“Catch the line,” Pete shouts, throwing me a rope from the front of the boat.
“I thought you were gone for the day.” I stand up carefully, so as not to dislodge my towel, and catch the rope, hesitating because I’m not an expert on nautical knots.
“Tie it up,” Pete orders, so I do. If the boat drifts away, he has only himself to blame.
He jumps off and ties up the back.
“What are you doing out here?” he demands. “Bonding with Reesie?” I notice for the first time that she’s already off the dock and heading down the footpath, pail in hand.
“Is that a problem?” I ask.
He smirks like it’s a big joke. “It’s none of my business.”
“You got that right.”
Fishboy’s an asshole, but I can’t get on the wrong side of him until I’ve found out what he knows about Pat.
“You need any help?” I ask.
“You a diver?”
“Not exactly.”
“Would you mind hauling some tanks to the boat? That would be great.”
“Sure thing. I’ll be right back.”
I take my clothes to my room, throw on my shorts and a T-shirt and head out to the shed where they keep the dive gear. Pete’s hauling out tanks. He gives me the job of loading weights into the dive belts. Despite the number of years Pat’s been diving, I’ve never looked closely at the equipment before. Each nylon belt has a row of pockets to snugly encase half a dozen solid lead weights.
“You mean people actually leap into the water with these on?” I ask, as I heave a handful of weighted belts over my shoulder to haul down to the dock.
“Have to. The oxygen and the dive suit make you float in the water, but you pile on enough weights and anyone will sink like a stone.”
I shake my head. I will never understand the appeal of this sport. We don’t say much else for the next twenty minutes as we load the boat and Pete drones on about their special air-powered motor that doesn’t disturb the sharks. Apparently, he hasn’t considered that with 332 million cubic miles of ocean, the sharks can just swim away if they’re disturbed.
I fit the last of the tanks into one of the wooden slots that line both sides of the boat and sit down on the hard bench that runs in front of it. The boat is cramped but okay, I guess, for people who are going to spend most of their day in the water. Pete has disappeared into a tiny cabin at the front with an enormous supply of junk food. He appears to be one of those guys who likes to prepare for every emergency, like an overpowering Cheetos craving when they’re out on the high seas.
Finally, he climbs out and stands next to me. “Thanks for your help. You should come out with us today. Jake wouldn’t charge you.”
“Tempting, but I have other plans.”
“What? You got a date with Reesie?” He smirks. Again.
Keep it up, Fishboy, and you’ll be seeing more marine life than you bargained for.
“How well did you know my sister?” I say in an even voice. He flops down next to me and props his feet up on the center bench.
“We didn’t really hang out, if that’s what you’re asking. We got along well at work.”
“Did you see her the night she disappeared?”
He hesitates and scratches an insect bite on his arm.
“I saw her at the Spiny Starfish. We were all pretty hammered. I might have chatted with her a bit, but I didn’t see her leave.” He runs his hand through his hair, tousling it to perfect his surfer look. “I really am sorry for what happened to her.”
“What did happen to her?” I shoot back, hoping to catch him off guard. I’ve got no reason to suspect he’s involved, but the guy rubs me the wrong way.
He jumps to his feet, arches his back and rolls his shoulders in a languorous stretch that somehow looks like he’s doing it for my benefit. “I’d love to continue this conversation, but I’ve really got to get this show on the road.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “We’re supposed to be heading out by ten. I’ve already got divers waiting in the office.”
I get up too. The space between the benches is narrow and we’re squared off, almost touching, chest to chest.
“Do you know what happened to my sister?” I demand, my face inches from his own.
He leans past me and tests the air pressure on one of the tanks. We both listen to the air whoosh out. He straightens.
“No, I don’t,” he says, and for the first time since we started talking, he actually looks me in the eye. “I honestly wish I did.”
