by Lyle Howard
Casey nodded. “Can I go play now?”
Even the emotional trauma of learning he was terminally ill didn’t hold a candle to how depressed Gabe was feeling at this very second. Giving up his own life was one thing, but to be responsible for the sorrow and letdown written all over his only child’s face was enough to make him want to slit his wrists right then and there. “Are you mad at me, Casey?”
The horn blared from around the front of the house for a third time.
The youngster inched his way back down the steps. “Just go, Dad. I wanna play.”
Gabe held out his arm, reaching for something intangible and came away with just that … the cool afternoon breeze on his palm. “I love you, Casey!”
But the youngster didn’t answer, and in seconds had disappeared with his friend into the underbrush, through a flurry of rustling branches, like the ballplayers vanishing into the cornfields in the movie Field of Dreams.
Gabe brought his arm down and stared at his empty hand. “What just happened here, Marta? What have I done?”
“Everytheen will work out alright for him, Sénor Gabe. I make that swear promise to you!”
The car horn trumpeted impatiently.
“Well, Marta,” Gabe said resolutely, as he walked back into the house, “it looks like I’m about to sell my soul to make sure it does.”
20
5:15 P.M.
Heading Southeast
Somewhere over the Caribbean
Approximately 35 miles south of San Salvador lies the pockmarked shore of a sparsely populated islet that is ravaged by a ceaseless onslaught of crashing turquoise waves. Twenty miles square, this fleck of land is barely worth mentioning on most nautical charts. It was first known as Mamana by the Lucayan Indians, and later renamed Santa Maria de la Concepción by Christopher Columbus. More recently in its history, Spanish explorers once found a lone rum keg washed up on a shore and changed the name to Rum Cay, the name it still maintains to this day.
Shayla Rand smiled to herself as the island loomed larger on the horizon; Gabe Mitchell was about to learn firsthand that the island’s infamous legacy of harboring ruthless cutthroats was still going strong.
The Bell Jet Ranger III rocketed 1,250 feet over the dark blue waters of the Gulf Stream at a hair-raising speed of 125 miles per hour. Strapped into one of the rear-facing seats, Gabe found himself clinging onto his shoulder harness with both hands. Occasionally, he would summon up the nerve to glance out the window, but fear of flying and heights had never been two of his admirable traits. Reaching above his head, he adjusted one of the air vents to redirect its cooling breeze onto his profusely sweating brow. If he had known a helicopter ride was involved in this arrangement, he might have seriously reconsidered.
Shayla Rand was sitting across from him, her face the epitome of dispassionate composure. She hadn’t even strapped herself in, choosing instead the freedom of movement to flip casually through the leisure section of the most recent Miami Herald.
A school of bottle-nosed dolphins failed miserably to keep up with their airborne rival as it rocketed southeastward. It was the high-pitched whine of the jet engine that had first attracted them, but even with their incredible speed, the graceful mammals were no match for the curious black airship leaving them at a near standstill in its stormy turbulence.
Damon Washington, who was up front at the controls, was the first to notice the dolphin’s fluid performance across the wave tops. “Wow! Look down there! Those fish are really hauling ass!”
Rand glanced away from her paper momentarily to see what he was referring to. Sure enough, there was a school of porpoises leaping from crest to crest below the belly of the helicopter. She adjusted her headphones and the attached microphone in front of her mouth.
“They’re mammals.”
“Whatever,” came Washington’s reply. “They’re really hauling ass!”
Rand turned her attention back to Gabe, whose fingernails were firmly embedded into the straps of his harness. “Porpoises do nothing for you, Gabe? You seem distracted.”
“How much longer ‘till we’re back on solid ground?”
She smiled sadistically, finding it hard to mask her amusement in the pale shade of green his face had taken on. “You’re not enjoying the ride? That’s a shame. I love everything about helicopters.”
“When do we land?”
Rand glanced at her wristwatch. “Five, ten minutes perhaps. Are you going to make it?”
The helicopter righted itself, and Gabe blew out a strong sigh of relief. “I’ll have to admit that I’ve never been much of a flyer.”
