Caribbean Rim

by Randy Wayne White

  “You’re jealous.” He smiled.

  “The hell I am. Being professional, is what it’s called. Something you wouldn’t know about.”

  “View it as part of the curriculum,” Tomlinson suggested. “Come on. Like I’m the only client who’s gonna hit on her? Celeste needs to learn there are boundaries in life. Some people, it’s years before they understand we weren’t sent to this planet to have fun.” He chuckled to signal he was only semi-serious and bumped her with his shoulder. “This isn’t as exciting as being holed up in a Nassau hotel room, is it?”

  Tamara said, “Shut your mouth.” She refused to be embarrassed by what had happened between them after a few drinks at the bar on Queen’s Staircase. Then happened again at the Victoria, a hotel that catered to the posh and others worthy of around-the-clock security. “That’s something else you can’t talk about,” she added. “Or did you blab to him already?”

  “Doc?” Tomlinson said. “Ask him yourself. He’s supposed to pick me up around five.” This was a good excuse to look at his watch and suggest, “If we’re gonna get a third dive in, we’d better suit up. Or not. I’d bet I’m right about the elephant tusk and the rest, especially the bracelet you lost.”

  It was a slave ship, he had theorized. Copper bracelets—manillas, as they were known—were still used in West Africa as currency.

  “But it’s your call, skipper,” he conceded.

  * * *

  —

  The old preacher waved from the ground and was on the landing strip ready to help secure the blue-on-white amphib when they exited, Ford carrying a heavy bag, Tomlinson just his dive gear.

  “Best keep your plane out of sight,” Josiah said, referring to an open, tin-roofed hangar. “These here is dangerous times, gentlemen, and will continue to be so until they find that sonuvabitch who kidnapped our grandson. Can you believe they still ain’t found his boat?”

  Tomlinson was perceptive enough to realize that his Masonic brother had spent the last few days dealing in confidence with his pal the biologist. It was in the wink-wink subtext of their exchange, Doc saying, “It’s not the first boat to disappear in these waters,” to which Josiah responded, “Lord knows, and not the last. Not the biggest either. This here’s a boat-losing island, gentlemen. Up at the church we got proof you’ve never seen, if you’re interested.”

  Ford, finished with the subject, adjusted the bag on his shoulder. “We don’t have a lot of time, so why don’t you two stay here and catch up? I’ll be on the footbridge getting ready.”

  It had been nearly a week since exchanging the secret handshake. When Tomlinson offered his hand, the old man pulled him close and spoke mouth-to-ear, a fraternal rite that communicated urgency and also demanded a promise. For a full minute they stood that way.

  “So mote it be,” Tomlinson responded, serious about the exchange, and a little teary, too. “Can I see him?”

  “Need you to understand something first. I was hoping to show Dr. Ford as well, but . . . is he real bad jumbied about something?”

  Worried, seemed to be his meaning. Tomlinson looked in the general direction of the bridge, where oceanic white tips gathered daily to feed. “Hell yes, preacher. I’m a tad jumbied myself . . . Oh, wait. Do you mean upset? Hmm . . . Could be the clerk at Arthur’s Town screwed the pooch by giving Doc his mail. Yeah . . . makes sense. He seemed cheery on the flight over, but with the linear types you never know.”

  “Linn-eer-what?” Josiah’s rheumy grape-blue eyes showed puzzlement. “Brother, when Genesis says Let the earth bring forth herbs and grass, the Good Lord had cattle in mind, not a man I’m trying to talk sense to. The question I have is about trust.”

  “Who? Me or Doc?”

  “Both,” Josiah said. “I’ll show you.”

  The church smelled of moss and springwater. Inside, windows reshaped sunlight into a series of arches that followed thirteen pews to an altar. Artifacts from a shipwreck formed a triangular shrine: ballast rock, a bell, a dusty Bible, a trunk that held swords and scraps of dehydrated leather.

  The front pew opened on invisible hinges. Josiah reached in, saying, “Way back we held lodge meetings here, but this is something no foreigner, brother or not, has been allowed to see. I was hoping to grant the same privilege to your scientist friend.”

