Caribbean Rim

by Randy Wayne White

  Like now, Lydia at the wheel when Donner slammed the cabin the door, saying, “The nosy fuck, flying that low. I ought to report him. Shit . . . Or do you think he’s a cop?”

  Paranoia was another weakness to be used.

  “He would’ve come back. But god I hope not.” Nikon binoculars added a few seconds of drama before she put them away. “I think he’s gone, but you never know. We’ve got to get off this bar, Efren. The tide’s falling. We could be stuck here all night. Want me to give it a try?”

  “Captain Fugly, the expert, I forgot,” he said. “Like you wouldn’t love for a bunch of Bahamian cops to show up.” But then, after a nervous glance out the window, he asked, “How do you know the tide’s falling? Don’t try to play me, Lydia. I’ve been played by some of the best and they were a hell of a lot smarter than you.”

  “We made a deal,” she replied. “They’d arrest me, too, goddamn it. You don’t think I want this over with? We both know I’ve had more experience in boats this size. And you’re right about the chart plotter. It sucks.”

  “There, see? I told you it wasn’t my fault,” he said. “Stop second-guessing me . . . Bitch.” He turned a nautical eye to the tide as if assessing the situation. “Okay. What do you want me to do?”

  Donner had become increasingly dependent on her boating skills. The rental yacht was equipped to be user-friendly. Push-button navigation that could take a novice from point A to point B without incident. Waypoints included all the popular stops on the tourist trail, but don’t stray into isolated areas unless you actually know how to run a boat and understand the markers, both day and night.

  Like last night. On the trip from Marl Landing to Cat Island, she had saved him from the fatal error of crossing between a tug and the barge it towed. Fifty yards of unlit steel cable was impossible to see, but a triad of white lights on the tug and a yellow light astern had warned her in time. The man, frazzled by coke and violence, had nearly broken down in tears. She’d paid for his display of weakness later—the horror scene with blood and a mask.

  There’d been no mention of the incident this morning until now, when he added, “Do you expect me to salute? . . . I asked you a question. Are you deaf or just buying time?”

  “I was checking the gauges,” Lydia said. “We need to jettison our aft freshwater tank, at least a hundred gallons. That might lift the stern enough to free our props. You can reverse the flow switch in the bilge unless you’d rather I—”

  “I’m not exactly a novice,” he said. “That was my next move anyway. God, Lydia, just shut your mouth and do what I tell you, okay?”

  “Sorry, Efren,” she said, afraid to spark another mood swing.

  When he was gone, she ducked under the wheel and used a spoon to tap a throttle linkage bar. The throttle was connected to the hot, cramped engine room, where poor Leonard was locked below. At every opportunity, they’d communicated in this way. And every time, she feared he would not reply.

  But he did reply. Tap . . . Tap-tap-tap. Not Morse code. Simply a confirmation he was still alive.

  As for the boy, no way of knowing. She hadn’t been allowed to check on him in more than an hour. That might change depending on what happened next.

  All gauges were digital. The numbers began to spin when Donner finally found the right valve. An automatic pump jettisoned eighteen gallons of fresh water per minute. A southerly breeze helped lift the stern. It also threatened to strand the vessel beamside to the shoal. She waited to feel the stern swing before firing the engines, and immediately shifted into reverse.

  The hull shuddered. A prop banged a chunk of coral. With engines in neutral, there was another wait until she was sure, then throttled hard when the sonar indicated the water was deep enough to continue toward a channel marker that no sober person would’ve missed.

  Donner reappeared. The frantic movement of his hands, the twitching, did not reflect his superior manner. “I told you it would work. How much water did we have to dump?”

  “About a hundred gallons. Look, I’ve got the autopilot all set, so take over. I want to check on the kid. And something else—really, there’s no need to keep Leonard locked down there.”

  He came toward her, saying, “A hundred gallons is all? Move your ass.”

  Lydia got out of the man’s way but could not avoid the stink of him—sweat, cologne, the butane acidity of the meth he’d just smoked.

