Tortugas Rising

by Benjamin Wallace

  “Is this a trap?” Steve waved a hand at the crowd.

  She smiled and turned onto a path that led them away from the audience.

  They passed an intersection of the narrow cart paths and a second cart fell in line behind them. Steve waved to the two security guards in the cart. They did not respond.

  “Not too friendly.”

  “But, professional. Which would you rather have protecting you?”

  “I never really felt like I was in any danger here.”

  “See?”

  Katherine took a sweeping left on the cart path; Steve grabbed the roof to keep himself in the cart. The black asphalt path widened to two cart lanes and a walking lane on either side. The security guards fell further behind them.

  Moments later they were amongst a group of buildings that lined the meandering path. Architecturally, the buildings resembled a ski village. Each was larger than most nestled mountain hamlets could afford, but the inspiration was clear.

  Designers’ names marked the stores. Display windows featured the latest fashions from around the world. Steve counted no less than four jewelers, not including the watchmakers Patek Philippe, Blancpain, and Glashütte.

  There were several cafés, a nightclub or two, and multiple stores and boutiques lining the narrow avenues and side streets. Katherine sped by them all.

  “Aren’t you going to point out the sites?”

  “It’s all in the brochure.”

  “So where are you taking me?”

  “You’ll see.”

  She turned towards the west end of the island and the setting sun.

  TEN

  The law offices of Thomas Campbell were pristine. Every folder was filed away each night before he left, and the mahogany furniture was polished to reflection by the next morning. Much like the older man, the offices were prim, proper, and presentable to the most refined clientele.

  The attorney slid one final folder into his drawer before reaching for the only light that illuminated his office. It was the Bennett folder.

  He smiled as he tucked it away. For more years than he could remember he had managed the affairs of Steve’s father. Henri Delacroix had been a businessman to the core. The shrewd investor and marketer had amassed a fortune like none other in the Canadian provinces. Lumber, oil, plastics, the richness of Canada’s natural resources had given the man his start. Soon after, he moved into publishing and venture capitalism.

  Pharmaceuticals, tech firms, and construction projects deepened his portfolio and his pockets. Art and antiques, even classic cars, enriched the man’s extensive accounts. It seemed nothing he touched would spoil.

  This was not without careful consideration. Everything Henri Delacroix acquired was carefully researched, analyzed, and dissected until he was certain there was a fortune to be had.

  It had come as a great shock to Thomas when he discovered he would be contacting young Steven Bennett of Dallas, Texas, to hand over the fortune and the company that his father had built.

  Delacroix had always taken great care of himself. Daily runs around his estate in upper Ontario would keep any man fit. And the adventures he pursued in the rare time he took off certainly kept his spirit young: safaris in Africa, hiking through the Alps, sport fishing, and any other adventure that could be arranged by a travel agent or outfitter. But, in the end no matter of good health could save him.

  The accident was tragic. A drunk driver crossed the road and met Delacroix head-on. On this rare occasion, he had been driving himself. Had he been in his Rolls with his driver, there was little doubt he would have survived the wreck; but that day he had felt the need to indulge his desire for excitement.

  German engineering was a passion and the Porsche was one of his favorite acquisitions. One Henri truly enjoyed. He collected traffic citations like trophies, each recording a new top speed.

  The true irony of the accident was that he was stopped at a light, idling the GT2, when the minivan crossed over into his lane and ended his life.

  With so much invested in his dear friend’s life and work, Campbell found it difficult to process the will. Instead he turned to his associates. He managed his associates through the bulk of it, scrutinizing the smallest details, but never taking the full document in. This was how it proceeded, until he learned of the boy. News of an heir was difficult to believe. He had known Henri Delacroix for more than thirty years and, even though Campbell suspected that the man had many children throughout the world, he was surprised to discover that his old friend was aware of them. He had never spoken of the young man; he had never reached out to the boy.

  Thomas was quite sure the boy would be as shocked to find out that he had a father in Canada, as he was to find out that he was now in the upper ranks of the Forbes list.

  For this, Thomas resented Steve. That the son who never knew the father should take on the rewards of an empire built by a great man was unjust. But he had no choice – it was his client and dear friend’s final wish.

  The search was easy enough. He knew the boy’s name and the mother’s name. The circumstances, however, were left out of the final instructions. It merely stated that Steven Bennett would inherit Delacroix Industries and Henri Delacroix’s personal fortune.

  Shock was mild in comparison to the boy’s reaction. Campbell contacted him in person. He wanted to be there to see the look on the brat’s face when he heard the news.

  Everything he had learned about the boy was in line with his imagination. Not an exceptional student. Honors classes with a consistent C average, a college education, and then several jobs that led to no distinct career path. This boy had been given everything and applied himself to nothing. To cement Campbell’s hatred, he wanted to see the smirk on the lad’s face and verify Steven Bennett’s pettiness.

  The apartment complex was in a northern suburb of the city and held no distinction from the other ten he passed on the drive in. He huffed with each step as he climbed the flight of stairs and rapped firmly on the door. He heard fumbling inside the apartment for several moments before the door opened. The boy was just as he had pictured him: a smug look on his face, arrogant, and lazy; he leaned on the doorframe and looked Thomas Campbell up and down.

