“Where are you from?” the man asked.
“Pittsburgh.”
“Oh,” he smiled. “I teach at Temple University. Came over on the boat.” He nodded toward the cruise ship while extending his hand and giving his name.
“John. I flew in this morning.”
“Beautiful place, isn’t it?” the woman asked.
He agreed, and they spent a few minutes talking Eagles and Steelers’ football, mentioning briefly the “Steagles” — the unofficial name given to their short merging during World War II. John thought about mentioning all the Steelers’ Super Bowl rings and the Birds’ lack of them but wasn’t sure how fanatic the guy was about his team. Wasn’t sure if he’d start belting out the Philadelphia anthem, “Fly Eagles Fly” while throwing his wife’s shoes at him.
“Well, glad we could be of help.” They shook hands and hurried after their friends, leaving John alone with Neptune — the same Roman god he swore had materialized beneath his plane earlier that morning.
It also bore an eerie similarity to something else he once saw.
****
Snorkel Park closed at seven o’ clock, and because it was now only minutes away from eight, he was alone. The fort’s west wall was beside him and stretching out into the shallow waters. Palm trees were scattered around the tiny beach behind him, doing their best to isolate his position. Standing on some rocks that took off into a long jetty, he crossed his arms against the wind blowing off the ocean. The sun was just about to make contact with the surface of the water, and it looked as if the dark clouds were actually going to allow the display to go on uninterrupted. The sun struck the water as if it were the tip of a cosmic match, the contact igniting a line of fire that ripped across the ocean, the lazy surf spreading its orange glow up and onto the beach around him.
Such a display helped turn his thoughts toward Kristen. He pulled the cell phone from his pocket and called her.
“You won’t believe the view I’m standing in front of,” he said as soon as she answered. He turned his gaze further west and imagined her in their home some seven hundred miles away. It was hard to imagine that anything lay beyond the liquid horizon, and it was even stranger to think that his forsaken sense of reality was still there with Kristen, accompanying the very location from which her words were emanating. He felt worlds apart from her… from all that he had come to know over the last three years.
“So how are they treating you?” she eventually asked.
“Better than I thought.” He chose not to share his growing concern regarding whatever their true intentions were and also refrained from mentioning the little incident on the plane. Instead, he tried to assure her that everything was okay. “We’re going to meet with the author Henry came to see sometime tomorrow afternoon. I’ll call you then.”
They spoke for a few more minutes before he returned the phone to his pocket and the ball of fire slipped completely into the water’s embrace, projecting a magnificent lightshow up into the night sky. He stood there transfixed, until all that was left to be seen was a line of red highlighting the horizon. He turned his back to the twilight, his encounter with Neptune, and the terror it stirred within him, making what he’d said to his wife a big, fat lie.
****
An idea began to take shape while he headed south and back onto Somerset Island. He had intended to confirm the existence of such an author, and now that his mission was complete, he wanted to learn more about him — what kind of stuff he wrote about and why it would prompt Henry to sail so far out if his way. So he pulled into a gas station along Middle Road in Sandys Parish and inquired about bookstores in the area.
The dark-skinned man was in the process of wiping grease off his hands but nevertheless gave John his utmost attention. “Well,” he answered, considering the question, “the biggest bookstore on the island is The Bookmart in Hamilton. I am pretty sure that they close at five o’ clock, though. However, you could get lucky with the cruise ships in port.”
“What’s the easiest way to get there?” he asked.
“The ferry.”
“Where’s the nearest one?”
“Right down the road here,” he pointed. “It will take twenty-five minutes, but it will take you straight into Hamilton. The store is on Reid Street. Now, if that one is closed or you do not find what you’re looking for, there is another bookstore in Hamilton on Queen Street.”
“Thank you,” John said sincerely.
“Enjoy your stay, my friend,” the Bermudian waved after him.
John made it to the ferry just as it was about to set out for Hamilton. And, just as the gas station attendant had said, the trip across the Little Sound, Granaway Deep, and Hamilton Harbor took exactly twenty-five minutes. The crew on the ferry helped sharpen his directions, and five minutes later, he found himself standing in front of the bookstore. But, as the man at the gas station had also guessed, it was closed. So he rode over to Queen’s Street and found the other one. It, too, appeared to be closed.
John swung off the scooter and walked up to the storefront window. Upon peering through the glass, he could make out someone moving around inside. He knocked on the window, trying to get the person’s attention. Finally, a man approached the other side of the window and pointed to a sign that read CLOSED. To which John removed some crisp twenty dollar bills from his wallet and held them against the glass. “Please,” he begged.
The man slowly moved over to the door, and the sound of keys jingling could be heard from the other side. The door cracked open.
“What is it you want?” the man asked.
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but I’m leaving early tomorrow morning, and I just heard that there’s a local author who lives over in Somerset Village.”
“Ronald?” he laughed. “Yeah, I carry some of his books for him.”
“Wonderful. Listen, I would be forever grateful if you’d let me purchase one… It’s a thing I do, pick up souvenirs native to the place I’m visiting. Local reads are a must for my collection. I’ll even pay you double what it’s worth.”
