He felt the sun warming his shoulders as he waded waist-deep in the surf. He dipped the disc into the water and scooped up sea water, then let it trickle over the back of his neck and down his spine.
Maybe he would go snorkeling along the barrier reef a little later.
He felt the healing of the water. There would be more to come.
Chapter 34
Saturday, 12:30 p.m.
The bum stumbled a bit as he walked north on the beach, away from the town. The sand was uneven and darker here, showing the natural color of the island’s soil. The business people had yet to haul in the sparkling white sand that made for the tourist-attracting photos on the covers of brochures. A few bungalows were nestled among palm trees along this stretch, a less developed area than the luxury resorts in San Pedro. Ahead of him a mile or so he could see where the mangrove trees still grew almost all the way up to the water’s edge, marking the end of the tourist areas of the island.
He had walked away from the yacht club and continued his search for discarded treasures in the back alleys of the town. Crisscrossing from the Caribbean side of town over to the San Pedro Lagoon that bordered the town on the west just a few hundred yards away, he had sorted through dozens of trash cans, all the while slowly making his way northward. He shuffled back and forth, up Buccaneer Street, up across Pescador Drive, down Pelican Street, over to Sandpiper Street and back over to the beach side of town again.
Eventually he had meandered through the park on the north side of town. He had stopped to sit on a bench and patiently sort through the treasures of his morning quest: a ripped pair of jeans, a sodden purple bandana, two right-footed sandals, a pair of sunglasses with the left earpiece missing, and an orange baseball cap with St. Matthew’s School of Medicine in bright green letters.
He kept moving north. Using the hand ferry, he crossed the San Pedro River and kept going along the beach. To his right he could see the water taxis scooting along the waves as they carried tourists from the outlying resorts back to the town. The resorts became less extravagant the further he walked. He passed the vacation spots along this stretch of beach: El Pescador, Esseen Way, Captain Morgan’s Retreat, Journey’s End. These were the less expensive resorts, the ones advertised with sayings like “Experience the simplicity of island life the way it was meant to be.”
Now he could see the end of the developed beach area. As he walked slowly around a bend in the sand dunes, he could see the scattering of five small cottages about 80 yards from the beach. He slowed his pace nearly to a standstill as he observed the small clapboard cabins with their fake thatch roofs. None of the cottages seemed to be occupied but there was always the possibility that someone was spying on him behind one of the screenless windows. He waited a moment then resumed his hunched-over stroll toward the buildings.
Without looking up he went from cottage to cottage, lifting the lids to the garbage cans and bending over into them until he was in danger of falling into the battered steel receptacles. Nothing for him here. He stood up and wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his tee-shirt as he leaned against the back of the cottage that was the most secluded of the five.
He swung his head quickly back and forth for any sign of movement. None. He reached over and tried the door knob at the back door of the hut. It turned easily.
He opened the door and went in.
Two single beds bordered the bedroom. A ceiling fan circled lazily overhead. Both windows of the small bedroom were open so that the beach breeze blew through.
A man, scruffy and stained as he, was propped up in one of the beds reading a magazine. He glanced up at the newcomer.
“Any luck?” the man on the bed asked.
“Yes,” said the man in the straw hat. He sat on the other bed and took off his hat, then pried the sweaty braided wig off his head. He took out the bandana and wiped his face. “I found her. The mourning widow.” He reached down and peeled the sand-caked bandage off his arm. Beneath was a patch of clean skin with the tattoo of a seal.
The other man smiled and his teeth looked white against his dirt-dark skin. “Well, Mr. Forte, you were right,” he said.
“Nomad, you doubted me?” said Forte as he peeled off the tee-shirt. The other man chuckled.
“And now,” Forte said, “ it’s time for a swim.”
* * *
The grouper sizzled on the grill next to the picnic table behind the cabin. Nomad lifted the edge of the fish steak with a spatula. He quickly flipped it. The sizzling increased. He closed the lid on the grill and sat on the bench seat of the picnic table.
Forte sat on the other side, a legal pad open on the table next to a bottle of root beer.
“So, you saw the mother but neither of the others,” Nomad said.
“Right,” said Forte. “They have to be nearby, though, I’m sure of it. It would be tough to sail a boat that big without another hand or two.”
Nomad nodded and took a swig of his beer. One was his limit. Besides, no need to tempt his friend too much. He enjoyed a brewski on occasion but his loyalty to Forte was stronger than his need to drink.
“You figure they will show up soon,” Nomad said.
“Not going to wait on that. We need to move quickly,” Forte said. “Tonight.”
Nomad grunted his approval and waited for the plan.
Chapter 35
Saturday, 9 p.m.
