by Rebecca Hale
Before he could finish, the lights in Cruz Bay clicked off. It was the second power outage in as many days—always a bad sign. Likely as not, the temporary fix from the night before had just come loose.
The streetlamps that hovered over the road below stood lifeless, their powerless metal stems drooping like useless antennae. The windows to the Silent John and the Crunchy Carrot were nothing but black, empty sinkholes.
A bank of clouds moved across the moon, swallowing its meager light and leaving us in a moment of wet blindness.
Inside the Carrot’s kitchen, I heard the hiccupping hum of a generator as its engine struggled to kick in, a hopeful sign for the prospects of my fish sandwich. But before the motor worked up enough speed to reignite the lightbulbs, a hand reached out for my left arm.
“Conrad, let go,” I said sternly, not the least bit amused.
A deep voice whispered in my left ear. “Peen-ello-pee…”
I tried to release my arm, but the man’s grip was too tight.
“That’s enough, Conrad,” I replied tensely, wondering how such a tiny man could wield so much strength.
And then I caught a whiff of the body attached to the clenched hand. My nose filled with the sweaty, smoky stench of stale whiskey.
“Lees-en for thuh seeg-nul,” the voice admonished firmly. “Wens-day at noon.”
Before I could process the message, the hand released my arm, and the stench disappeared, as if its source had evaporated into the rain.
With a few strobing flashes, the lights inside the Silent John flickered on, and I found myself alone on the balcony.
I stepped back inside the bar as the television sets crackled with static while they attempted to reestablish their satellite connection. A white plastic sack holding a foam box with my fish sandwich waited at the end of the counter.
The Tennessee exterminator sat on his stool with a blank, expressionless look on his face. I wondered if he’d even noticed the blackout in his whiskey-induced stupor.
My gaze honed in on the empty seat to the exterminator’s right that had been occupied by the grisly haired West Indian. I rubbed my arm where the man’s fingers had wrapped around it, puzzling as I scanned the room.
Neither Conrad nor the smelly man who’d issued the warning were anywhere to be seen.
35
The Haircut
That same dark rainy night, a shirtless man with frizzy brown hair sat on a wooden stool in the center of one of the many elevated tents at the Maho Bay eco-resort.
Jeff’s flat, freckled face bore a clear expression of discomfort. The bare skin on his hairy chest twitched as a young woman danced circles around his stool. The woman’s fluid movements caused her spinning sundress to cast rippling shadows against the tent’s canvas walls.
Hannah reached out to Jeff’s head and teasingly pulled her fingers through the thick tangles of his hair.
Grunting with concern, he shifted his weight, tilting his head away from her hand. “Nobody said anything about a haircut,” he muttered grimly.
Giggling shyly, Hannah raised a pair of cordless battery-powered shears and flicked the handle’s on switch.
Jeff flinched at the subsequent buzzing hum. His hands clenched the rim of the stool as Hannah carefully brought the shears in toward his wild mass of hair. The approaching vibration tickled his ear, and he jerked his head away once more.
“I can’t…” he said, shaking his head. The typically immobile contours of his face twisted into a pleading hound-dog expression.
Hannah turned off the shears and bent down in front of him. Her voice was calm and soothing as she lightly touched his knee.
“You want to captain your own boat, don’t you?”
Jeff blew out a frustrated sigh; his shoulders sagged in defeat. He nodded and closed his eyes submissively.
The shears returned to life as Hannah brought the tip to the nape of Jeff’s neck. With quick, upward, sweeping motions, she began running the razor’s head along his scalp.
Large frizzy clumps soon floated through the air, falling like New England snowflakes as they drifted down to the tent’s wooden floor.
Crouched in the forest outside, an elderly woman watched the pair through a back window screen. Beulah Shah’s wizened face pinched with thought as the pile of hair beneath the stool continued to grow.
