Caribbean Rim

by Randy Wayne White

  Lydia sensed a trap that had to do with Efren Donner. “Are you saying it’s the same house that what’s-his-name bragged about owning? I warned you, didn’t I?”

  “Not just him. They’ve told the same story for decades. The house—a villa, they call it—isn’t for rent unless the right person comes along. I’m not sure of the criteria. Could be someone they want to keep an eye on. Over the years, they’ve become experts at protecting themselves from outsiders. Keep that in mind,” he added, then swept a hand along the coast. “Tell me what else doesn’t make sense in a village inhabited by poor fishermen.”

  Lydia felt her stomach tense. She did a quick scan, seeing rickety buildings, a truck parked in the shade, a couple of tractors, a backhoe, no cars, no paved roads. Bicycles were common property, abandoned wherever the previous rider had gotten off. The island was not postcard idyllic. Trees on the ridge were wind-sheared, the landscape knobbed with limestone bluffs. No welcoming beach among the coconut palms below. Just rock . . . except for a cove in the far, far distance, where there was a splotch of golden sand. A person was there—a woman, possibly.

  When Lydia moved to get a better angle, the woman was gone. “What am I supposed to see?”

  According to Leonard, what she hadn’t noticed was the village medical clinic with air-conditioning. There was a dirt landing strip, a general store. The most incongruous was a small desalinization plant. Nearby was a building roofed with solar panels.

  “A generator,” he said, “that powers the entire island. The Bahamian government didn’t build it. The police, public officials, they’re not welcome either—and don’t press the issue. I didn’t. They appreciated that, I could tell.”

  “How does it feel to be so popular?” she asked, an affectionate jab with an edge.

  “You still don’t get it,” he replied. “Everything here is different, the way people look, the language. But think about it. It took more than wild stories to stop the big-money syndicates from bribing officials and turning this island into a theme park like over there.”

  Twelve miles away, Little San Salvador was a misty knoll on the horizon. A few miles farther was another landmass. It resembled a bank of clouds girded to a single low peak.

  “They haven’t spoiled Cat Island, either, from what I’ve read, but only because the economy’s doing okay. There’s tourism, the healthy sort, and commerce with other islands, but not enough to tell the government and everyone else to stay the heck away.”

  Lydia reacted as if a light had snapped on. “Ambergris,” she said. “How else could a fisherman’s co-op afford solar power and the rest of it? That airstrip—on an island that doesn’t have a road? Or drugs. Or both.”

  “No,” Leonard said. “It took me a while, too. What I think is, these people are rich.”

  Lydia took that as a metaphor for happiness, then realized. “You can’t be serious.”

  “How else do you explain it? I think they have more money than God. They own the island and everything on it.”

  “Someone told you this?”

  “Not in so many words. The people know they don’t fit in with the outside world and they don’t give a darn. So they bribe the right officials and spread rumors to protect what they don’t want anyone to know. Whatever they need, they build or buy themselves. What else makes sense? I don’t know where the money comes from, but there’s been enough to keep them isolated for generations. It’s only a theory, but . . . Come on.”

  She followed him uphill. The structure she’d seen from the mailboat materialized from a tangle of brush, but it wasn’t concrete. The walls were rough-hewn rock covered with faded lime cement. Windows were as small as gun ports. The door was heavy planking bound with brass that had turned green.

  “Don’t bother, it’s locked,” Leonard said. “It used to be a church. Last night, she took me inside and showed me the stone. Symbols, some of them she knew I would recognize. The trust that shows, do you have any idea what it means?”

  “It means we walked a hell of a long way for nothing,” Lydia said, then softened up. “Look, I know she’s an important person and all, but only here, nowhere else. I’m starting to wonder if she slipped something in your drink.”

  She was the woman who had looked too old to be the boys’ mother yet had taken charge of them and every detail since their rescue. Then later, when a fire was built, had wrung Leonard’s hand and addressed the villagers in a language that sounded foreign because of her accent and wording.