  “At eight-point-four pounds per gallon, that’s just about half a ton,” she reminded him. “Almost the same as what Jimmy stashed. Seriously, I’m done cooperating if you don’t make at least a few concessions.”

  “Capt. Fugly.” He smiled. “Is that a threat?”

  “It’s a win-win, Efren,” Lydia said, forcing a smile herself. “Instead of enemies, why not be partners?”

  “Because you haven’t told me a goddamn thing. Not really. Mooring buoys, my ass—we’ve checked enough public anchorages. I think you’re full of shit.”

  No, there were two charted mooring areas—and one not on the chart—still unchecked. What she hadn’t shared were the details. Jimmy Jones, while a student at MIT, had worked part-time at a place that manufactured commercial mooring buoys. The buoys were used worldwide—a big floating ball connected to a chain and a heavy weight below. It was a quick way to secure a boat where there was insufficient dockage. The size and shape of the mooring weights varied. Pyramid weights were the most common—and the heaviest. What Jimmy had pilfered were two dozen mushroom anchors because they were light enough to carry, and more effective, and they might come in handy down the road.

  A few months before he was arrested, they did. A mushroom anchor resembles a metal dish attached to a long stainless shank. When covered by sand—or filled with molten gold and set—the design withstood ten times the strain of conventional mooring weights.

  “The cops couldn’t figure out why I spent four days anchored in the area,” Jimmy had told her. “Went ashore every night, got drunk, and every night afterward on a different island—them following me the whole time. Same’ll happen to you, Lydianne,” which he sometimes called her. “Just keep in mind, they ain’t no smarter than us.”

  Said with a Southern inflection, the word us had seemed as binding as the phrase I do. Dear, dear Jimmy. He’d made love like a Labrador retriever—a few quick humps, then come trotting back with some pointless gift in his mouth as if apologizing.

  Not at all like Leonard—the second lover she might fail to save from the crazy man who stood at the wheel, glaring.

  “I told you the truth, Efren,” she said. “A mooring area somewhere near Cat Island. That’s all I know.”

  “Four hundred mil in gold,” he chided. “Sure, babe.”

  “I never said that. You know how Jimmy was. He loved making fools of reporters and the government guys, bureaucrats, who were hounding him.” As she said it, Leonard, as he’d once been, popped into her mind.

  “How much did he really hide? Gotta be at least two hundred mil or my Central American friends wouldn’t waste their time.”

  “He didn’t say an exact amount. It’s not like I could have brought a chart to visitation, and the guards monitored everything. You know that.”

  “Mooring buoys,” Donner scoffed. “Fabulous—Jesus Christ.” He looked ahead and slammed the twin throttles forward, hoping the scrawny little know-it-all would fall ass backwards, but Lydia didn’t.

  “Stay in the channel,” she said.

  “Fuck you. Even a redneck like Jimmy wasn’t dumb enough to hide the shit in plain sight where boats come and go. Tell me the truth or I’ll—” He reached for the pistol, but in the wrong pocket, while the boat again veered toward the shoals. “Shit, I mean it.” Finally, he got the pistol out and said, “How about this? If there’s nothing at the next spot, I kill the kid. The spot after that, I kill your boyfriend. Only one more strike, babe, you’re out. Sound
fair?”

  Lydia wanted to make eye contact but knew better.

  “You’ve been very fair about everything, Efren. I know I’m not easy to work with.” She started toward the stairs.

  “A pain in the ass, more like it. Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Below, to keep us from being charged with murder along with everything else. Try to trust the autopilot, okay?”

  She felt the man’s craziness on her back as she exited the cabin.

  * * *

  —

  When Leonard couldn’t drink any more water, he squinted up into the sunlight and asked, “How’s the boy?”

  His voice was raspy, hard to understand above the noise of twin engines and the wind.

