-vertical cockpit. She looked around the devastated vessel, but nothing there evoked Vincent’s presence. Then she remembered the watertight compartments up under the gunwales.
Diane planted her foot on the wheel post and pulled herself up to the port seat. Unlatching the locker hatch, she was able to wiggle her arms and shoulders into the opening. Once inside, she knew exactly where to find the hidden latch.
The compartments on either side of the boat had been installed by drug runners, Woodwind’s former owners. It occurred to her that those watertight spaces were probably responsible for keeping Woodwind afloat long enough to get ashore.
Diane flipped the latch. The hatch popped open to reveal the dry clothes she had stowed as back-ups in case Vincent had a wet trip. She carefully removed one of Vincent’s T-shirts. Printed across the front of it were Louis Pasteur’s words—Vincent’s favorite quote: “…chance favors the prepared mind.” She pressed the shirt to her cheek and, for the first time since his disappearance, she wept.
Diane wiped her face with the T-shirt, replaced her sunglasses and eased herself out of the locker and down off the steering post, the shirt still clutched in her hand.
David stood beside the boat, calf deep in surf, holding a hammer and a screwdriver he had borrowed from the campers. He offered to make an attempt at the Lucite camcorder cover.
David made the climb up over the cockpit look easier than Diane had. But his first few whacks at the camcorder’s Lucite housing did not produce the desired result.
Diane braced herself in the growing surf, which now slapped up against her Capri pants, cuffed above her knees. She watched David’s efforts, then looked toward the missing bow. Conflicting emotions washed over her. Did she really want to view the last moments of Vincent’s life?
At 2 p.m. the Humvee led the way as the little caravan headed north. Storm-heightened waves advanced inland, pushing the group closer and closer to the dunes.
Each vehicle carried precious cargo from the sea. In the Humvee, Styrofoam boxes held endangered Kemp’s ridley sea turtle eggs cradled in Padre Island sand. They were headed to a Galveston laboratory for hatching and eventual release back into the Gulf.
In the pick-up truck, iced-down redfish and speckled trout were headed to San Antonio where they would be the highlights of a birthday barbeque.
In the jeep, a condensation-stained camcorder was on its way back to Houston from where it would spawn waves around the world.
South of the motorcade, a powerful undertow pulled Woodwind back out to sea.
μ CHAPTER NINETEEN μ
Diane played four notes of Funny Valentine, dropped the cover over the piano keys and cupped her face in her hands. Vincent had made a simple request in his song, but she couldn’t comply.
She doubted she’d ever watch the video again. But she’d always be tormented with horrible visions of the hit and run—her punishment for not going on the race with her husband. If she had been on the boat, she could have taken watch giving Vincent an opportunity to rest. Maybe she would have spotted the big white yacht on radar and averted the collision.
Vincent had obviously been fatigued beyond endurance. His face was drawn, his eyes were swollen, his speech garbled. And when he sang, he had mangled the lyrics beyond all recognition, other than that moment of clarity when he asked her to play Funny Valentine one more time for him.
Vincent always said he couldn’t carry a tune. She could never get him to sing. Only a deteriorated mental state would have driven him to record a song on a video intended for ESPN and the world to see.
Huck nudged her knee, bringing her back to the present. She reached over and scratched behind his ear. He wagged his tail and licked her leg. He was hungry.
Outside, an ice cream vendor’s truck played a Scott Joplin tune, and children shouted after it. Diane forced herself to stand up and follow Huck to his empty bowl. Life went on.
Tomorrow she’d call Vincent’s father and plan a memorial Mass. Then she’d phone the Coast Guard in Galveston and arrange to take the video in to them. Perhaps their trained eyes will see more than the few letters she was able to make out on the stern of the fleeing yacht.
μ CHAPTER TWENTY μ
The helmsman approached without running lights, throttled back to a purr and ghosted into the harbor where he quickly maneuvered in beside the Enterprise. Even in the well-lit marina, the massive yacht hid his craft from the building. Satisfied, the helmsman cut the engine.
Then he waited and watched.
Diane and David slid onto the picnic benches at the restaurant. Cajun music emanated from overhead speakers, enlivening the dim surroundings.
After a moment, Diane tossed her menu aside. “There are too many selections. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
David ordered ribs, fries and Shiner Bocks for both of them.