36
Lost
I staggered outside the condo Monday morning, grumpy, hungover, and decidedly out of sorts. The bright sun beat a hammering blow through my aching head, a painful reminder of the bottle of Cruzan I had finished off the night before.
It had been two nights now with no sign of Jeff. I had done enough snooping around the dive shop to confirm that Saturday’s sunset charter had been a fiction. No one had seen him since he returned from the weekly trip to Jost Van Dyke. He had simply disappeared.
I’d spoken to one of Jeff’s dive shop buddies, a soppy blond-haired guy named Rick, who had taken his last sailing shift for him. It had been a particularly disturbing conversation—during which Rick had luridly insinuated that he would be happy to fill in for more than just Jeff’s dive shop duties. I had resisted the urge to slap him.
Around the resort, no one thought Jeff’s departure particularly unusual. The lower-level dive shop employees were transitory types, and he had been here longer than most. With his nautical classifications, he could take his credentials anywhere in the Caribbean. Dive shops were always looking for capable hands.
Likely as not, most reckoned, he would pop up in some other beach town in a few days’ time. Not that anyone would likely ever know one way or the other—among islands, even thirty miles of ocean translated into a significant geographic barrier.
So far, I was unconvinced of this reasoning. Jeff wasn’t the typical wandering deckhand, I thought with frustration as I sulked my way toward the coffee cart in the reception area.
At least, I didn’t want to believe that he was.
A part of me, of course, realized that perhaps this was just Jeff’s way of ending our relationship. Ours had been one of wordless commitment, a dating arrangement whose meaning was subject to evolving interpretation. I had never pressed the point, and he had never vocalized his feelings.
I had always known that I wouldn’t have him forever—the difference in our ages guaranteed that. But, like my stolen time here on the island, I had been desperate to extend that franchise for as long as possible.
I wasn’t quite yet ready to concede defeat—on either count.
Still mulling over the puzzle of my missing boat boy, I plucked a foam cup from the reception area’s dispenser and began filling it. As I lifted the steaming cup toward my nose and took in a deep whiff of the pungent liquid, a man’s voice trickled into my periphery.
“Excuse me, miss,” he said affably. “I was hoping you could settle a dispute we’ve been having.”
“I’ll do my best,” Hannah’s pleasant, cheerful tone replied.
The coffee kiosk was pushed up against a column, and the concierge desk—where Hannah was apparently stationed—was positioned on the opposite side.
Mere proximity to Hannah rankled my already sour disposition. The finest coffee in the world couldn’t coax me to stand there any longer than necessary. But I figured I’d get at least one refill before Hannah—the still maddeningly unexplained, Slave Princess–impersonating Hannah—drove me from the coffee kiosk.
“This Slave Princess everyone’s been talking about. They say she hangs out at Maho Bay.”
Slurping down the burning hot coffee, I tilted my head around the side of the column to get a peek at the concierge counter. The man posing this offbeat question was one of the many real estate lawyers staying at the resort.
“I’ve been all over the island this last week,” he continued. “I have to say—it seems to me, if I were going to do myself in by jumping off a cliff, I’d pick Ram Head. That place has the best cliff overhang I’ve ever seen.”
“I hope you’re not
planning to test this theory,” Hannah said with a gracious smile.
The lawyer persisted. “I’m starting to think maybe this Maho Bay business is just a ruse.” He pointed his finger at his companions. “To scare off us real estate types.”
Smart fellow, I thought, nearly spilling coffee down the front of my shirt in my eagerness to eavesdrop on the conversation.
“The Princess does have a connection to Ram Head,” Hannah replied diplomatically. “But it was at the beginning of the revolt, not the end. They say she and the other Amina met on the cliffs—the evening of the revolt, after the initial slaughter was completed. The rebels reportedly had a hideout up there. From that angle, you can see the entire southern half of the island.”
She glanced back toward the coffee stand, and I had the sudden impression that she was just as much aware of my presence as I was of hers.