Tiny white lights dangled from the rafters of the covered pavilion on the marina, giving off what little atmosphere the vacationers at the bar needed in their tropical getaway. The bartender swayed to the four-piece calypso band on the beach as he concocted the fruity drinks for the red-baked people perched on their cane-backed stools.
“It’s the little umbrella that gets them,” he said to the swarthy man seated in front of him at the bar. “You pop one of those little suckers in a drink and they don’t care what else is in there, as long as it tastes sweet and its got some wacky island name like Blue Hawaiian or Tequila Sunrise.”
Nomad puffed his cigar and then pointed it at the bartender. “Atmosphere,” he said, keeping his eyes on the sailboat near the center of the marina. “People want atmosphere more than anything else.”
The bartender smoothed his ponytail, pointed his finger pistol-style at Nomad, and clicked out of the corner of his mouth. “More than anything, pal” he said. “’Cept maybe love.” He guffawed at his own joke and moved to take a drink order from two teenage girls.
Nomad, freshly-scrubbed and wearing a flowered shirt and a tan, had been swapping trade talk with the bartender, professing to be a fellow member of the trade, for the past two hours. He had watched a woman and a girl, both in bathing suits, go into the boat at around 7:30 p.m. They had yet to reappear.
The man was nowhere in sight, which was fine with Nomad. Judging from his string of successes in this operation, Schein apparently possessed more than enough skills to make the rescue mission a bloody affair if he had a chance to resist. Though Nomad never backed down from a fight, he would be happy to confront the killer on another day, after the girl was delivered to safety.
He turned and leaned back against the bar as he watched the band. A dozen couples were scattered across the sand on blankets with their drinks. One couple was performing a drunken jitterbug to the music while a group of their friends brayed with laughter and snapped photos. Beyond the band the expanse of beach was dotted with other pavilions with bars and parties of vacationers making the most of their Saturday night on the island. Light flickered on the beach from the flames of Tiki lamps stuck randomly among the dunes behind the yacht club and other resorts.
To his left a movement pulled Nomad’s attention around to the boat. A woman with short black hair, wearing a bright sarong, came out of the cabin and stood against the rail. She gazed up at the stars for a moment, then looked up and down the pier. Within a couple of minutes, the girl came out of the cabin, her hair wet. Even from where Nomad sat, he could see clearly that the girl’s co
untenance was unhappy. She stood next to the woman but didn’t look up at the sky. The woman put her arm around the girl who merely stood looking down at the water.
Nomad took a sip of his drink, then bent his head as if he were searching his shirt pocket. “The woman and the girl are on deck,” he said into the small concealed microphone in his pocket.
“Check,” said Forte’s voice in his ear piece. “Let’s follow the plan. I’ll pick them up as they leave the marina. If I can flush out the girl so that she runs for it, you pick her up and get her to a safe place. The police station if you have to. Remember, whatever happens, stick with the girl.”
Nomad knew what his friend was asking him to do. Even if Forte was under threat of death, the girl’s welfare must come first. It was the primary goal of the mission and Forte would expect him to accomplish it as planned. He bent his head to the pocket microphone again.
“Check,” he said.
* * *
The Barrier Reef looked so different in the night water that Schein wondered if it was the same stretch that he had visited during the afternoon. He gave four strong kicks and his flippers propelled him along the reef until he saw the red ribbon he had tied earlier. This was the spot. He wanted to check out this area of the reef again after dark.
As a boy he had snorkeled along the reef during the summer mission trips. Night snorkeling was off-limits to him back then. Father Buell had always ruled against him on that request. Now, finally he was able to see the reef at night.
Under the brilliance of his underwater light, the coral and sponge were even more vivid against the dark background of the inky water. The shades of orange and pink and blue looked as if some surrealist painter had mixed colors never before used, just for this place. As he glided along, lobsters scurried away from his light. A small octopus stopped its plundering of a crevice and seemed to study him momentarily before shooting away in a cloud of sand. A sea eel swam lazily through the wake of the octopus and began poking its snout in the same crevice abandoned by the eight-legged creature.
In the silence of the sea, Schein felt at peace, more peace than he had experienced in a long while. This reminded him of those peaceful times as a boy when most decisions were made for him and the ones he had to make for himself were of little lasting consequence. No evil here, no disappointments, no embarrassments, no failures. Just beauty suspended below the waves.
He felt so mellow, almost like he wanted to take a nap. He smiled in his scuba mask at the absurdity of that thought. He watched as the underwater flashlight floated away from his hand. So silly, so very silly that he could not hold on to the lamp. Come back, lamp, come on back now.
