Caribbean Rim

by Randy Wayne White

  “The cameraman’s running away,” she said. “I get the message, Efren. You’re working with a badass and you’re trying to scare me into cutting a deal.”

  “No idea who the biologist is?”

  “I just told you.”

  “Okay, I saved the best for last. Actually, the worst. All trimmed to hell—don’t blame me for the hack job. The shooter, whoever sent these, he sucks as bad with the lens as he does the cutting tools. Speaking of that—” He started to get up, then decided, “I’ll grab it in a sec,” and hit play.

  Three nightmare minutes was all she could take. “Why is he torturing that man? I don’t know him either—stop trying to guilt me into thinking I’m the cause.”

  “Waterboarding, is what it’s called. He’s a Treasury Department agent named Middlebrook. Or was. He questioned me a couple of years back about my connection to Benthic. You missed another snuff scene, only a lot bloodier than Jimmy’s. Too bad there’s no sound.”

  “You’re sick.”

  Donner gave her a tolerant look. “The sound of pain is a diagnostic tool, sweetie. What did our shooter find out? Does he enjoy killing? The freak’s either been lobotomized or enjoys gore—that would’ve been my assessment as an outsider. But it doesn’t fit with what I know about Phil.”

  “Who?”

  “Phillipé—Phil—the guy who did security for me. He’s Salvadoran, so he fought under a couple of names because Phil sucks. I don’t know . . . all those concussions, and a head full of meth. And he’s ex–special forces from there, so—” The former shrink had to consider it. “Maybe, I guess. There’s a clip of what he did to two mercenary types—talk about bloody, Jesus. They weren’t worth whatever some fool paid them. Like a warning to me, I guess is why the video was sent. You sure you don’t want to watch—”

  “No.”

  “In a way, I’m glad. Christ, even made me sick. He used a machete with teeth—you know, like a savage who’s gone back to analog. In that way, yeah, maybe it is Phil. Around the set, we called him Aztec because it’s the only name he ever won a fight with.”

  Again, he reached for the space bar. “There is one more short clip you need to see. A woman in Florida, I think. One of those stucco slums you might recognize.” Donner wanted to savor her reaction so gave it a beat before asking, “Did you know Leonard’s wife?”

  Lydia shot up from her seat. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Sweetheart, I’m as confused as you. Fine, we’ll save it for later.” He pushed the computer aside. “The deal is, you do for me what you did for Jimmy. Don’t give me that look—as if I’d want to see you naked. This is strictly business. As of now, you’re with me. You’ll be safe from that freak—whoever he is.”

  Lydia was still staring at the computer. “You had Leonard’s wife murdered?”

  “No, but it could happen. You’re not listening. Babe”—he clamped a hand around her wrist—“you need to focus. I’ve got a compressor aboard and all the gear. Tanks are full, and there’s enough catered food for an army. It’s simple. Show me where Jimmy unloaded the gold and we’ll do a percentage deal—of the gross, of course. Under one condition—”

  Beneath their feet, the deck jolted. Donner paused, aware a boat had bumped the hull, possibly someone tying up.

  No . . . When the producer turned, Leonard was already aboard, looking down from the flybridge, red-faced at what he’d just witnessed. His arrival had been planned. What Lydia didn’t expect was the Spanish-looking sword in Leonard’s hand, or one of the boys he’d rescued to be beside him, a machete strapped to his shoulder like a bandolier.

  “Take your goddamn hands off her,” Leonard called down. His voice shook.

  The producer, wide-eyed, saw only the boy. “Don’t trust that goddamn kid. I’m serious,” he yelled. “Do you know who he is?” Then said to Lydia, “Talk to him, Jesus Christ. You’ll get us all—” Leonard was at the ladder, coming down. “Fuck, that does it.” Donner grabbed the fishbilly, strode to the ladder, and waited.

  The man’s look of surprise—totally shocked when the boy vaulted the railing and landed feather light to face him—the boy barefooted, waist-high to the movie producer, the machete still strapped to his back but ready.