He hops up on the bench and, with a second jump, he’s off the boat and striding down the dock with the easy rhythm of an athlete, a jock, the kind of guy who’s always hitting on my sister. What these guys never understand is, she doesn’t care about the rippling muscles, and she downright hates the smug swagger that oozes out of them like stink. If Pete had made any kind of play for my sister, she would have turned him down flat.
I flex my arms, stretching out the muscles that coil every time I’m near this guy. There’s something about him that’s off.
But is he lying?
CHAPTER 7
Like every other building I’ve seen in Utila, the Spiny Starfish is constructed of wooden clapboard and, like most, the salt air hasn’t been good to it. I walk up the steps past a padlocked room, presumably the kitchen, onto a veranda that extends way out over the sea. Sharing a wall with the kitchen is a fully stocked open-air bar, with a brick pizza oven at one end; beyond that are wooden picnic tables that look sturdy but uncomfortable. There’s a guy asleep on one of them. Other than him, the place is empty.
I’m debating whether I should wake him when he rolls over and opens one eye.
“Yo,” he calls over to me. “You wanna bring me a coffee?”
I look around, like maybe there was a Starbucks I didn’t notice on the way in.
“The bar.” He waves an arm.
When I walk behind the bar, sure enough, there’s a coffeemaker with a coffee can sitting beside it. As luck would have it, coffee is something I know how to make: the silver lining of having a mother who’s a drunk. I rifle through the fridge for milk. There isn’t any, nor is there sugar, though I find an impressive array of cream liqueurs. I pull out a coconut cream concoction and examine the label. After a few minutes, the coffee stops gurgling so I pour two cups and consider the liqueur again. There’s something to be said for the hair of the dog. But not much. I decide my new friend has had enough alcohol. I tip some into my cup, though.
He doesn’t stir as I walk over, which doesn’t surprise me since he’s obviously slept right through the shrieks of kids who are swimming off the next dock. I put down both cups, settle at a nearby table and clear my throat.
He turns over. Bulging muscles strain against the fabric of his Hawaiian shirt. If he’s the watchman, he’s in the wrong line of work.
“I got some java juice here, buddy,” I say.
He opens his eyes, rubs them and rolls to a sitting position, resting his feet on the bench. I’m amazed at how easily he wakes up. I usually have to resort to threats with Mom. I hand him a cup and watch him take a slow sip as he passes a hand over his close-cropped ’fro.
“Put something extra in yours, did ya?” He eyes me speculatively over the top of his cup.
I shrug.
“I always wonder about a man who drinks before noon,” he says.
“I always wonder about a man who passes out on a picnic table.”
“You got balls, I’ll give you that. So what you doing in my establishment at this time of day?”
I’m surprised to hear he’s the owner, but I give him a sphinxlike stare.
He chuckles. “What? You think I was the hired help?”
Perhaps not totally sphinxlike.
“I just thought, you know, being passed out drunk and all …”
I swear I’m sounding more like my sister every day.
A roar rips out of him.
I jump. It takes a moment to register that
he’s laughing. I smile. Nervously.
“I was serving till 3:00 a.m., didn’t get the place cleared till well past four.” He pauses and looks me up and down. “I could use a strong guy like you. You looking for work?”
“Just information.”
He cocks his head.
“This was the last place my sister was seen, the night she disappeared.”
“You Tricia’s brother?” His gravelly voice is a mixture of shock and concern.
“Yeah,” I say and get straight to the point. “Do you remember anything about her that night?”
“Not much,” he says slowly and turns away to watch the kids cannonballing into the water, competing to make the biggest splash.
I follow his gaze and all at once I’m reminded of the last visit to my grandparents’ cottage before Pat decided we were severing all contact. She was ten.
ME: Do you remember that visit? Mom was arguing with Nana and Grandpa. It was dusk, and we were all out on the dock. You dove into the lake and swam way out past the buoys. They didn’t even notice.
PAT: I just needed some peace and quiet. They’d been fighting all weekend.