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “What?”

  “Huh?”

  “Mr. Bennett, I am Thomas Campbell, the executor of your father’s estate. I regret to inform you that your father, Henri Reneé Delacroix, has passed on.”

  “Reneé?”

  “I can see you’re obviously shaken by the news, but we do have some business to attend to. Your father left his entire estate to you.” He spoke more quickly than he would have to anyone else. His normal approach would have been consolation, compassion, possibly a hand on the shoulder and then, days later, the settling of the will. But he wanted to see, to prove to himself, that this boy was unworthy of the Delacroix legacy.

  “How much?”

  Americans, thought Campbell, “Your father was a billionaire.”

  “Are you serious?” A grin betraying his greed grew across the youth’s mouth. He gasped and Campbell incorrectly detected bourbon on his breath. It was whiskey. “Wow! That’s incredible.”

  Under his breath, and well under the screaming, Thomas said, “Brat.”

  Then aloud, “Your father was a great man. I’m sorry for your loss. But, we do have much to discuss.”

  A voice from the back of the apartment sounded a question, “Who is it?”

  The grinning youth shouted back, “Some guy that says ‘about’ funny. He’s says your dad is dead and you’re filthy rich.”

  Steve Bennett came to the door.

  “We’re rich. Well, you’re rich. But you can hire me for something or other. I don’t work cheap.” Paul headed back into the apartment.

  The look on Steve’s face was framed by ashen skin. His mouth was not quite closed, yet not quite open. His eyes didn’t seem to respond to the sunlight as he stepped into the doorframe.

 
; Thomas Campbell’s pedestal of pride crumbled and his shoulders sank as he saw the features of his dear client and dead friend in the young man before him. The calm blue eyes did more for Campbell in verifying the rightful heir than any number of blood tests ever would.

  He could see the boy was shaken and sincere. Steve spoke slowly and softly. “You knew my father?”

  Campbell hung his head. He had blamed the boy for not being in his father’s life. But it was obvious, that it was not the boy to blame.

  “Mr. Bennett. I am truly sorry for your loss. Your father was a great man and a dear friend. I regret having to deliver this news, but I did want to do it in person. I understand that this is a difficult time, but there are matters we need to discuss. I will be in town for a couple of days.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a business card.

  “I would be happy to answer any questions you may have. My office in Toronto can always reach me if you want to talk.”

  “Toronto?”

  “Yes, sir. You’re father was a Canadian.”

  Steve looked vacantly at the card. He stared at the name but couldn’t read it. The address was a blur to him.

  His best friend, Paul, broke the silence. “Hey. That means you’re part Canuck.”

  “I’m truly sorry, Mr. Bennett.” Thomas Campbell walked down the steps of the apartment feeling two feet shorter than when he had climbed them. Shame was cold in his stomach, and the heat stinging at his neck was embarrassment for accusing a stranger of not caring. Steve’s only fault was in not knowing his father. And it was quite clear that the absence of family in his life had not been his fault at all.

  Steve stopped him, “What was his name?”

  “Henri Delacroix.”

  “Henri?”

  Thomas Campbell walked back to his car and began to shake.

  # # #

  The room at the W hotel was not Thomas’ style. His secretary, who always insisted that he get with the times, had booked it for him. Ultra-modern and stark white, the building felt cold to him; and as low as he was feeling he needed some mirth. He went to one of the hotel bars, and found even less solace in his drink. The “Ghostbar” was also ultra-modern and filled with the thin veneer of the Dallas nouveau riche. The long room was packed with people, and no two looked different.

  He had just finished his drink, and made a mental note to remind his secretary that he was too old to try new things, when his phone rang.

  The BlackBerry in his pocket was another new thing he detested, but, unfortunately, found necessary. It was a call. Not an email or text. A call. He pressed the answer button and held it to his ear.

  “Mr. Campbell?”

  “Yes. This is Thomas Campbell.”

  “If it’s not too much trouble, sir. I’d like to talk about my father.”

  “Of course. I’m at a place called “Ghostbar,” though I can’t imagine why. May I suggest someplace quieter?”

  “Please. I can’t stand that place.”

  Thomas Campbell smiled as he and Steve Bennett, the son of a friend, made plans to meet in a quieter and more dignified place.

  # # #

  Thomas Campbell sat in his Toronto office as he remembered that day. They had talked for hours. The money finally came up at the end of the conversation. Thomas brought it up. Steve felt like he didn’t deserve the money and insisted that it wasn’t his.

  The only way to further the execution of Henri Delacroix’s will had been to remind the young man that it was what his father had wanted.

  He tucked the folder into the drawer and pushed it shut. Steve’s reluctance to accept his inheritance had persisted. It was only through due process and Nelson’s badgering that he finally accepted it. This trip to the islands was a big step for Steve; Thomas wondered if perhaps he was coming to terms with the money at last.

  Thomas turned off his desk lamp, leaving the room in darkness, and made his way home. He sincerely liked Steven Bennett, and hoped that he was enjoying his time on the tropical paradise that his father had helped build.