Rand adjusted the earphones on her head again. “You could’ve fooled me,” she joked, rolling her eyes. “Do you think it’s the medication that’s rotting your stomach?”
Gabe let go of the harness just long enough to wipe the sweat off his forehead. “No, that stuff tends to put me to sleep if anything. This phobia with flying goes way back. I’ve just never been able to buy into the concepts of lift and thrust. I don’t understand them, and I don’t trust them.”
Rand reached across the cabin and lowered Gabe’s microphone until it was directly in front of his lips. “That’s very strange. I don’t remember reading anything about this in your dossier. Is it a fear of all heights, or just flying?”
Gabe covered his mouth to hold back his queasiness. “Look, do we really have to discuss this now?”
Shayla Rand wasn’t pleased that her information packet was incomplete, but she didn’t let it show. “No, of course we don’t have to discuss it now. Close your eyes and think pleasant thoughts … like the fine future your son has in store for him now. That should make you feel better. Just try to relax, and in a few more minutes we’ll be back on terra firma.”
* * * * * *
Gabe had been trying awfully hard not to think about Casey. Seeing him in his new surroundings, hanging out with that hoodlum friend of his, no parental supervision to speak of, what could $4 million dollars possibly add to that situation? Nightmarish visions of his son as a teenager crept in from the dark edges of his subconscious mind. As if the nausea wasn’t bad enough, now he had to deal with images of Casey perched on the back of a gold-plated motorcycle, tattoos plastered all over his arms with long, scraggly hair held back with a studded headband. In the distance, he could picture his in-laws sitting on the veranda of some expensive country club, dressed in multi-colored golf togs from head to toe, cardigan sweaters draped around their suntanned necks, holding up their gin and tonics in a toast to their dearly departed, but philanthropic son-in-law. Oh God, he had to stop thinking like that, or he was going to throw up for sure!
Rand reached over and grabbed him by the knee, snapping him out of his horrible daydream. Her voice came into Gabe’s headphones amidst a filtered chorus of static pops and hisses. “You sure you’re alright? We can’t afford to have you spacing out on us.”
Gabe nodded as the sleek black helicopter glided into a low dive over the Caribbean and began its final approach into Rum Cay. “Don’t worry, I’ll make it.”
Rand cupped her hand over her microphone to be heard better. “We need you as sharp as your reputation leads us to believe you are.”
Gabe leaned back and combed his fingers through his week-old beard. “Just get this thing onto Mother Earth, and I’ll be fine.”
Rand held up one finger. “Another minute.”
21
As the Jet Ranger drew closer to the island, the water transformed from an inky shade of indigo to a glistening shade of aquamarine as the ocean floor began its subtle climb toward the surface. The Jet Ranger’s elongated shadow trailed behind the helicopter, the dark mirage climbing and tumbling over each whitecap and rolling wave.
With the exception of the palm trees and the miscellaneous undergrowth indigenous to the island, the northwestern shore of Rum Cay was as remote and barren as the surface of the moon. Gabe first caught glimpse of the rocky shoreline as the helicopter banked steeply to
the right, tilting nearly on its side, as the pilot followed the jagged coastline southward toward their ultimate destination. Thick brown clumps of washed-up seaweed edged the beaches, outlining the island like an ocean demarcation line. Amid a whirlwind of dry sand, the helpless palms that were caught in the flight path were nearly bent sideways from the percussion of the Jet Ranger’s blades.
Seeing the shoreline race by so quickly, and realizing they were barely one hundred feet off the ground, gave Gabe no consolation. If anything, the sight of land only increased the impression of blistering speed and his sickening sensation of motion-sickness.
The blue and white striped canopy stood out like a carnival tent in the desert of rock and seaweed. The 40 by 40 square foot awning had been erected on one of the few barren areas on the windswept western shore of the island. Four half inch cables had been driven into the coral rock to brace the canopy from the blustery gusts blowing in off the ocean. Less than one hundred yards from the tent, a round landing pad had been designated by a ring of bright orange traffic cones.