  A parchment logbook, wood endplates bound with straps, was placed on a table. The elaborate script on the cover was illegible. Except for the date: 1784.

  Josiah opened it just enough to see a page crammed with flourishes, stemmed vowels, errors dotted with ink spots. Words and syntax were archaic: Your Breast from the borde if that ye be wyse / Lest ye take hurte a’ter dawgwatch . . .

  Meaningless words, out of context. At the bottom of the page the author had signed in a bold hand: Entarred this day of Our Lorde, Capt. J. Marley Bodden.

  “Marley Bodden,” Tomlinson said, smiling. “As in, Marl Landing. And you’re a direct-descended. Very cool, Rev.”

  Josiah closed the book. “He was captain of a ship out of Glasgow, the Cailleach. In those years, they burned or cast out witches, which is contrary to God’s Word. Also goes against the convictions of our craft, as you know.”

  “Your grandfather how many times removed?” Tomlinson asked. Then decided, “It doesn’t matter. The craft—he was a Freemason.”

  “His officers were members of Kilmory Lodge as well—there’s a chapel there with Knights Templar graves. I’d like to see it before I die, but . . .” The man patted the book and continued, “Capt. Bodden was a brother of the craft, but he sure weren’t no saint. Off the Abacos, a papist ship had lost its sails. Was foundering. The Cailleach was bound for Cuba, but they captured the ship instead—killed every able man aboard, which is the gravest of sins. Then decided—”

  “A Spanish galleon,” Tomlinson said, thinking about Fitzpatrick’s story—the El Cazador’s sister ship, which had fled toward Cuba.

  “Yes, a galleon out of Vera Cruz. They towed it south, where a storm put them both on a reef—” Josiah nodded to the island’s windward side. “That reef. Capt. Bodden, two of his officers, fifteen crew, and thirty-one women survived out of a manifest of seventy-five souls. There was a Taino village here. The Indios were so sick with cholera, they welcomed anyone, even witches, if they had a knowledge of medicine.”

  “Castaways.” Tomlinson was picturing it in his head. “They had to assimilate, live off the land, but didn’t want to be rescued. Why? Because of the men they killed? Or what that galleon was carrying?”

  Josiah shrugged, returned the book to its hiding place but left the pew open. “Three hundred years have weakened the pages, brother, but not the truth. This book contains what foreigners might use against us—and the source of our survival. Wealth, some would say. That secret has to be protected.”

  “The Marl people’s private stash.” Tomlinson nodded. “Enough to tell the greed mongers and cops—modern times, too—to kiss your ass. Brother, I’m envious. What they brought ashore has financed—”

  “Nope. They too smart to salvage the valuables all at once,” the old man said. “With all the robbers in them days? These days, too. They burnt the vessels to the waterline and let the wind and coral hide what they decided should be taken as needed. Over the years, hiding boats and such is something we good at.”

  Tomlinson loved the agrarian wisdom of harvesting silver as if picking beans. “Brilliant. Really. Just wade out to wherever the galleon is scattered and—” He paused, mindful of Ford’s Shark Zapper. “Hold on . . . Every generation your people have to wade out a little farther. By now, to make a withdrawal, they’re risking water that’s deep enough to—”

  “The deacons,” Josiah agreed. “They our protectors, so we honor them with tithes, as it states in the Book. And your friend Dr. Ford, smart as he is, ain’t one to promise something unless he understands. That’s what I hope you’ll pass a
long.”

  The logbook rested in a Tupperware container to keep it dry. Other items were hidden there: silver plates, a gold chalice, a sack of something heavy—oxidized Spanish coins, perhaps. A more ancient object demanded attention. It was a wooden scythe, doubled-edged with sharks’ teeth and lashed to a bamboo handle.

  “Whew, that bad boy belongs in a museum,” Tomlinson said.

  Josiah seldom sounded stern, but he did when he replied, “No, brothah. That there’s a blessed Taino axe. I keep it handy in case foreigners start poking around where they shouldn’t.” A smile defused the implied threat.

  Tomlinson took a step back anyway. “You set me up, Rev. Brought a box of fish ashore to clean, knowing it would lure me close enough—like a trap.”