  A passage recorded on Lydia’s phone had taken them both time to decipher. A lilting voice with a brogue saying, “Dis gentl’man be sent us by Heaven, peoples, and dis be where he stay. Cap’n León, the man who gobsmacked dem shark. Jumbied ’em bad, he did, so us owes him two lives. Understand you me?” A dwarf of a woman, she and Leonard encircled by islanders, a hundred ashen faces suspended above a fire.

  Mudder, the children called her—“Mother.” The confusing part was the word was also used to address other females of childbearing age. To adults, she was Kalik, also confusing. It was the name of a Bahamian beer.

  Lydia, in weeds near the building, referenced the recording and said, “Don’t get carried away with all this, Leo. You weren’t sent by Heaven. We flew coach out of West Palm Beach, remember?”

  “Anthropomorphic signs of godly powers,” he replied patiently. “It’s common in isolated cultures. You probably learned about it in my class. On the other hand, a culture that has survived this long has to have something going for it. Right?”

  “Oh come on.”

  “No. Think about the timing. Every person on that boat was in the right place at the right time. But only one of us had the courage to jump overboard and save Kalik’s grandsons.”

  “You didn’t jump, you fell,” Lydia reminded him. “Why’d you really bring me here if you knew the place was locked? Did she tell you to do that, too?”

  “In a way,” he said, and motioned to the east. “Turns out, it’s the perfect spot to ask about him.”

  Far below, on the island’s windward side, was a black-hulled yacht Lydia had been trying hard to ignore.

  “Oh,” she said. That’s all, putting it together—the old woman and other inhabitants on an island where nothing went unseen.

  “Efren Donner,” Leonard continued. “Last night was the second time you refused to set foot on his boat. Efren felt slighted. I got the impression he’s more interested in you than me.”

  “That’s just plain weird.”

  “Is it?”

  “Of course it is. I said from the start he wants something. For all we know, he sent those gangsters to rob us. The gold Tricentennial is probably what he’s after.”

  “You really believe that?”

  Lydia surprised herself by replying softly, “No, Leo, that’s not what I believe.”

  Leonard seemed equally surprised. “Thanks for admitting it, darling. Whatever the truth is, you can trust me.”

  “I do. The coin’s part of it, maybe, but I think he wants to get me alone and pump me for information on Benthic.”

  “Ahh,” he said. “So that’s it. Something to do with the great Jimmy Jones. How long have you and Donner known each other?”

  “We don’t. I recognized him, that’s all. He was an investor, not part of the crew. I know, I should’ve told you, but—”

  Leonard’s fingers found her hand. “It doesn’t matter. You and me, we’re a team, right?” A gentle squeeze communicated a bond. “I wish you would’ve come aboard last night. It’s quite a boat. The guest suite is huge, nice shower, and there’s satellite TV. And it’s all ours for a week or so if you want. Donner made the same offer he made at the resort.”

  “I don’t want anything to do with the man. Why didn’t you just ask me before hiking all the way up here?”

  Leonard had something else on his mind. “I’ve never pried
into your personal life because I don’t give a damn about your past. After those sharks, knowing I was going to die, the only thing in this world that scares me is the thought of losing you.”

  Lydia felt her tension fade, until he added, “That’s why I need to ask you about last night.”

  How much honesty could her new love handle? “I don’t want to lose you either, Leo,” she said carefully. “Maybe I wasn’t as sure as I should’ve been, but I am now. So why risk it?”

  “Because it’s how these people survive,” he said. “She notices everything.”

  What did you and Donner talk about when you snuck off alone? is the question Leonard finally asked.

  15

  Ford said, “Why is it I don’t believe you left my mail on the mailboat accidentally?”

  “Ha-ha, you’ve got to appreciate the irony,” Tomlinson replied, a little nervous about what wasn’t a lie, exactly, but more a Freudian intermission. He knew what it was like to travel with a bummed-out biologist. The linear chill of the man, an emotional bottle rocket who, by god, refused to emote, let alone count down from ten.

