Caribbean Rim

by Randy Wayne White

  “You point, I’ll go back inside and steer,” the captain replied. “The hand signs are something you seem to know just fine.”

  She waited until the captain was gone to remind herself that parting with Leonard would’ve happened anyway.

  11

  Tamara was in Ford’s cottage showering when a van with black-tinted windows drove past for the second time that afternoon. The shower window was small, the outdoor pump loud. Water off, she heard the van accelerate, but it turned out to be a plane approaching from the east.

  Thank god, the biologist was finally back from his meeting with Purcell. It was nearly sunset.

  A towel and sandals were handy. From the porch, she watched the plane angle low toward the beach, wings like crystal in the harsh light. Then it unexpectedly banked south along the coast, shrinking smaller and smaller, until trees blocked it from view.

  That was odd. It was Ford’s plane—a blue-and-white fuselage with big torpedo floats. She’d never flown but knew that a floatplane needed daylight to land on water. The biologist had told her so. Where was he headed? There was nothing south but a dead-end road, then thirty miles of mangroves linked by bays and uninhabited islands. After that, open sea clear to Cuba.

  Maybe the van had something to do with it. She knotted the towel and walked to the beach for a better angle. No plane, but the sound of its engine was audible over the slow wash of waves.

  Crazy fool’s lost, she thought, but knew it couldn’t be true. The man was too studious and aware. She had similar doubts about something else on her mind—the claim they were cousins, albeit a second cousin. So what if the biologist had an uncle named Gatrell who had fathered children in the Bahamas? That didn’t prove a damn thing. It was Tamara’s way of dealing with what might have happened last night if she’d acted on emotions that were still fresh in her mind today. Her alone in the double bed, Ford on the other side of a door that didn’t lock, in a cabin so small she could feel his heat through the wall. Sleeping there was his idea. A safety precaution because of Purcell, supposedly, but she believed it had more to do with the man who’d come around asking about the bald little American, Dr. Nickelby.

  All because of a stolen logbook? Tamara wasn’t convinced this was true either. Not that the biologist would lie to her. He was a rarity—a gentleman. Quiet, solid in his behavior, but had a fun side, despite a wall that blocked what was going behind his eyes.

  The biologist. That’s the way she thought of him, although she managed to call him Doc, and a few times Marion, which had a nice, familiar feel rolling off the tongue.

  Like last night. She’d stepped out, wearing the oversized shirt he’d provided, and used his name in a scolding way, saying most decent folks were asleep by midnight and it was almost 2 a.m. Meaning come to bed, which she didn’t add because of his startled reaction. It scared her—a cold, cold stare—when he glanced up from a book. Then the coldness was gone, tucked away behind the glare of his glasses. Only then did she notice bedsheets on the couch. And felt like a fool. Her, standing there naked, save for his shirt; the biologist, indifferent to an invitation that was obvious even without being said. As a gentleman, he’d tried to spare her feelings, which only irritated her.

  “You look great in that Tigers jersey. Too good for me to wear, so it’s yours.” He motioned to a chair as he got up. “How about we split the last beer? There’s something you can maybe help with.”

  Tamara was unaware the difference between a baggy shirt and a baseball jersey was the name Lamont and the number 22 on the back. “If I can,” she said while he crossed into the little kitchenette. “But first, all I meant was, it’s late. I didn’t mean sleep in the same bed together.”

  That got a smile, at least, before he responded, “Don’t I wish.”

  The biologist had a kindness about him. His request for help, she believed, was a contrivance to avoid further embarrassment—even more irritating. He sat her down and explained that he’d proposed to a woman prior to leaving Florida and suspected she might say no. One way or another, the news would come in the form of a letter, the woman in question being the old-fashioned type and a stickler when it came to etiquette.

  “Did she send you a thank-you card after you got her pregnant?” Tamara asked—a saucy guess, but her instincts were right as usual. The biologist admitted he wasn’t sure who the father was, which caused her to say something she regretted. “I’d like to see the etiquette book where that situation’s covered.”