  Donner swung the club without thinking. Not hard, more of a get-away-from-me response. That was Lydia’s impression until the boy collapsed as if a plug had been pulled. Lights out. Blood streamed from a hole in his head no wider than a rusty nail. But it was intentional because Donner straddled the boy, ready to swing again, until Leonard ran toward him, screaming, “Stop, stop, stop . . . You can have it all.”

  Donner froze. Turned his wild eyes to the short, bald man, who looked ridiculous in shorts, white socks, a scabbard belted to his waist. “Jesus Christ, you’re both nuts. See what you and your stupid bitch made me do?”

  Leonard advanced slowly. “Don’t hit him again. Stay calm. Whatever you want, Efren, okay?”

  Donner looked from the boy, fetal-positioned, feet twitching, to the little man in horn-rimmed glasses. Pathetic . . . hilarious. “Jesus, Leo, Indiana Jones you’re not. So drop the sword, already, and back off.”

  In Lydia’s mind, it was the bravest thing Capt. León had ever done. He let his weapon clatter to the deck, then stood tall, saying, “I don’t give a damn what you do to me, but we can’t let that boy die.”

  Leonard was on his knees, considering CPR, when Efren Donner used the club again.

  18

  When the old preacher entered the bar, hours after most islanders were asleep, Tomlinson knew something was wrong.

  Ford read it differently. He noted the staff’s deference, their imperceptible nods of respect, eyes averted, and said, “Josiah’s more than just a fisherman. He’s a local honcho. Does your sacred Masonic oath obligate you to lie to a pal about things he told you?”

  “Can’t tell you,” Tomlinson said, getting up. “Wait here.”

  They were at Fernandez Bay, a small hotel on a cusp of beach, nothing but stars out there on an empty, lightless sea. A breeze rustled thatching above the bar. Ceiling fans spun in lazy sync. The house they were in was a quarter mile down a shell lane. No Internet there, unlike the bar. Ford used the interruption to search variations of words that sounded like Kalik, the local beer, but were spelled differently.

  The Oxford English Dictionary, Unabridged, was an unimpeachable source:

  Cailleach (kal-әk´) Scots-Gaelic: old sorceress, orig. “nun,” female witch. A divine hag, a creator deity applied to mythological figures in Scotland and the Isle of Man.

  Tomlinson returned from the beach and motioned, Come on, hurry.

  Ford did. Read a second definition in a rush: 1783. Applied to women burned as witches or banished for witchcraft on a slave ship renamed Ketch Cailleach.

  He copied and saved, and said as they walked toward the rental car, “Now what?”

  “Something really bad happened, man. Josiah didn’t give me all the details. He’s waiting for us at the dock. Are you up for a boat ride?”

  It was late on an island fifty miles long, two miles wide, population fifteen hundred, where generators often kicked off before ten. “I’m not sure I trust your new buddy, and I sure as hell don’t trust his boat. Carrie’s not part of this, I hope.”

  Carrie was the Jezebel blonde, as described by the preacher, who turned out to be a nervous wannabe actress from Cincinnati. She had a room at the hotel, pending the next flight out, and had refused to talk about Efren Donner. “I expect you to be on the same plane,” Ford added.

  “It involves Lydia Johnson and Nickelby,” Tomlinson countered like their deal had been trumped.

  “What about them?”

  “Josiah found Fitz’s logbook, maybe the coins, too. That’s where we’re headed.”

  “Where, White Torch? You don’t think it’s odd he makes the b
ig discovery a few hours after seeing how those sharks reacted?”

  “Marl Landing, is what they call it,” Tomlinson replied. “In return—well, apparently Nickelby and the girl split and left their gear behind but stole something valuable. Valuable to the islanders anyway. I don’t know, but seriously bad kimchi is involved. Now he has to find them.”

  “Use us to find them,” Ford said, not surprised. “You just figured that out?”

  * * *

  —

  Up a path on a limestone crest, the wind crossed four thousand miles of water out of Africa. With it, a fecal-edged odor caromed up the hillside from the fish co-op and village below.