  The smile broadened. “As a precaution, Be sober, be ever vigilant, in the words of the great fisherman. Must admit, I was relieved to find you’re a master of the craft—and quoting from the Good Book didn’t hurt you none either. Purely was a joy to find a brothah I’d never met.”

  The old man closed the pew. “Now that you know,” he said, “come see what’s worth protecting.”

  They didn’t walk far. A rocky incline provided a view of the windward shore—the least attractive side to settle because of rocks and salt spray. Also the least accessible by sea. Waves pounded an outside reef and pushed streamers of foam toward land. Palm trees shaded a curvature where the island bowed.

  “Wind ain’t good for anything but privacy and growing coconuts,” the old preacher said. “Come on.”

  They zigzagged downhill toward the sea. In an arid area of cactus, wild green plumes sprouted from a crater. A ragged man was there with a cart. “Fine, fine,” he said in greeting. Josiah replied, “Fine, fine,” then explained, “That there’s what’s called a banana hole. You hungry?”

  Tomlinson was peeling his third when they stopped again. Through the palms, close enough to smell wood smoke, was a house. Old wattle-and-daub, whitewashed with lime. Its heavy thatched roof needed repair, judging from the ladder and a woman sitting with her back to them weaving palm fronds. A tiny woman, short mousy hair that had been braided into spikes island style. Nearby was a pile of lumber, screens, and other items needed to make the hut livable.

  Josiah postponed questions by touching a finger to his lips.

  By the time a short, bald man appeared . . . then a boy, who took the man’s hand as if convalescing, Tomlinson didn’t need to ask.

  Among the lumber was a heavy black panel that had been painted, but not enough. Still legible was the name: ISLAND TIME.

  23

  Ford was in the water when he saw Tomlinson coming down the hill. The expectation that Josiah would follow caused a gaggle of children to scatter—back to their bicycles, their chores, their gray book bags that matched neatly pressed school uniforms.

  “That’s got to piss you off,” he said, wading ashore, mask tilted, fins in hand. Strapped to his leg, the shock cable trailed like a six-foot snake.

  Tomlinson replied, “What do you mean?” but couldn’t wait to share the news. “They found the boy. He’s here, I saw him. Aside from a concussion, the resident juju woman says he’ll be okay. I don’t know why Josiah didn’t tell you.”

  “Didn’t need to,” Ford replied. “The doctor I flew in three days ago said the same on our way back to Nassau. I was talking about school uniforms. A free spirit like you can’t approve.”

  “Uniforms? Geezus, stick to the subject. Instead of letting me fret my ass off, you could’ve at least mentioned the boy was alive. And why are you here instead of the bridge? I left Josiah there half an hour ago, man, told him I’d find you.”

  The biologist made light of it, saying, “And, by god, you did. Hold your horses while I pack my stuff.”

  It was better not to reveal what he’d just seen. Not yet. Maybe ever. Ford had chosen this spot near the fish co-op after speaking with a woman who officially was still missing, and the old man who’d waited for him and the boy off Dolphin Head in a battered 28-foot Mako.

  “Years ago,” the old preacher had told him the next morning, “some foreigner stuck a bunch of them mooring buoys along here like he was doing us a favor. Just appeared overnight. But guess how long they lasted before all them lines was cut?”

  This was in response to Ford’s interest in several commercial-grade buoys, yokes still attached, that were piled among other junk near the warehouse.

  Buoys—but no mooring weights.

  “Do you remember the guy’s name?”

  “The foreigner?” They’d been on their way to recheck the Mako, so the question was unexpected. “Hell if I know. Or care. Some rich fella trying to help us poor dumb natives, most likely. You want them marker weights, sir, they all yours. We ain’t got no use for ’em.”

  This, in Ford’s mind, was proof that Josiah was unaware of what Jimmy Jones might have hidden in this sharky stretch of water.

  For several very busy days the biologist had waited for a chance to dive the spot alone. Snorkel gear was all he needed to confirm the lines that had been cut were still there, but so heavy with barnacles the rope lay in coils twenty feet below. Six bounce dives later, enough sand had been fanned away to expose five mushroom-shaped anchors. A dozen or more remained covered, and would’ve stayed that way, even if Tomlinson hadn’t intruded.