Her voice lowered conspiratorially as she leaned toward the lawyer. “But I can assure you, the locals swear her ghost haunts the grounds of the eco-resort up at Maho Bay.”
The lawyer chortled loudly. “Well, then I hope she likes company. We’re going to build a huge resort on that property.”
37
The Computer Programmer
Late Tuesday afternoon, the clouds were still hanging low over St. John.
The constant gray drip had begun to dampen the spirits of the island’s vacationers. While the rain was good for the island’s fragile ecosystem and cistern supplies, it was a bust with visiting tourists. The intermittent electrical outages of the last few days hadn’t improved the overall temperament.
Vivian stood on the resort’s dock, a tented poncho hanging from her sturdy shoulders. She stared stolidly out into the bay, one hand gripping the handle of a bright-colored umbrella, the other wrapped around her ever-present clipboard.
Beside her, the staff of designated greeters awaited the afternoon arrival of the resort’s double-decker powerboat from St. Thomas. The shuttle service transported guests directly from the airport to the resort’s pier, bypassing the public ferry taken by other travelers.
A dozen tiny plastic cups filled with a cheap rum cocktail waited on a tray, ready to hand out to passengers as they stepped off the boat. The ship was running a little later than usual, given the delays of the incoming flights and the rough water in the Pillsbury Sound. The ice cubes had begun to melt, raising the liquid’s volume dangerously close to the rims.
Vivian didn’t mind the cooler temperatures, she reflected as the drip intensified against the outer surface of her umbrella, but even she had to admit that their guest-greeting routine was much better received on a sunny afternoon. The palm-tree-lined beach and half-acre swimming pool lost much of their tropical aura when shrouded in cold cloudy rain. This kind of weather, she knew from experience, brought out the worst in new arrivals.
Vivian checked her watch and, with a sigh, pointed toward the pavilion at the end of the dock. Her relieved staff immediately moved under its cover. If they were about to receive a boatload of cranky guests, they might as well be dry.
When at long last the boat pulled into the bay, the rain had accelerated to a full-on downpour. As soon as the rigging was secured to the pier, the first guests began hurrying down the metal gangplank, sprinting for the pavilion’s overhead cover.
The computer programmer was the last to disembark. Carrying a canvas toolbox and a roll-around suitcase, the large man stepped carefully onto the temporary walkway, as if unsure of his footing. Despite the heavy rain, he took his time walrusing his hefty mass down the dock. He was thoroughly soaked by the time he reached the pavilion’s protection.
Dourly, Vivian offered him a plastic cup filled with a now watery concoction of rum and punch. “Welcome to St. John,” she said stiffly.
Cracking a weary smile, the computer programmer waived off the cocktail. He remembered the assistant manager from his last visit to the resort—four and a half years ago—but, just to be sure, he tilted his round head to read the printing on the tag pinned to her shirt.
“Nice to see you again, Vivian.”
With a grunt, she checked the last guest off on her clipboard: Howard Stoutman. The man had used a different name the last time they’d met, but she’d recognized his large bulky form immediately.
“I see you’re here to set up our wireless Internet,” she confirmed tensely. “You’ll need access to the main circuit boards. They’re mounted to the wall in the storm cellar beneath the administrative building. I’ll take you down first thing in the morning.”
Her sharp eyes summed up his sizeable girth. “It’s rather close quarters in there,” she added pointedly, “in case you don’t remember.”
The programmer sighed tiredly and glanced at his watch. “Any chance you could let me in this afternoon?” he asked, clearing his throat to emphasize the request. “I’d like to get a head start if I could.”
Vivian huffed impatiently. “We’ll have to hurry,” she replied testily. She shifted the clipboard to her hip so that she could reach into her pocket for a large key ring. “My son will be getting in from school in about fifteen minutes.”
She motioned to a staff member sitting behind the wheel of a motorized golf cart. With a nodding jerk of her head, Vivian dismissed the driver and slid into his seat. She grabbed a towel from the center console compartment and wiped off the raindrops that had splattered across the dashboard.