Diane regarded the man across the table. Whatever David’s reasons, she appreciated his becoming her self-appointed guardian. She managed half a smile. “Thanks. My decision-making processes have shut down.”
David nodded in understanding.
It was 9 p.m. On the way from BRI to the restaurant, Diane and David had stopped at Diane’s house to feed Huck and drop off her car. If David hadn’t dragged Diane away, she’d still be at BRI acknowledging condolences from around the world. This was her first meal since breakfast.
Beginning early that morning, a procession of BRI staffers had come by Diane’s office to offer their sympathy and support. Spotting the videocam on her desk, they all spoke in hushed tones as if visiting a shrine. But no one mentioned the video.
Eventually Diane realized the camcorder was the 800-pound gorilla causing awkwardness in communications. She placed the camera in her desk drawer and locked it.
Maxine and Diane’s father-in-law had spread the word about Woodwind’s beaching. And by late morning the emails and phone calls began coming in from cousins, friends and colleagues around the globe.
Vincent’s sailing club had called to offer condolences. Then Gabriel Carrera phoned from Paris asking if there was anything he could do for her. His father Carlos Carrera also called; he was doing business in New York. Olimpia Garza phoned from Bogotá offering her sympathy, sounding deeply saddened.
Ignoring the frosted mug in front of her, Diane took a swig from the beer bottle.
David raised an amused eyebrow. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a bottle drinker; behind that Yankee façade beats the heart of a good ol’ gal.”
“I’m actually an Iron City girl—weaned straight from the milk bottle to the beer bottle. Vincent’s Mother, God rest her soul, hated that about me.”
David smiled, held up his Shiner Bock in a toast and took a long swallow. Then he said in a careful tone: “Were you able to make the videocam work?”
Diane took another gulp of beer, then nodded solemnly. “Yes… But I couldn’t bring myself to watch it.”
David reached over and touched her arm. “I’m so sorry about all this.”
Diane avoided eye contact with him while considering her response. At that moment the food arrived, saving her fragile composure from crumbling in the face of David’s sympathy.
Her cell phone rang. She swallowed a bite of French fry, then answered. Hearing Wilbur’s voice on the other end, she remembered she was on administrative call.
Wilbur had been BRI’s evening security guard for years. He frequently thought of reasons to phone when Diane was on call. Often she found it endearing, but sometimes—like right then—she was annoyed.
Wilbur’s calls always went
something like: “Your office lights are still on, Doc. Are you coming back this evening.” Or else: “There’s some lights burned out down in the harbor. Should I have someone change them tonight, or wait until morning?”
But tonight, after Wilbur’s initial greeting, she knew this call was different. His words raced incoherently in a timbre verging on hysteria.
“Slow down, Wilbur. I can’t understand you.”
Diane heard him panting, then: “Someone broke into BRI. The police are on their way. Doesn’t seem to be a whole lotta damage. Musta been the… What the… Oh shit! S’cuse my French, Doc, but one of the chimpanzees just went hot-footin’ past here… What was I saying? Oh, yeah: Musta been the animal rights activists, like before.”
μ CHAPTER TWENTY ONE μ
The police arrived just behind Diane and David. David asked them to turn off their flashing lights for fear of frightening the chimps and driving them toward the bluff.
Diane headed to the locker room to change into her jogging clothes. When she returned, Wilbur gave his report of the incident to her, David, Maxine and officers Sabbatini and Conway.
The guard had been at the gatehouse most of the evening. The perpetrators must have come and gone by boat. They left the cages at the primate house open; all five chimpanzees were on the loose. Wilbur had driven his golf cart through the jogging trails and heard chimps screaming up in the trees; evidence that at least some of them were still on the property.
Wilbur had called Raymond Bellfort and Maxine. Bellfort was the first to arrive. He was inside surveying damage.
Throughout Wilbur’s monologue, Maxine wrung her hands and shifted from foot to foot. “You have to get moving before the animals freak out and jump into the bay.”
Just then Raymond showed up with three air rifles and a container of tranquilizer darts in a canvas shoulder bag.
He handed rifles to David and Wilbur and the darts to Diane. “Ah… not much damage inside. Some broken glass and so forth in the labs. You all head out with Wilbur. I’ll take the other cart.” He turned on his heel and left.
Lab Notes: a novel Page 11