  Ford zipped his gear bag and was using a towel when his hipster pal retrieved a knife and scabbard left on the ground.

  “Why didn’t you bring your good one?”

  “My Randall? It’s worth about a grand and I don’t trust customs agents. I always pick up something cheap on the road—you know that.”

  Tomlinson clicked the knife free. “Talk about cheap,” he said, inspecting the blade, “looks like they missed with the spray paint.”

  “A throwaway,” Ford agreed, and took the knife. It was his way of ignoring flecks of gold on the blade that were not specks of paint. Then changed the subject as they walked toward the footbridge. “I’ve got a big decision to make, ol’ buddy.”

  “Sure, pretend you’re in a good mood, then nail me when my guard’s down,” Tomlinson said. “Don’t blame me, hermano. I told that damn clerk at Arthur’s Town not to hand over your mail unless—”

  “That’s not what I mean. But while we’re on the subject, she thinks jail’s too good for you and so do I.”

  “Hannah?”

  “Her and probably a lot of other women. The decision I have to make, though, has to do with Lydia Johnson. What did you think when you saw them?”

  “Geezus, Doc, is there anything you don’t know? I can’t even comment. A blood secret kept in death and beyond, is how a certain Brotherhood might phrase it. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

  “That’s what I’m asking you. Are those two safe here? No one cares about Dr. Nickelby, even his wife according to a talk I had with Fitz. She dropped the idea of pressing charges in return for scuba lessons, apparently.”

  “No way.”

  “The best revenge, I guess, is finding a way to stay happy.”

  Tomlinson liked that. “There you go—the beauty of a broken heart is that fault lines heal no matter who’s at fault. Fitz called her?”

  Ford dismissed the subject with a shrug. “Lydia’s the one I’m worried about. There are some high-tech people still looking for her. On the other hand, she could try to cut a deal with the Treasury Department. I can’t go into detail, but she’d have to . . . Well, let’s just say turn over some key information.”

  “Trust the feds—are you high?” Tomlinson considered the idea absurd. “No one’s gonna find them here, man, even that prick Efren Donner. Why? Because Lydia and Leonard Nickelby no longer exist. Not as modern manifestations—a heavy concept for a guy like you to understand, I know. Think of it this way. If caterpillars can do the unexpected, so can people. Hell, you and Josiah are so
tight suddenly, I’m surprised you didn’t attend the adoption ceremony a few nights back.”

  Ford had, in a way—viewed it at a distance, from the porch of a coral pink villa that more often than not was used to lure enemies close enough to assess—and sometimes strike.

  Sixteen mushroom-shaped mooring anchors weighted with gold lay in the shallows nearby. They were unknown, unsuspected by anyone but Ford, an underpaid biologist who had recently received good news in the mail. He’d already done the math. A conservative estimate based on Lydia’s best guess was one hundred pounds per anchor multiplied by the price of gold in troy ounces—about one-point-five mil apiece.

  “That helps,” Ford said. “I’m going to stay another week or so and work on my shark project. It’s kind of nice here, you know? No Internet, no interruptions. Yeah, might even stay longer.”

  Tomlinson gave his pal an odd look. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing. I’ve got Fitz’s logbook and the coin boxed on the plane. I suggest you stick them in your carry-on when you fly home, commercial. Oh, and give everybody my regards. And don’t let my damn dog run away again.”

  The dude was repressing. The envelope containing Hannah Smith’s letter was thin enough to reveal a paragraph or two, thanks to a bright light and a magnifying glass.

  “Drop the act, Marion,” Tomlinson said, and stepped closer to face his friend. “I didn’t snoop—not intentionally. Call it intuition, if you like, but I’m pretty damn sure Hannah dumped you for . . . what, like the third time? Suppressed emotion is a killer, hermano, so shallow up and talk to me.”

  The biologist found that funny for some reason. “Let’s do call it snooping. But take it from a professional, you’re a half-assed snoop at best. Hannah didn’t dump me, she just doesn’t want to marry a man who, well, travels as much as me.”

  “Disappears with guns and shit, you mean,” Tomlinson said in translation. “And you’re okay with that?”