A wide path assembled from sheets of plywood led from the landing area to the tent. Beneath the tent, the natural sand surface had been overlaid by more hardwood, creating a more stable surface. Under the canopy, a veritable grotto of potted plants along with three high-backed wicker chairs and a matching rattan bar had been set up for the special summit.
The Jet Ranger settled back to earth like a feather falling from the sky. The skids settled into the soft sand just as the sun was painting the horizon using a pallet of indescribable shades of pink, orange, gold and pale blue. As the rotors slowed to idle speed, a bank of floodlights came on, bathing the entire temporary compound in soft white light.
When the soles of Gabe Mitchell’s shoes finally touched the plywood boards, his legs almost buckled beneath him. Damon Washington climbed out of the hatch behind him and literally had to hold him steady. “Whoo, cowboy, you gonna be okay?”
Gabe put a hand against the side of the helicopter to brace himself. “I don’t suppose there are any trains back to the mainland from here?”
Washington put his arm around Gabe until he got his footing. “We could’ve rented a boat, but if you think you were queasy up there,” he said, pointing a thumb at the radiant sky, “I’ll guarantee you’d have been hocking up a lung out there on the water!”
Washington then turned back toward the open hatch and held out a hand to guide Shayla Rand down the stairway, but she rudely brushed it away. “Isn’t that sea breeze just remarkable?” she said, stepping onto the plywood walkway and inflating her ample chest with the salty air. “I really don’t get enough of this stuff. Don’t you just love the tranquility of the beach, Gabe?”
Gabe leaned his shoulder against the fuselage until he could feel his circulation getting back to normal. With the swipe of his hand, he blotted still more perspiration off his forehead. “I do now!”
Washington climbed back into the helicopter and within a few seconds, the rotors once again began spinning at top speed. “Unless you want to get your skin sandblasted,” Rand yelled, over the whining of the engine, “you’d better get under cover!”
“Where’s he going?” Gabe screamed back.
She took Gabe by the arm and chaperoned him toward the well-lit canopy. “Don’t worry, he’ll be back,” she assured him, “the Bahamian authorities might not approve of our little impromptu rendezvous, so he’s heading up to Nassau to smooth everything out. When we need him, he can be back here in less than 10 minutes.”
Straining to move forward against the wash from the blades was taking every ounce of strength that Gabe had left. “By smoothing everything out, you mean…”
Rand lowered her head against the blowing sand. “Money makes the world go ‘round. You should understand that as well as anybody, right, Gabe?”
As the last trace of the sun sank beyond the horizon, the Jet Ranger gracefully lifted off, and quickly disappeared—a speck against the darkening sky. Within seconds, the high-pitched drone of the engine was replaced by the incessant hum of gasoline powered generators, and the gentle lapping of the waves along the beach.
A wheelchair bound older man held out his hand as Gabe stepped beneath the canopy. The wheelchair-bound lawyer was dressed in a mustard-colored jacket and a black open-collared shirt with matching slacks. “Mr. Mitchell, or may I call you Gabe? It is a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”
Gabe took his hand and shook it, but his eyes were instinctively scanning the area, taking it all in, including the host’s distressing countenance. “And you would be?”
“The name’s August Bock. Sit down, relax,” he said, pointing to one of three folding chairs grouped around a large bamboo table.
“Three chairs. Are you expecting someone else?”
Bock smiled approvingly at Shayla Rand. “No, we’re not expecting anyone else. That third chair is for my pilot, Mr. Washington, if he should finish his errand quicker than anticipated. Can I offer you a drink? I know you’re on medication, so all I’ve stocked is soft drinks.”
Gabe walked over to the ocean side of the pavilion and looked out toward the water. The sound of breaking waves like the harmony of the rustling palm trees was one of life’s hypnotic melodies. “I’ll just take a bottle of water, and calling me Gabe is fine.”
Bock pointed toward the bar for Shayla who willingly obliged. “Welcome to Rum Cay, Gabe. I know it’s a bit cloak and dagger to fly you all the way to a remote island like this, but I‘ve got my reasons. Besides, who wants to sit in some stuffy old office when you can have all of this wonderful scenery around as you transact business?”