  The man was bulletproof, thank goodness. Didn’t appear to notice the slight. Nor did he bring up the subject of her late husband and the child she’d lost, so she took it upon herself as penance for the mean remark.

  “It’s easier pretending it never happened,” she explained. “And tourists don’t want that sadness anyway. I shouldn’t have used Dixon as an excuse not to meet you for dinner. That was wrong.”

  “Your son?”

  “He was five. The guilt of pretending he’s still alive never bothered me before. It was a way of dodging certain situations—men drunk, on vacation usually. But you’re different. I knew it before we found the wreck, and the way you handled Purcell proved it’s true. That should make you feel a little better.” Perplexed, she stared as the man put his face in his book and pretended to read. “Are you . . . You’re not laughing?”

  He was. Couldn’t seem to hide it. “Not at you. Me. The whole damn human comedy. What you don’t know is . . . Well, listen. The woman I told you about, that’s all true, she is pregnant, and she’ll probably say no. That’s why I was out here waiting for you to fall asleep—so I can sleep. Don’t you get it?”

  “Being faithful,” Tamara nodded.

  “No. It’s a perfect excuse to climb in bed with someone else—not that you’d have allowed it—but what a crappy thing to do. Use someone like you, a woman I respect, for what? An ego boost? I asked you to hide out here for a few days so you’d be safe. Not to abuse the situation.”

  If it was all a lie, it was the sweetest lie she’d ever heard. That made it difficult to sleep. Images of Marion Ford occupied her mind. The width of his shoulders. His forearms, nicely veined. Hands that might gently explore, should she allow him to take liberties.

  And she would allow it—a decision made that morning before the biologist went out for a swim. And before the stranger in his fancy sportsman clothes had revealed her maiden name.

  Tamara returned to the present as she walked to the water’s edge. Where in the world was that pretty little plane? The sound of its engine seemed louder yet varied with the wind. She waded out a ways and strained to see down the beach. Driftwood, plastic debris from freighters, lined a ridge of high-tide sand. A potcake dog, curly-tailed, trotted out from the palms, hiked a leg, and sniffed for crabs or turtle eggs.

  Offshore was a spine of iron rock that could cut a man to pieces if the sea was up. More rock to the south, where the island curved along a portion of beach and the roof of a red beach house was visible. The stranger in the sporty clothes had claimed he was renting the place. She’d eavesdropped earlier and planned to accompany the biologist there for drinks after he landed.

  If he landed.

  Above a canopy of palms was the most likely spot for the plane to reappear. Pigeons, white-crowned, exploded like leaves into the sunset, spooked by something near the road. Curious, Tamara turned and saw two men coming toward her from the cottage. Official-looking, not tourists but young and hard—ball caps, slacks, collared shirts, and carrying bags that didn’t belong on a beach. That was a first impression, her standing there in only a towel, until she realized they wore their caps low as protection from a sun that had already set. Something else: one carried a baton too large to conceal, although he tried.

  “We have been looking for you and your friend Dr. Ford,” the man hollered in a strangely formal way. A few steps later, he said, “How’d you like to help the Bahamian gover
nment and make some money?”

  His accent wasn’t Bahamian, and he wasn’t the Cuban-looking guy who’d asked about Dr. Nickelby.

  “Wait in your car while I change,” she replied. “Or come back in half an hour.” There was a landline phone in the cottage. Her plan was to lock the doors and call the local constable.

  The men kept coming, separating in a nonchalant way that was intended to put her at ease—or cut off her escape if she fled north up the beach.

  “We won’t take up much of your time,” the man with the baton said. The baton, out in the open now, an electronic-looking device that might have been a cattle prod.

  Tamara was trying to decide—run or swim? Either way, she’d have to drop the towel. The indignity this guaranteed would be worse if they caught her, a terrifying prospect. In that moment of indecision, a gust of wind brought the sound of a plane landing, baffled exhausts, its engine revving mightily for several seconds, then silence.