ME: I screamed at you to come back — you were out too deep. It got dark and I couldn’t see you anymore. The adults took the fight indoors, but I stayed on the dock waiting. I started thinking maybe you couldn’t come back.
Maybe something had attacked you.
PAT: Attacked me? In Lake Michigan?
ME: Don’t you remember telling me about the bull sharks?
PAT: Not really. What did I say?
ME: You told me bull sharks are the only sharks that can adapt to freshwater. And there’d been attacks in Lake Michigan, our lake.
PAT: I do remember reading that, but it hasn’t been absolutely verified. Anyway, you couldn’t really have thought a bull shark got me. There’s been like two unconfirmed reports in recorded history. I was just teasing you.
ME: I kept searching the darkness for a fin. A dozen times I was sure I saw one. I wondered if I’d even hear you scream. It might have pulled you under too fast or taken off your leg. You could have been in shock and bleeding out. I didn’t know whether to go for help or go in after you, but what if it got me, too? I shouted for you until my throat was raw.
PAT: I knew you’d been crying when I got back to the dock. I tried to apologize, but you wouldn’t even speak to me.
ME: They’re one of the most dangerous sharks after great whites. They attack unprovoked and they hunt at night.
PAT: You always did have a great imagination.
ME: I was nine, Pat, and you were the one person in my life I could always count on.
PAT: But I was never in danger, Luke. Sure, bull sharks sometimes end up in odd places, but really, what were the chances?
ME: Chance has never been on our side, Pat.
PAT: Is that when it started?
ME: My drinking? What do you think? You took the vodka away from me later that night.
PAT: Not the drinking, your phobia. You never wanted to go in the water after that. You always made some excuse.
ME:
“Anything you can tell me about her would help,” I say.
“She was in here a lot,” he says, still watching the kids. “Couldn’t get enough of my barbecued chicken, you know?”
“No,” I say, feeling suddenly tired. “Patricia’s been a vegan since she was old enough to say ‘Hold the mayo.’ So, no, I really don’t know.”
He looks at me in surprise. “Vegans eat meat-lovers’ pizza?”
I sigh.
“Did you know she had a boyfriend?” he asks, taking a gulp of his coffee.
“I know about Jamie,” I say.
He smiles in relief. “Jamie’s a friend. I promised not to spread it around that they were going together. I think he was worried his family might not approve, but you can’t get much warmer people than Utilans. They’ve accepted the likes of me, all the way from Africa, and that’s saying something.” He gives his bellowing laugh again but then turns serious. “I guess you know Tricia and Jamie fought that night, then?” I try not to look surprised.
“Jamie didn’t go into all the details,” I say carefully.
“I don’t imagine there’s much more I can tell you. We were busy that night. They came in happy, but he left early and she stayed on. She was really knocking them back hard. That’s how I figured they’d been fighting. Your sister likes a drink, but she knows her limits.”
The way I see it, she’d been pushing her limits with a lot more than alcohol.
“Who was she with after Jamie left?”
He looks at me steadily. “Sorry, I couldn’t tell you. I don’t know all the dive kids. One of the girls who works for me might know, though. Jamie came by later that night asking the same questions you are.”
“I appreciate your help.” I fight to keep the disappointment out of my voice.
“Come back some evening and talk to the girls. They might have seen something.”
I nod.
Finishing the last of my spiked coffee, I stand up, get a rush of blood to my head, grab the table for support and wait for the dizziness to subside. With the heat and my lack of sleep, the alcohol might not have been the best idea. I should probably go back to my room and crash for a bit, but I head to Bluewater. Lemon said we should get an early start to the bush-doctor lady and it’s already nearly midday. Maybe Zach’s back from his dive and we can get going.
Out on the road, I feel my pocket to make sure the voodoo doll is still where I put it after I washed my shorts. I shake my head at the notion that it might be anywhere else. Zach’s conviction that it has supernatural powers must have me more rattled than I thought.