  “Better,” Lydia lied, “but you both need a doctor. Leo, what I’m thinking is”—she looked up and confirmed Donner was watching from the cabin, the boat on autopilot—“I’m going to try to talk him into leaving you someplace safe where an ambulance can—”

  “Can’t hear you,” Leonard said, and tried to stand. In the engine hold, a narrow space separated the drive shafts. On the wall was a Halon fire suppression system, fuse boxes, electrical conduit, in a compartment only five feet high. He got his hands on the rim, and she helped him up. “What’s wrong?” he asked, easier to hear now that she was on her knees at deck level.

  “Nothing,” she said. “You look a lot better. Here . . . hold still. I brought a towel and disinfectant.”

  Gently, very gently, she dabbed at a face that was unrecognizable because of what Donner had done. “You need a bag of ice. Are you still nauseous?”

  “Ice?” Leonard winced when he attempted to smile. “My turn, huh? Does he know the boy is her . . . that he’s Kalik’s grandson? I’m afraid they’re going to blame me for everything. Honey, I need a weapon of some type. Do you know what he did with my—”

  “Don’t talk,” Lydia said. “Please, just listen. I’m going to try to push him overboard, or knock him out, I don’t know. He’s got a bag full of drugs, so maybe I’ll get him really stoned, then inject him with something.” She glanced up: Donner, there in the window, the pistol against the glass as a warning. “But Leo, if I can talk him into leaving you and the boy someplace safe, then—”

  Leonard shook his head, touched her face, and gazed through the slit of the eye that still functioned. “I’m not as bad off as you think. In fact, good enough to see you’re still beautiful. Has that lunatic tried to—”

  “Absolutely not. He hasn’t touched me. All he wants is the gold Jimmy hid, so I told him where. Not exactly where, but close enough to—” She stopped when she realized she had yet to share the truth with Leonard. “I’m sorry, I should have told you a long time ago.”

  “You . . . you and Jimmy Jones.”

  “Yes, but I had to narrow it down. We can split it when you’re out of the hospital. But first—”

  Leonard made a shushing noise and kissed her hand. “I don’t give a damn about him or what he stashed. You listen to me. We’re in this together. Tonight, whenever the timing feels right, sneak down here and let me out. First, look after the boy. Did he wake up?”

  Lydia said, “He’s breathing. The bleeding stopped. And his color seems better.”

  She was inventing more good news when Leonard remembered to say again, “Honey, I need a weapon of some type. Do you know what he did with the sword?”

  * * *

  —

  There was a large mooring pond off Little San Salvador, an island that had been purchased by a cruise ship company and renamed Half Moon Cay. Boats and Jet Skis everywhere. Parasails, too. A vacation frenzy that would have been the last place authorities would have looked for half a ton of gold hidden in plain sight.

  Lydia slipped over the side while Donner watched from the flybridge, engines running. She snorkeled around a few vacant buoys, tried a different area, then hefted herself onto the dive platform and shook her head.

  “You spent less than ten minutes in the water,” Donner said when they were under way. To the east was Cat Island. A few miles west was a smoky gray prominence that was Marl Landing.

  She was toweling off, wearing a red two-piece, French-cut, that was one of several castoffs left by previous passengers. “I knew before I put my fins on. The weights Jimmy used are mushroom-shaped. All but the shanks and chain would be buried under sand. Pyramid weights—we’ll be able to see them from up here, so that’s how we do it from now on.”

  “Only stop if we don’t see something,” Donner said in a chiding way that was getting old. “Strike one,” he reminded her. “I hope you’re satisfied. But not here. Too many people. And it’s getting late.”

  “You really think I give a shit about that kid?” she replied. “We’ve got plenty of time. Let’s keep looking.”

  The man seemed to handle that okay. Maybe a little disappointed by her lack of feelings for a child he perceived as leverage. That faded when she eyed the goodie bag on the floor and said, “I don’t suppose you’re willing to share.”

  Now he was surprised. “So, Capt. Fugly wants to get hip, huh? What do you have in mind?”

  “Weed, that’s all I do. I’m a nervous wreck. Every boat out here has a VHF. My god, Efren, what if the cops are looking for us? They could be blasting the name and description of this boat all over the islands. Then what?”