  The man with the cattle prod stopped, looked from his partner to Tamara in mock surprise. “Oh . . . I didn’t realize you are not dressed for visitors. Like you said, we’ll come back later.”

  His partner responded, “Yes. Let us go find him.” Foreigners with strange accents.

  Tamara bolted the doors when they were gone and tried to call the constable stationed at Fresh Creek, twenty miles away.

  The house phone was dead. Perhaps the men had cut the wire.

  Because of the tin roof, she had to go outside to use her cell and was told by a woman, “Unless it’s an emergency, missy, constable will have to wait ’til morning.”

  * * *

  —

  The Maule amphib was designed to make long hauls and land in tight spaces. Fully fueled, the six-cylinder turbo cruised at 130 knots with a range of six hundred–plus miles. But it wasn’t quiet. Engine decibels rivaled an old Huey chopper, which is why Ford banked south to avoid alerting Jamie Middlebrook or anyone else in houses scattered along the beach.

  Three miles of pine flats and mangroves was enough before circling back. He put down in a lagoon south of Mars Bay, killed the engine, and sailed the plane across a mile of shallows until the tide made the tail rudder useless. He waded ashore, rigged lines, and was on the beach in the last tangerine rays of sunlight. Deserted, a curving ribbon of sand. Shorebirds, rocks, and litter. In the far, far distance, an animal—a dog gone feral, curly-tailed, had found a turtle nest. Nearby, birds exploded from the palms. Pigeons, spooky on an island where they were baked in pies.

  Ford adjusted his bag and walked. Middlebrook’s rental was along the way, a red box on stilts, closer to the road than the water. He decided to stop, say hello, and make sure their time wouldn’t be wasted later tonight.

  The house was a typical pre-code beach construct built to be rebuilt, not to last. The yard was sand, a path outlined with conch shells. Requisite vacation equipage included a pair of cheap kayaks, a grill, and a dented beach bike that lay rusting beneath palms. Out front, a small white Toyota also showed wear. Thousands of the used sedans were imported annually from Japan to augment the Bahamian rental fleet. A few hundred yards down the beach, the same model was parked outside Ford’s cottage—if Tamara wasn’t using it.

  Social protocols were in order after butting heads with Middlebrook earlier in the day. He banged politely on the banister and called, “Hello, the house,” then started up the steps but stopped. The door was open. Not wide, but enough to invite a cloud of sand flies swarming from the shade. The oversight would’ve been noticed by someone inside.

  An internal warning bell began to chime.

  He backed away for an overview. To the right of the entrance, a window bristled with broken glass, and a section of porch railing was gone. No . . . it lay in the weeds near the steps. Closer inspection showed a smear of what could be dried blood.

  Someone might have taken a bad fall.

  The rental car was worth a look. Keys were in the ignition. On the passenger seat, a bag of groceries—a six-pack of beer, a tub of butter, visible—sat in the late-afternoon heat. It was seven miles of bad road to the nearest store yet Middlebrook hadn’t bothered to refrigerate his perishables—or was interrupted before he could.

  Cerebral chimes signaled full alert. Social niceties were dismissed.

  Ford opened his bag and removed what he needed. Wearing gloves, he went up the steps, nudged the door open, and inspected the kitchen over the sights of his 9mm Sig Sauer pistol. The pocket version, a P938. Small enough to conceal in one hand if Middlebrook appeared from the bathroom or awoke after sleeping off a drunk.

  “It’s your neighbor,” he called through the doorway. “You in there?”

  Hopefully not. The main room opened seaward to a porch, where the rail was missing. The window had been broken from the outside. Glass and a busted screen littered the counter. Furniture was bamboo—one chair was overturned, and a couch had been positioned against the wall as a temporary incline—two freshly drilled holes in the wall suggested this was so. Remnants of duct tape and a water-sopped floor confirmed it. Cushions would be soaked, too, no need to touch. Ford knew what had happened. The other rooms appeared undisturbed but there wasn’t time for a thorough search.