  “Guess so,” Ford said like it was no big deal. “On the bright side, I see you didn’t go off and leave your stash.”

  Tomlinson’s hand leaped to his breast pocket. The biologist had the nose of a goddamn bloodhound. “I’m just helping the local economy, hermano. It was part of the deal I made for the boat—plus information we’ll need tonight. We don’t want the islanders to think we’re both pinhead screws, now do we?”

  “I didn’t commit to tonight,” his pal countered. “Right now I’m more concerned with someone stealing my mail.”

  Tomlinson assured him it would be okay. The clerk at Arthur’s Town had agreed to lock the letters away in return for another ten-dollar bill. “We’ll talk while you drive,” he said, and started toward the little Toyota he’d rented. “You’ll like the hotel. No TV, but there’s a bar.”

  Not so fast, Ford said with a look. More time was needed to obsess about getting his seaplane situated in Joe Sound Creek on Cat Island’s leeward side. And more questions about the truant mail—had Tomlinson opened the letters?

  “I don’t like what you’re implying. And the answer is no. Sorta.”

  “I thought so,” Ford said. “Toss me a line when I’m ready. While you’re at it, tell me what was in the letters you didn’t read.” They were hip-deep in water, the bottom rough sand, with mangroves all around.

  “Your son’s turning out to be a carbon copy of you—but otherwise doing fine. He got out of some scrape in Granada. The envelope was too thick to decipher details. Something to do with a girl and a guitar player.”

  “Granada, as in Nicaragua?”

  “Geezus, the island Reagan’s storm troopers invaded. No wonder you two don’t get along. Communication is key to everything, man. Let’s see . . . your daughter likes the Shimano racing bike. She flunked algebra but loved the class trip to Amsterdam, and both mothers still think you’re a bumbling nerd and an asshole. No surprises there. That’s a quick summary gleaned with the help of a magnifying glass and a light.”

  Ford responded, “I want to meet the old guy, the preacher—Josiah Bodden, you said? Some of what he told you doesn’t make sense. I’m reluctant to kidnap a woman, whoever she is, until I know more.”

  “What’s to make sense of?”

  “Maybe I got the story wrong. The preacher sells fish on an island where people make their living catching fish? A fisherman’s co-op. That strikes me as odd.”

  “He delivers to a private party who’s in the film business, supposedly. Nothing strange about that. I’m not clear whether the guy owns or rents. He’s a manipulative prick, that much I guarantee, and the woman is definitely in trouble.” The hipster paused for effect. “You didn’t ask about Hannah’s letters.”

  Ford replied, “Is the guy’s name Efren Donner?”

  “Who?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Efren, as in the movie producer? Where did you come up with that?”

  “I have sources in Nassau who’re interested.”

  “Then why ask me—unless it’s to avoid talking about Hannah?”

  “Geezus, just answer the question, okay? They seem sure it’s him, but it would be nice to hear it firsthand.”

  “Efren . . . hmm. I don’t know, I hope not. Wait, maybe I do. He hasn’t made a picture in years, but the name’s coming back to me. Yeah, Efren Donner. The biggest sleazeball in Hollywood. Or was. This could be a chance to stick his casting couch where it belongs—behind bars.” Tomlinson followed the Hollywood tangent a while before getting back on track. “You’re not curious about Hannah’s letter?”

  “No need. You’ll tell me anyway.”

  “That’s what you think, pal.”

  They were in the rental, driving north, before Tomlinson finally caved. “I didn’t snoop. I was tempted, sure, then decided, don’t get in the middle of something that’s none of my business. Also, Hannah would be pissed if she knew. I’d lose her respect. A woman like her? No thanks. Doc, my advice is bang on her door and loop a ring on that finger like you never saw the letter. Which, thanks to my little oversight, happens to be the truth.”