  ELEVEN

  With a splash, the launch dropped into the water. Two crewmen in the boat unshackled chains and moored the craft to the retractable steps of the Rainbow Connection.

  “The patches aren’t completely dry, but they should hold well enough.” Arnold Gibson completed his cursory inspection and lowered a section of the deck back into place. He nudged it flush with a rubber mallet and a couple of strikes of his heel.

  “We won’t be long.” David Jefferson cradled a submachine gun in his arms.

  “Aren’t you taking an awful risk?” Gibson pointed to the H&K in Jefferson’s arms. “Pacifists don’t carry weapons.”

  “So we’ve become eco-terrorists. It’s not a stretch.”

  “David. It’s not...”

  “This is my operation.”

  “I know. But, I’ve been with you a long time. I know how much this means to you. Don’t lose sight of the big picture. You can’t be seen...”

  “Everybody in!”

  Four men enshrouded in black clambered down the ship’s boarding steps and piled into the launch. Each took an assigned position in the bow and on the gunwales. One fired up the engine as David stepped inside.

  “Just make sure and run the pump,” said Gibson. “Island security has put so many holes in the hull that I can’t even guarantee I found them all. And remember what I said.”

  “Let’s go.” David Jefferson cast off the mooring line as the engine of the dark craft screamed to life. And as the sun touched the sea they moved off into the islands of ImagiNation.

  TWELVE

  Water arced from the rear of the boat as the Sea-Doo Islandia skimmed across the water. The vessel’s shallow draft made the jet-boat the perfect inter-island transport. The archipelago’s islands had been plotted and reclaimed in a pattern that reduced the wave activity within the chain, and allowed the smaller craft a smoother ride on the channels.

  Steve watched the islands fly by as Katherine piloted the craft. The topography of each personal paradise differed according to the taste of the owner. However, every one was extravagantly landscaped to the last twig and berry. No single island was more than a year old and yet each looked as if the plants had taken root and sprouted years ago.

  “We’re almost there.” Katherine had given no hint of where they were headed. Nor had she let up on the throttle since they had stepped in the boat.

  “Where?” Steve had to shout to be heard.

  “The edge of ImagiNation.” She pointed ahead.

  Steve laughed and she joined him.

  “No, really.” She watched the water ahead of the boat.

  Steve looked over the bow of the small watercraft and saw the channel widen before them into the open waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

  Katherine killed the engine and they drifted onto the beach of the southern channel island. It wasn’t finished. The earth here was dark and thick, unlike the fine white sand that he had seen on every other island they had passed.

  “Welcome to your island.” She grabbed his hand and led him out of the boat. She ushered him onto the beach. He did not resist. Instead, he focused on the touch of her hand.

  It was like in the old songs, before swearing and other dirty lyrics were allowed – a spark from the simple contact of this other person’s hand delighted him.

  She pulled him along to the western-most point of the island.

  “Here’s one of the best features,” she was almost whispering. “It’s the perfect island to watch the sunset.”

  “Why is that?” Steve shifted his feet in the claylike soil.

  “No bugs yet, for one. Two,” she pointed out to sea.

  Steve looked back toward the western sky. Oranges and purples layered the horizon and the sun melted into the sea. All was quiet. The lapping of the waves disappeared. The rocking of the boat against the sand was distant to him. He stepped closer to the girl, and put his arm around her waist.

 
They watched as nature seduced them both and let themselves be taken in by the turn of another day.

  “I try to come out here every night. It takes away the pressure and aggravation of the day. As if my troubles set with it. With all the unreasonable requests, endless paperwork, and dirty limericks I deal with, I like to come out here where I know I’m alone.”

  Steve turned to her. Her dark eyes smoldered as the breeze blew her hair across her face. “You’re not alone.”

  “I’m as alone as I want to be.”

  He took her face in his hand and leaned in. Their lips met, their eyes closed, and the roar of an engine tore them apart.

  Startled, they broke their embrace. The disturbance had come from the far side of the island. Steve turned. The beach was wide but not deep. It rose quickly to a slope not far behind them. The engine died and men’s voices began to rise.

  Still close, Katherine whispered, “I don’t think anyone’s supposed to be here.”

  “Guests?”

  “They should all be at the dinner reception.”

  “Security?”

  “Possibly. But I would be surprised. They usually stay on the patrol boats unless a private alarm has been triggered. This island is still being reclaimed and the work crew is on leave for another couple of days.”

  Steve crawled to the top of the muddy embankment and peered over its crest. A small group of men clad in black scurried about. Each was armed.

  Across the island in the growing moonlight, Steve made out a boat with a black hull beached on the shore. Four men wrestled a large crate from the deck and shoved it toward the center of the island. Another man, weapon in hand, walked slowly toward Steve and Katherine.

  Bennett scrambled back down the hill. His palms filled with wet clay.

  “We should run.”

  They made it to the jet-boat quietly, the damp earth masking their footfalls. Katherine leapt into the cockpit of the Sea-Doo; Steve pushed it back out to the channel. As he pushed on the lip of the boat and pointed the hull upstream, the waves fought against them and threatened to force them back to the island.