  “Ambergris is profitable,” Josiah explained, referencing the Shark Zapper, “but it ain’t enough lately. That’s all I’ll say for now. This is what I’m willing to let you see.” He motioned to a hulking structure anchored among the scrub. “I still hold services occasionally, but not the kind you think.”

  “Church is church,” Tomlinson said. “Where two or more are gathered, like the Book says. I should’ve told Doc about the jars full of pickled peckers.”

  Josiah laughed, because the biologist heard it as “pickled peppers,” and warned them both, “The logbook and coins better be in there, too, after hiking way the heck up here.”

  “I want you to see what was taken from us,” Josiah said. “You brought a torch, might as well use it.”

  Ford switched on a flashlight the old man claimed they wouldn’t need once their eyes adjusted to the stars and the wafer of fresh moon. It was a church. The walls were stone covered with faded lime cement. Small windows, a door of black madera—lignum vitae, Spaniards had named the strange tree that was too dense to float but cured diseases. Above the door was a Gaelic cross. It had been etched with a stick long ago while the cement was still wet.

  “You’re not old enough to have built this place,” Tomlinson said.

  “We are flesh yet our days be a hundred and twenty years,” Josiah replied. “Genesis 6:3.” Keys jingled beneath an ancient brass padlock, and the door swung wide. “Wait until I get a lamp lit,” he said. Went in, came out, and looked at the biologist. “Brother Tomlinson done vouched for you, sir. These days, to most a promise don’t mean much, so I must ask you to swear what you see will go no further.”

  Ford said, “Are you kidding? You should’ve mentioned that on the boat.”

  “What’s inside is private, sir.”

  “Fine, I understand, but I can’t.” He offered Tomlinson the flashlight, saying, “I’ll wait out here.”

  Tomlinson refused it. “Rev, he’s a stickler for nuance, which I think I mentioned. What he means is—”

  “What I mean,” Ford said, “is it’s unfair to promise anything in advance. Some don’t take it seriously, but I do when it comes to keeping my word.” Then took a chance by adding, “Up to you . . . Cailleach.”

  Cail-LEECH, he pronounced the word, right out of the Oxford Unabridged.

  Josiah said softly, “Caill-EK-ay,” a subtle correction. Then asked Tomlinson, “You told ’em?”

  “No, but down the road I would’ve dropped a few hints if he hadn’t figured it out. He’s usually pretty quick.”

  “There’s the honesty of the craft,” Josiah said, still observing the biologist. “A man takes matters of honor serious-like, that ain’t bad either. Reckon I’ll vouch for you myself, sir, even though you’re wrong in how you addressed me. I ain’t the sovereign of this island, she is.” He looked down on the village, where a line of torches had formed and appeared to be marching uphill on the path to the church.

  “Uh-oh, Rev.” Tomlinson was tugging at a strand of hair. “I love the whole Illuminati thing, but just wondering. She’s not pissed off, is she?”

  “Aren’t they always, brothah? But you wouldn’t be here if her wisdom had not allowed it. Three hundred years, women of her blood have ruled this island. Done just fine, too, with no outside help except a few times—like now.”

  Ford didn’t care for the odds. “Let’s get this over with. If you have the logbook, Dr. Nickelby and the girl must be somewhere on the island. Or were. You want the Shark Zapper in return for—”

  “They be gone,” Josiah said, “that’s what we’re trading. Find them and the man they ran off with. A bad man. He took a fine little boy as well. And something else she values. That’s what I come up here to explain.”

  “Why would Nickelby take off with a kidnapper?”

  “Doubt if Capt. León did, sir. The glory of God is to conceal, the honor of man is to search. Speaking of that, I hear you got you a fine seaplane as well. It would be part of the deal.”

  “Something else you could’ve mentioned on the boat,” Ford said. “My advice is, call the police.”

  “They can’t. It’s the way things are here,” Tomlinson said. “Tell Doc the rest.”

  Josiah levered a kerosene lamp open, matches ready. “Could be even you don’t know the rest, brother. We make it our business to learn about those interested in us before they know about us. Eight years she’s conjured that man to return but she sure didn’t expect what happened today.”

  “Efren Donner,” Tomlinson explained to Ford, as the old preacher lit the lamp and held it high.