The road’s busy now, with bicycles, motorcycles and golf carts competing with pedestrians for the limited space. I duck into a store to buy water and get distracted by the surprising array of options on the shelves. It’s stifling, with only a couple of ceiling fans pushing around the humid air, and it’s small, even by convenience-store standards, but there’s a bit of everything and a lot of familiar brand names. I pick up an ice-cream pop as well as the water. The girl at the cash gives me the price in Spanish, which, of course, I don’t understand, but I read it off her register and count out the change in lempiras.
Ten minutes later, I’m sitting on the dock at Bluewater, having learned that their dive boat’s still out but due back soon. The fish life here isn’t nearly as varied as under the shark dock. There’s a school of round, blue, disc-shaped fish and a couple of long pipefish but no rays or boxy things. I swing my legs off the dock in relative confidence they won’t be ripped from my body and wave at passing boatmen because every single one of them waves at me. It gets old after the third or fourth time, so I decide to lie down and give my eyes a rest.
The dock is hard, and I have to shift around a bit to avoid getting jabbed by protruding nails. I don’t plan on sleeping, but the next thing I know, Zach is shaking me awake in the middle of a dream where I’m making out with the hot Swedish chick. I’m glad he woke me because the Swedish chick had just morphed into Reesie, who did not look pleased to discover my hand up her shirt. I take a minute to catch my breath, my heart still racing, and notice the sun’s moved considerably in the sky. It’s got to be well past noon.
“Dude, I told you not to leave your room,” says Zach, looking worried.
“Yeah.” I try to shake off the memory of me and Reesie up close and personal. “Sorry. I got bored.”
“Well, you’re not hurt or anything,” Zach admits, though he doesn’t sound convinced. “Help me haul in this gear and we can get going.”
He climbs back in the boat and picks up a tank, holding it aloft. “Grab it,” he shouts.
I jump up to help him but stand aside for a couple of divers scrambling off. They’re going on about rays and turtles. I don’t tell them they could have seen just as much sitting on the shark dock without risking their lives. Zach wasn’t joking about b
usiness being slow. The captain and three dive masters, including Zach, outnumber the paying divers. I’m not surprised his job’s on the line, and I feel a stab of guilt that I refused to sign up with him. For the next ten minutes, I overcompensate by working twice as fast as any of them, hauling gear.
“You’re the best, Luke,” says Zach, standing back in admiration as I walk past him lugging tanks, two at a time.
“Go have your shower,” I say. “I’ll get the rest of this.”
“Cosmic,” says Zach, his eyes shining. I don’t think he has a lot of experience with people doing nice things for him. I’m mostly just trying to ease my own conscience, but I’m really glad it makes him happy.
“Glad to help,” I say.
I carry the last of the tanks into the dive shack, where a petite girl in a tiny string bikini is loading fins and masks into a large concrete sink. No question, there are some advantages to island living.
“I’m Luke.” I give her a friendly smile as I set down the tanks next to the dozen or so already there. “You might have known my sister, Patricia.”
“Oh, wow, sure.” She looks at me with sympathy. “Zach told me you were here searching for her. I’m so sorry.”
I feel a rush of hope. At least she knows Pat. It’s a start, though given the size of the island and the fact that they’re in related lines of work, it would probably be more surprising if she didn’t.
“You didn’t happen to be at the Spiny Starfish the night she disappeared, did you?”
“Sure, we’ve all talked about how weird it was. One minute she was there and the next she wasn’t. It was like she just vanished.… ”
She turns away, busying herself with rinsing equipment. I’m disappointed, but she could still know something important, even if she doesn’t think she does.
“Did you see who she was with?”
She turns back and furrows her brow. “A lot of people. She was talking to a guy from the Shark Center for quite a while. I don’t remember his name.”
“Pete?” I ask, trying not to sound too eager.
The Voice inside My Head Page 7