The programmer hefted his roll-around suitcase into the rear cargo space and squeezed himself into the passenger seat.
Vivian muttered something under her breath as the cart groaned beneath his weight, then she pushed the accelerator to the floor.
After a jerking start, the golf cart chugged off down the red brick path leading into the resort.
A few minutes later, the computer programmer stood in the administrative building’s dimly lit basement. Fingering the bent and rusted key Vivian had entrusted to him, he turned to glance anxiously back at the dusty concrete steps leading up to the ground floor.
Outside, the rain had provided a cooling respite to the island’s heat, but here in the basement’s claustrophobic confines, conditions were stuffy and hot.
Best to get in and out of this place as quickly as possible, he thought as he wiped a layer of sweat from his flushed face. He had one more task to complete—delivering the contents of the canvas toolbox—then he would lay low until it was time to hop on the late-night water taxi back to St. Thomas. The resort was long overdue for Wi-Fi Internet access, but he wouldn’t be the one installing it.
The programmer jiggled the ill-fitting key in the lock until the teeth finally found the right groove. Once the interior bolt slid free of the latch, the heavy metal door swung open with a loud creak.
Spying a triangular chunk of wood in the corner of the stairwell, he pushed the door against the concrete wall and crammed the nose of the piece of wood into the half-inch space beneath its bottom width.
Dusting his hands off on the back of his pants, the programmer slipped the key into his right pocket and picked up his bags. He stepped into the storm cellar and parked his roll-around near the door. Turning, he flipped a plastic switch on the wall nearest the entrance, but the low-hanging fluorescent bulb dangling in the center of the concrete-walled room failed to illuminate. Unhooking a penlight from his shirt collar, he panned the narrow beam across the cellar’s interior space.
A rudimentary toilet and makeshift shower were sequestered in the back corner. A rotting plastic chair had been upended on the sand-coated floor. Moldy, decaying cardboard boxes lined one of the walls. The boxes were presumably filled with a stash of provisions, should anyone be unlucky enough to find himself stranded inside.
The programmer shuddered. The cellar’s isolation was the reason he’d selected it as the drop-off point, but he’d rather drown in a hurricane than be trapped indefinitely within this room.
The programmer righted the chair and set his toolbox on its seat. As he unzipped the top opening, a scu
ttling sound scratched against the concrete floor in the corridor outside the cellar entrance.
Had he been followed? The programmer closed his eyes for a long panic-surging moment. Summoning his inner reserves, he calmly reopened them to the sight of a crusty hermit crab carrying its shell across the threshold.
“Hello, my friend,” he said with a laugh. He walked over to the small crustacean and bent down to get a better look. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
The crab eyeballed the wide heft of the man hovering above him, scurried to the nearest corner, and retracted into its shell.
With a sigh of relief, the programmer crossed to the far side of the room, where a large metal cupboard containing the electrical boards had been mounted onto the wall. He could hear the crab slowly creeping along behind him, the hard surface of its claws clacking against the gritty concrete floor.
“Glad for the company, little buddy,” the programmer said as he thumbed through his pockets for a second key.
Tack. Tack. Tack.
Friendly little guy, he thought, dismissing the sound. He inserted the second key into the cupboard’s lock and wrenched open the metal casing. Waving the penlight up and down the electrical box, he searched for his package.
“Ah, there you are,” he said with chuckle, reaching for a paper bag crammed into a crevice in the back wall.
He tipped the bag sideways, sliding out a wad of bills. His thick fingers quickly thumbed through the stack, sizing it up for a quick estimation. Four years’ worth of embezzlement through the resort’s water taxi and overtime expenditure account had racked up a nice pile of cash, his payment for relocating Vivian and her son here from the Bahamas.
Tack. Tack. Tack.
“Hey, pal,” the programmer said nervously, turning his light toward the floor to look for the crab, “don’t think I’m going to cut you in on this…”