  “Did me a favor, in other words?” Ford smiled. “This from a man whose expertise on monogamy ranks with hamsters and lovebugs.” He laughed for the first time since finding a second mutilated corpse in a grove of what might be white torch trees.

  It was a guess, still not confirmed.

  Two nights ago, Tamara had accompanied him to the Consulate on West Hill Road in Nassau, where local police had deferred to a trio of national agency types. Now the woman was safely tucked away at an undisclosed hotel—Ford didn’t want to know—and he’d acquired a memory stick with information that allowed him to offer some advice of his own. “This isn’t about Fitzpatrick’s logbook anymore. It’s about you getting home while you’re still in one piece. Literally.”

  “Because of Efren the film creep?”

  “I didn’t say that. At least two men have been murdered in the last few days. More likely, three. Why? Because they were asking questions about Nickelby and Lydia Johnson. So I suggest we have a quiet beer, then you fly back to Florida tomorrow.”

  “Can’t, man. The woman we’re liberating said my book saved her life. I promised I’d be there last night or tonight—you’ll understand when you see her. Karma involves all sorts of implicit debt. And what about Fitz?”

  “Getting yourself killed won’t help either one. Fitzpatrick sent you into the cross fire of something a lot bigger than you realize. When I say murdered, I mean butchered. I found the bodies.”

  “Like a revenge deal? I haven’t pissed anyone off.”

  “I seriously doubt that,” Ford said. “A cross fire—three or more factions all after the same thing. And it’s not a logbook and a few stolen coins. Did you find out anything new about Nickelby?”

  “That’s why I’m not worried. Between Nassau and here, I must’ve spoken to a hundred people. Nada, is what I have to report. Well, except that a few days ago an American dived off the tower of a ship and rescued a couple of local boys. A hell of a swimmer, apparently. Doesn’t sound like a government dweeb to me.”

  “Just asking questions about those two puts you in their sights. This is business to the people I’m talking about. They won’t sympathize with your tales of friendship and woe when they grab you some dark night.”

  “If Fitz has nothing to do with it, why would they give a damn about me?”

  “I just told you and you need to pay attention. There’s a fourth player who doesn’t fit the business template. That’s who you need to worry about. Night before last on Andros, I got a look at him after I’d found a guy who’d been hacked to death like in some satanic ritual. He would’ve tried the same thing with me if I hadn’t . . . That part can wai
t. You know those biohazard suits? He came dressed to kill, so he’s either a psychopath or wants police to believe he’s part of a cult. If that doesn’t scare you, I’ve got pictures. So why not book a flight as a favor to me?”

  Nope. Tomlinson only shrugged and said, “Maybe later when we get to the hotel. Josiah’s waiting, so take the next left. The boat’s all fueled and ready.”

  Ford continued straight. “Forget the damn boat and listen to reason.”

  “Right, man, like I’m gonna start now.” Said it in a cheery way, as if to say, You’ve got to be kidding.

  They went back and forth. Finally, Ford got frustrated. “Okay. But I’m not going anywhere until I meet the preacher who sells fish to an island that’s already ass-deep in fish. You don’t think I asked the cops when I was in Nassau? They’d never heard of a minister named Josiah Bodden. But the island? Oh yeah. And their advice was stay the hell away because—”

  “Because cops are xenophobic assholes,” Tomlinson cut in, “judging people by the way they look. It’s what they do, man.”

  “Wrong. I spoke with the regional commander. The island is under something called IPA jurisdiction, not his. He got pissy when I asked if he meant India Pale Ale, so I looked it up. Indigenous Protected Area—it’s a designation similar to the Australian model created in the 1990s to preserve aboriginal culture. In other words, don’t expect help from the Bahamian police.”

  “That’ll be the day.” Tomlinson chuckled. He had his arm out the window, steering the wind into his hair. “Indigenous—very cool, man. The Marl people—that’s what they’re called. They wouldn’t talk to me, just went about their business like I was invisible. You’re gonna love them. I still can’t believe I haven’t seen an article or something.”