  His reaction: Christ . . . she’s right. He snuck the throttles forward, trying to be cool, but lost it. “Yeah, no shit. Then what? My Central American contacts have all kinds of juice with the cops, so maybe I’d better make a—” His attention shifted to the radio. “Damn it,” he said, meaning he should have disconnected the antenna instead of cutting a cable that served three radios, a VHF on every deck. The crazy look returned, a glow in Donner’s eyes. “This is all your fault. You and that goddamn runt of a boyfriend. He’s the one who attacked me, him and the brat. What I should do is—” Red-faced, he pushed up from the captain’s chair.

  Lydia cut him off, saying, “I hated to admit it, but you’re right.” She knew where this was headed, so nudged the leather bag with her toe to shift the man’s focus. “Look, we’re both a little strung-out. What you said is exactly the way it happened and that’s what I’ll tell them. Honest to god, I will. But screw the cops for now, okay? Let’s make at least one more stop.”

  “You’re serious. Just like that, huh?”

  “I plan to get what I came after. What country in Central America?”

  “Oh Christ.” He chuckled. “Here we go. Another sales pitch from little Miss Butt-Ugly.”

  “You don’t think Jimmy could’ve had anyone he wanted?” she countered. “I might be able to help you that way, too. I don’t care much about movies, but I know how to organize a business and get things done. I mean, really, why panic before we’re sure there’s a reason?”

  Again, she nudged the bag, which didn’t quite convince him, so she turned away, saying, “Go ahead while I finish,” and did what she had dreaded since selecting the red swimsuit. Unsnapped the bra with her back to him. Next, stepped out of the French-cut thong. Then used the towel, fluffed her hair, and went down the steps like they were partners with nothing to hide.

  Thank god, the freak didn’t follow her. But the finesse worked. Maybe worked a little too well, because when she returned fully dressed, Donner was waiting with a fatty already rolled and lit. He passed it, and assessed her smoking expertise, before saying, “I know a good place to lay low tonight.”

  “The villa you rented?” she asked.

  It was too much to hope for.

  “Your striptease act made me want something more secluded,” he said, and grinned when she tried to hide her disgust. “It’s a private compound my Latino associates rented. Dolphin Head, on the south end of Cat Island. I wasn’t supposed to show up without the goods, but what the hell? It’s not like there’s a g
oddamn radio around that works.”

  “Then let’s keep looking. We’ve got three hours before sunset, so why not?”

  “Because I’m in a moviemaking kinda mood,” he replied, singing the words, then gave her a hard look. “Stop playing me, babe. I want a closed set when I break in my new star.”

  20

  By water, it was an hour run from the hotel to the south shore of Cat Island. Much quicker by car, so Ford drove fourteen miles to an area where, from the air, he’d spotted Efren Donner’s boat snaking its way up a channel into Cutlass Bay.

  At an isolated roundabout, the road sprouted east and west. He continued straight onto a rutted lane that ended among the ruins of a plantation house still shadowed by the days of cholera and slaves.

  Superstition would guard the car. Wax myrtle trees would hide it from the road.

  A good spot to park, as his contact in Nassau had suggested.

  In the trunk was a four-piece Sage fly rod and a sportsman’s pocket-laden vest. Years ago, he’d learned that even in war-torn countries a stranger with a fishing rod was dismissed as an affable fool, not a threat. Locals often dropped politics, and everything else, given a chance to offer advice and point the fool in a direction that required permission or the blessings of a fellow angler.

  Ford was counting on it.

  Wax myrtle ended at a path with a view of Cutlass Bay. It was a vast basin of sand and mangroves veined with turquoise and shielded by a bluff and miles of salt-bleached shoals. On an isolated point, elevated above the sea, was a rental estate called Dolphin Head, or Wind Drift—his contact in Nassau had been unsure. Names changed with every owner, but the place was a popular getaway for the few who could afford the price of privacy: A main house, two satellite cottages, a pool, and a gate that forbade entrance.

  By car, only one way in. By water, a single narrow channel led to the only dockage for miles. Donner’s boat was there, anchored away from the dock, its sleek black hull darker in the late-afternoon light.