  If the people who’d done this hadn’t broken into his cottage, they soon would. Tamara was there alone.

  The Toyota was tempting, creating more evidence for police wasn’t. And a bicycle would be quieter. He pedaled north on Queen’s Highway, a regal name for a lane of limestone that tunneled through scrub along the beach. Lots of potholes, and sand adrift like snow. Ahead was a blind turn. He slowed at the sound of a car coming fast from the other direction. A van, not a car, with its headlights on in the failing light. The van swerved, skidded toward him on a patch of sand. Ford dumped the bike and looked back. Sat there on his butt and watched the driver’s door fly open. When he saw who got out, he grabbed his bag and disappeared into a tangle of vines.

  “Are you okay, mister? Jesus Christ, that was close.”

  “My leg,” Ford hollered in response.

  “Ah! Then you are injured?”

  “My leg, goddamn it. Hurry up.”

  The driver continued calling out apologies as he approached the bicycle. Distinctive, the Germanic accent. Ford synced his movements with the voice while he circled toward the van. Through an opening in the scrub was the road. A man with a flashlight had joined the driver. No need for the light yet but there soon would be. He was dressed similarly: cargo slacks, a generic ball cap. Both were young, skinny, but soft around the middle, and they wore XL shirts, shirttails out, over Polos, to conceal the weapons they carried.

  Tactical types, from the look of them, on some kind of job. Maybe badasses, maybe not. But if they hadn’t left someone to guard the van, they certainly weren’t well trained.

  Twilight brought the misty weight of fog. Ford used it as cover. He ducked out from the brush with pistol drawn and slid through the open door into the van’s driver’s seat. He confirmed what was in the back before checking the ignition.

  The keys were there.

  Nope, they weren’t pros. It meant there was a chance he could scare them into talking and maybe cut a deal.

  12

  At 9 p.m. Tamara made another call to the constable in Fresh Creek. To her, the disappearance of a biologist with government papers was an emergency. But not to the woman who answered—the constable’s wife, most likely.

  Ten minutes later, Tamara had finished a note to Ford, explaining her absence, and was going out the door when headlights chased her back inside.

  It was the van. She slammed the dead bolt shut and retrieved the knife she’d kept nearby ever since her first dealings with the two. The blinds were drawn. On her knees, she crawled to a floor lamp, pulled the plug, and was about to peek outside when a familiar voice called her name. Blinds parted. The van was parked beneath the palm
s, and the biologist was almost to the porch.

  “Turn on some lights,” he said. “Bugs about ate me alive out there, and I need to use the head. Come on, we don’t have much time.”

  Tamara ignored the urge to throw her arms around the man and followed him inside. “Where are they?”

  “Who?”

  “The ones belonging to that van. Why’re you driving it?”

  “So you met them. Is one of them the guy who asked about Nickelby? Their accents aren’t Spanish, but I understand how you could’ve—”

  “No. How do you know them? Those two acted more like big shots, mean, their eyes.”

  Ford noted the fear in her voice. “What did they say?”

  “It’s what they almost did. They would’ve chased me down if they hadn’t heard your plane land. Are they outside waiting? They’re not friends of yours. Can’t be, thugs like that.”

  The biologist placed his bag on the table, not angry but almost. “Threatened you, in other words.”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  “They’re fools. I had a talk with them. They left out the part about terrorizing you, but, trust me, the subject will come up again. Did they touch you?”

  “Threatened me, that’s all. Sort of spread out so I couldn’t get away. I was on the beach wearing—well, doesn’t matter. One carried a thing, looked like a cattle prod. You know, an electric stick farmers use.”

  “A Taser—yeah, I saw it.” He started toward the bathroom. “If you don’t mind, start packing my stuff. Just as a precaution. We’ll stop at your place on the way if it turns out you’re not safe here. Depends on whether they’re willing to come to an agreement.”

  “Those men? I can’t leave. I’ve got a shop to run. Besides, go where this time of night?”