Gabe took the bottle of ice water from Shayla. “Lime or lemon?”
“Neither,” Gabe said, downing the cold water in one long pull.
“Fetch our guest another one, Shayla.”
Gabe rubbed the cool green bottle across his forehead. “No thanks. I’m okay for now.”
Bock rolled over to one of the chairs and pulled it away from the table. “Then please, sit down and let’s talk. I’m sure you have a million questions for me, and I get very weary at having to look up at people all the time.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “To say nothing of the crick it gives me right here.”
Gabe hated to leave where he was standing. The ocean seemed so alive, so full of motion. The salt air that stung his nostrils never smelled sweeter than it did at that moment. The orange and purple hues of dusk seemed so somber, yet so vibrant to him now. He despised himself for taking so long to appreciate these simple pleasures.
Shayla reached into the cooler and pulled out a plate of giant prawns and cocktail sauce that had been prepared ahead of time. Each of the pink and white shrimps were as big as her fist. She unwrapped the plate and set it in the center of the table along with a few cloth napkins.
Gabe took a seat facing opposite of August Bock. “Well, Mr. Bock, you said I’d have a million questions to ask, and I’m sure that number is pretty low, but, for the life of me, I don’t know where to start.”
Bock took one of the prawns by the tail and dipped it in the spicy condiment, savoring each mouthful. “These are really tasty. You really ought to try one.”
Gabe set the empty bottle down on the table. “I’ll pass for now. I think my stomach’s still up in your helicopter.”
“Ah,” Bock acknowledged as Shayla stepped behind him and began massaging his neck. “I fully understand. A few more minutes breathing this wonderful sea air and you’ll be right as rain.”
Gabe nudged the green bottle a few inches across the table’s surface, as though moving a chess piece. “You didn’t bring me out to the middle of nowhere to eat shellfish, did you, Mr. Bock?”
Bock reached up and patted Shayla on the hand. “Pour me a ginger ale, won’t you sweetheart?”
Gabe watched as she walked over to the ice chest and unscrewed the lid off the small bottle of pale soda. Under different circumstances, the sight of her shapely figure bent over like that
might have deserved a second glance, but not now. “You called her Shayla. At the hospital, she introduced herself as Sheila. So, which one is it?”
Shayla handed the glass to her employer. “My given name is Shayla Rand,” she said, finally liberating her thick Irish brogue. “I’m sure you can forgive my deception, Mr. Mitchell, but your roommate and that nurse were both with you at the time.”
Gabe raised an eyebrow, wondering what else about her was bogus. “And you still insist that we haven’t met before today? I could’ve sworn…”
August Bock held up his glass derailing Gabe’s train of thought. “Cheers, Gabe. Here’s to your son’s bright future.”
The wind suddenly changed directions, causing a nearby palm to shed one of its fronds. The branch came crashing to the ground, startling Gabe. “Okay, that’s as good a place to start as any … let’s talk about my son’s future.”
Bock wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “Okay, what do you want to know first?”
Gabe sat up rigidly. “Why not start from the beginning? Who are you, and what is this all about?”
“You see,” Bock chuckled. “I told you it would only take a few minutes and you’d be your old inquisitive self again. Have another bottle of water, and I’ll try to fill you in.”
Shayla replaced the empty bottle, but Gabe was no longer thirsty. “Exactly what do you people want from me?”
August Bock rolled his chair to the end of the makeshift deck. The sky had turned to night, and a long white ribbon of light shimmered across the surface of the water leading to a half moon that hung just above the horizon. He locked his wheels in place and folded his hands across his lap. “Simply put, Gabe … because of a horrific twist of fate, I find myself in the most enviable, dare I say, divine position to do what’s right … to do what’s needed … for my fellow man.”
Gabe’s eyes narrowed.
Bock smiled. “Now, before you think I’m some crackpot millionaire whose wheelchair has rolled round the bend of sanity, I can assure you that I am quite sound of mind. Even without the use of my legs, I can march where no one else would dare—I can reach out with the mighty hand of vengeance and balance the scales of justice. I do what needs to be done to fix the system when it breaks.”