  “She wants his head, sir,” Josiah said agreeably. “The boy that moviemaking sonuvabitch took is our grandson. And another item of importance—a sword. You’ll have to step inside to understand.”

  * * *

  —

  Ford was in bed, going over notes, comparing symbols he’d seen inside the church with his diagram of the ceremonial murder, when a delicate tap-tap-tap at the door told him it wasn’t Tomlinson.

  Strangers seldom enter a two-bedroom beach rental at midnight with peaceful intentions.

  Ford switched off the lamp, already on the move.

  Protocol on the road was different than at home. Under the pillow, to his right, was the pistol. An LED tactical light lay on the nightstand to his left. Finding his underwear in the dark had not been as carefully planned.

  Tap-tap-tap. “You in there?” A woman’s voice.

  “Give me a second, it’s locked,” Ford said, hopping on one foot.

  He was buckling his fishing shorts when the doorknob turned and confirmed the occupant was a liar.

  “I saw your light, then it went out,” said Carrie, the wannabe actress. Her silhouette filled the doorway but wasn’t posed for attention. “I need someone to talk to. Hey, do you mind?” She reached for the wall switch.

  Ford was shirtless, holding a towel, when the light came on. “Tomlinson was at the bar last time I saw him. How’d you get in?”

  “I was scared,” she said, and started to say something else but was distracted by a scar on his shoulder and another that bisected his sternum. “Geez, what happened to you?”

  “Scared of what?”

  “Oh. Uhh . . . maybe it was my imagination. It’s so damn dark out there, the beach, and this was the closest place, so I—”

  “Check the fridge if you’re thirsty,” Ford said. “I’ll be right out.”

  Carrie’s peasant blouse and gauzy pantaloons reminded him of Cambodia, the way tribal women dressed. A hint of hemp smoke, the way she sat cross-legged in a chair, added to the illusion. He had spent time in the jungle along the Mekong, one of a few sent to confirm that a genocidal leader, Pol Pot, was dead. It caused him to think back.

  It also caused her to say, “Sorry to bore you. I was hoping you’d walk me to the hotel. Oh well . . .” She placed her bottle on a coaster. “What I imagined was that weirdo, Efren, was following me.”

  Ford’s attention shifted. “Maybe he was. Or it was someone else. Why didn’t you want to talk about him this morning?”

  “You think it could’ve been that weirdo?”

  “Depends. Are you sure it was a man? How far fr
om here?”

  “Close enough,” she said, “but more likely just a worker from the hotel. Don’t worry about it. Seagard said come to you if I was scared, so . . .”

  Ford, getting up, said, “Who? Oh, Tomlinson. I’m glad. When your instincts tell you something’s wrong, you’re almost always right. Let’s find him first.”

  The outdoor bar was empty, lights off, no music. “Check your room,” Ford said. A series of stone cottages, two suites in each, faced the sea. She balked at the door, so he slid it open and went in. A light was on, the bed unmade, but otherwise the place was neatly kept. “What didn’t you want me to see?”

  “We smoked, that’s all. He told me you don’t approve.”

  “Meth?”

  “Oh please. When Seagard fell asleep, I went for a walk. At first, I thought it might be him following me, so I stopped, you know? But it wasn’t. I could tell by the creepy way the guy tried to hide behind a palm tree.” She pointed vaguely to the water. “That’s where we should’ve started. Where do you think he is?”

  “Hopefully, meditating in one of those beach chairs.”

  “Not Seagard, that weirdo Efren,” the woman said. “Cat Island’s one of the few places he’s not afraid to drive his boat. He told me.”

  “Which marina did he use?”

  Carrie’s facial response: Duh, like I would know. “He scares the hell out of me,” she said. “Mind if we lock that?”

  Ford, standing in the open doorway, said, “Good idea, but first—” He checked the bathroom and a closet, then picked up his bag. “Don’t open the door unless it’s Tomlinson. I won’t be long.”

  “Are you some kind of cop?” She sounded guarded. “Efren warned me about that, sorta paranoid. He thought he was being followed.”