He laughed some more, opened the door, and motioned John into the store. “Well, I am no expert, friend, but in my opinion, Ronald’s books are not worth the paper they are printed on. But you will buy all of them for this special treatment.” Then he closed the door behind them. “Come, this way.”
There were three different books by Ronald sitting on the shelf. John pulled one off and turned it over. The Bermuda Triangle and the Doorway to Hell by Ronald Douglas. John looked up in disbelief.
“Yeah,” the man said through a teasing grin.
John grabbed the next one. Lost Bloodlines: The Gods Among Us. And finally there was Journey with the Gods. Third Edition. More than confused, he tried to match the book seller’s smile. “Okay then.”
“Will that be all?”
“Oh, I think this will be plenty,” he answered, wondering if he was just contributing to the production of tinfoil head coverings Ronald was probably selling on e-bay, paranoid masses bidding for rolls of autographed brain armor.
“The register is closed out, so…”
John doubled the price for each book and handed over the money, feeling all kinds of things while doing so. Silly and stupid, obviously. Irresponsible for supporting such things with money he couldn’t afford to part with and guilty for lying to the man about why he wanted them, some of the others.
“Would you like a bag?” He was still smiling, no doubt finding the whole transaction very amusing. John imagined a pegboard in the back full of security camera printouts showcasing the “suckers” leaving with Ronald’s books.
“Please,” he mumbled.
As he put them into a plastic bag, he commented, “I have never read them myself.”
“Really?” he replied in feigned disbelief.
“I don’t sell many. I think there is a bigger market for them back in Britain and in your United States. What do you call it, New Age?”
�
�I don’t know what you call this.”
“Rubbish.” He laughed again. “But I hope you enjoy it.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
His stomach was growling, so after leaving the store he rode around Bermuda’s capital city until finding the kind of place he was looking for, one that locals would be congregated in. It was called The Spot Restaurant, and as he entered, he knew that he had guessed correctly. Sitting near the back, he put his bag of books, which he added the Bible to, on the floor under his chair where they wouldn’t be visible to any curious eyes. When the waitress came to take his order, he learned that the lower prices played a large part in attracting off-duty police officers, nurses from the hospital, and other local residents, many of which were regulars to the diner. After the small chitchat, she recommended the roast turkey, but he ordered a hamburger and soda instead.
While he waited for the food, he unfolded his map across the table, combing his gaze from one side of the island to the other. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but something caught his eye up near the airport on St. David’s Island. It was labeled The Carter House, a notation stating that it was believed to be Bermuda’s oldest house. Curious, John asked the waitress about it the next time she came by.
She bent over and squinted at the map before shaking her head. Then she stood, put her hands on her hips, and shouted to a man seated alone at another table across the room. “Hey, Frank!”
There was evidently only one Frank in the room. He turned around in his chair and looked back at her. “What is it, my dear?”
“This gentleman here would like to know about the Carter House. Can you help him or not?” Then she whispered to John, “He’s a police officer.”
“It’s a museum dedicated to St. David’s Island and the people who have lived there,” Frank called across the room. His British accent came from a round face poised below a balding head. He looked to be about fifty-something and was somewhere just beyond medium build. Though not exactly overweight, it was still clear that he enjoyed this place more than he ought to. “There are some artifacts on display.”
John crossed the diner and sat down in the empty chair across from the officer’s. “But who was Carter?”
Having finished his meal, Frank was now only nursing a cup of coffee and didn’t appear all that bothered by the sudden intrusion. “Christopher Carter,” he responded patiently, “was the first settler to Bermuda.”
John recalled the things Jackson had told him earlier. “He came with the English settlers, after Somers died?”
Frank’s expression revealed a spark of interest, and he reevaluated the stranger sitting before him. “No. He was on the Sea Venture with Somers when they shipwrecked here in 1609.”
John was confused. “I thought they all sailed to Jamestown nine months later.”
“Not everyone. Carter, Robert Waters, and Edward Chard stayed behind.”
“Why?”
“Well, Waters was a murderer that had been sentenced to death, and Carter, after rebelling against Gates twice, believed that he would be punished by him. I am not certain of the circumstances behind Chard’s decision to stay behind, but I know that it was Carter’s idea, and so my guess would be that, in his case as well, it was because of a failed conspiracy to kill Gates. When Gates caught Henry Paine and had him executed, the other conspirators in Somers’ camp thought Paine might have betrayed them, and so they fled into the woods. All the sailors, however, did end up returning to Somers. Except, of course, Carter and Chard.”
“What happened to them?”
“Waters and Chard eventually immigrated to Virginia. When the English settlers came, Carter was given Cooper’s Island — actually chose it over St. David’s because he thought there was treasure buried on it — and became one of the Six Governors left by Governor Moore.”
John shook his head. “Six Governors?”
“Moore was the first Governor of Bermuda, but he returned to Britain to defend himself against negative reports that had arisen from the settlers. He left six men to govern in his absence, rotating every month.” He took a sip of coffee. “May I ask why this interests you, Mister…”
John ran a hand over his prickly jaw. “Carter. John Carter.”
Frank’s eyebrows reached upward for a head of hair that wasn’t there anymore before laying back down again. “You think he may be a relative of yours?”
“I don’t know. I’ve known about him for all of three minutes.”
Frank nodded. “Well, there’s an author that lives here who I believe is related to him.”
“You guys sure get your share of authors,” John remarked.
Frank smiled. “Some better than others. Thomas Moore, Mark Twain, Eugene O’Neill, Sinclair Lewis, Hervey Allen, Rudyard Kipling, C.S. Forester… And that is not to mention Bermudian authors. But anyway, it is commonly believed that many of Bermuda’s native people are actually descendants of Christopher Carter.”
John went silent, the year 1609 reaching into the future and trying to pull him back in time.
“What really brings you to Bermuda, Mr. Carter?” Frank asked, as if he had only just now noticed the tattoos peeking below John’s sleeves and flickering up his neck.
John considered his next words very carefully but ultimately decided that asking a few questions couldn’t hurt anything. At least, he didn’t think it could. After all, it had been Jackson’s suggestion. “My brother, Henry, sailed here a few weeks ago, and no one has heard from him since.”
Frank leaned forward onto folded arms. “Has anyone reported him missing?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, I could certainly find out when he arrived and whether or not he left. What is the name of his boat?”
Shaking his head, he said, “I’m not sure.”
Frank sighed. “Henry Carter, you said?” He leaned back, took out a pen and small notepad, and jotted down the name. “What is your phone number?”
John gave it to him, hoping it was a good idea. For all he knew, this guy could have Henry’s head in his freezer. Probably not, though.
“Was he involved in anything that I should know about?”
He thought of the books still sitting back under his chair and didn’t think mentioning them would do wonders for his image. “I don’t think so.”
“Fine. But lay low, okay? I will work on this for you. You just relax and try to get some enjoyment out of your stay here.” He finished his coffee and began fishing through his wallet for a tip. “You know, Mark Twain once said, ‘Sometimes a dose of Bermuda is just what the doctor ordered.’ And in your case, Mr. Carter, I’m the doctor.”
John thought that a real doctor would probably prescribe something else, like a large dose of straitjacket. “I’ll try to heed the advice.” Though he had no intention whatsoever of leaving his brother’s fate in Frank’s hands while he got friendly with the dolphins back at The Keep.
As Frank placed a few coins on the table, he narrowed his gaze on John’s neck, following the ink upward until picking up the scars tracing his jaw. “How did you get those scars anyway?”
“You don’t want to know.” He stood, thankful that the waitress had just come out with his food. “Sorry for interrupting.”
“I’ll call you with what I find or don’t find tomorrow. In the meantime, John, stay out of trouble. And look to take Mark Twain’s advice early tomorrow. There is some nasty weather moving in.”
“More?”
He nodded and stood. “Old Neptune seems to be in a bad mood lately.” He turned and headed toward the door, waving to the staff as he left.
It wasn’t until after the door closed behind Frank that John was finally able to regain his composure and return to his own table. Why had the officer left riding on the wings of those specific words? Another coincidence? He tried not to think about it while he ate, but by the end of his hamburger, he was dizzy with vertigo, his situation trapped in a vacuum of indiscernible borders.
Book
s in hand, he drove out of Hamilton and headed northeast back to the hotel.
****
He was still wide awake when he entered his room at 10:40, so he stacked the four books beside the bed and went back out to the balcony. Leaning against the railing, he stared out over the harbor and the illuminated islands floating beyond it. He stood there for a while, enjoying the cool breeze and the gentle sound of the waves crashing below, as Mark Twain’s words drifted through mind. He wished that he could take pleasure in such a place, and that its antidote was compatible with his disease. But it wasn’t. Finally, he retreated back inside, closing the door on the still night and climbing into bed. Reaching for his new Bible, he turned to Genesis chapter six, wondering how the New International Version interpreted the passage.
When men began to increase in number on the earth and daughters were born to them, the sons of God saw that the daughters of men were beautiful, and they married any of them they chose. Then the LORD said, “My Spirit will not contend with man forever, for he is mortal; his days will be a hundred and twenty years.”
The Nephilim were on the earth in those days — and also afterward — when the sons of God went to the daughters of men and had children by them. They were the heroes of old, men of renown. The LORD saw how great man’s wickedness on the earth had become, and that every inclination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil all the time. The LORD was grieved that he had made man on the earth, and his heart was filled with pain. So the LORD said, “I will wipe mankind, whom I have created, from the face of the earth — men and animals, and creatures that move along the ground, and birds of the air — for I am grieved that I have made them.”
He stopped after that and thought back to the video tape. There was a connection to be made there, but it remained just beyond his grasp. Frustrated, he turned to Ronald Douglas’ strange books, wondering what in the world would make Henry want to talk to the guy. And then, spotting the title of the third book, he understood with metaphysical thunderclaps what dots his subconscious had been trying to connect.
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