He watched the bubbles float away from his snorkel mask as he floated, suspended in the water. The current rocked him gently and his face brushed against the razor edges of the reef. He barely felt the sting as the reef sliced his face. The water became tinged with pinkness around his mask now. He raised his arm and raked his fingers slowly through the blood-tinged water. Lovely, so lovely, the pink water and the yellow and blue and orange reef.
His last thought before drifting off was that he should have waited 30 minutes after eating the meal that Freida had prepared for him.
Just for him.
* * *
The music of the islands poured out of the clubs and eateries that lined the beach of San Pedro. To the untrained ear, all the tunes sounded the same with their steel drum melodies overlaid with marimba and the occasional sound of a Mayan harp.
Forte wished he could enjoy the music more but his concentration was on the woman and girl strolling along the beach ahead of him.
The merchants of the island town knew that half of their profit for the week would be made on this night. Most of the shops were still open and it seemed like hundreds of people were out to make the most of their last night on the island.
Forte strolled along behind the pair, allowing other small groups of beach-walkers to block him from being seen by the woman. Not that she would recognize him. He wore a white cap with the words “Belize Rules” in blazing red. His face was half-covered with a full beard, neatly trimmed. He wore glasses and had popped brown-tinted Contacs into his eyes in case he inadvertently got close enough for his face to be recognized.
Some light spilled onto the beach as tourists went in and out of the doors of the restaurants. In the spaces between the eateries, only the flames of the lamps illuminated the sand. Forte was concerned with the visibility here. There was nothing he could do about it. He knew that behind him somewhere Nomad lurked, a fact that comforted him. It would do him no good to try and spot him. It would only frustrate him and take his attention away from those he followed. Nomad had been known to disappear from sight in the middle of a conversation on a town square at midday. He had a gift for concealment.
Ahead of him, Forte saw the woman stop and point to a restaurant. In the dimness of the evening, he could see that the girl did not respond. He wondered if she was drugged.
The woman and girl turned from the beach path and walked along a creaking boardwalk that led to the door of the place. Forte followed them. A small sign with “The Crazy Parrot” on it hung above the door. A stuffed parrot with a pipe in its beak leaned drunkenly on the end of the sign.
Inside, a combo of three musicians was finishing up the last song of a set before the group took a break. Freida and Hallee sat at a table not far from the bar. Forte walked past them to the bar and ordered a coke and an appetizer of crab cakes. He sat sideways on the stool and listened to the fading notes of the band.
As he turned back to the bar he locked eyes with Freida briefly. Was she looking at him? Her face showed no recognition. He turned around and sipped his coke.
The room seemed nearly silent as the musicians made their way to the far end of the bar. Forte turned his head slightly. He could catch snatches of conversation from Freida’s table.
“ … it’s a shop I saw earlier. It’s just next door. I’ll be right back,” Freida’s voice floated over to him.
He watched in the mirror behind the bar as she got up and went out the front door of the restaurant.
Forte counted to ten slowly then got up and walked over to the table. Hallee sat with her head propped in her hands, her elbows on the table as she stared into a blue-colored drink. He leaned over, his hands resting on the table. The jukebox cranked up, banishing the silence from the room.
“Do not act surprised. Just look at me and smile,” he said.
The girl did not respond at first. Her head lifted and Forte watched the series of emotions travel across her features. Annoyance first, at having a stranger approach her table. Then puzzlement. Then the raising of her eyebrows in surprise, followed by relief mixed with fear.
Forte put a finger to his lips. “This may be confusing for you, so I am asking you to trust me. I want you to get up and go out that back door as quickly as you can. Just keep walking. A man in a flower shirt will meet you there. His name is Nomad.” He paused. “You are safe now, Hallee.”
Forte watched her face as her eyes began to film with tears. Then another cloud of fear gripped her face. She was looking behind him.
He could feel the heat of another person’s body close against his back. Then he felt the gun.
The voice of Freida Lamberth whispered in his ear. “Yes, she is safe now.” Everything in the room seemed dulled now as the pistol bore into his back, the colors drained, the sound muted. “She is safe. But you aren’t.”
Forte looked at Hallee. The girl’s eyes darted back and forth between his face and her mother’s.
Hallee stood up and took a small step away from the table.
“Hallee,” her mother said in a low tone, “sit down. Now.”
Hallee took another step backwards.
Freida hissed at her now, biting off each word. “Hallee... you’d… better…”
The girl walked away from the table quickly.
Forte watched as Hallee opened the bac
k door of The Crazy Parrot. She looked back, her face a mask of sadness. She went out into the darkness.
Chapter 36
Saturday, 10:00 p.m.
The inside of the boat was bigger than Forte had imagined it would be. He sat in a lounge chair facing the cold fury of Freida Lamberth.
“You know that all of this was for nothing, your little ‘rescue trip’ down here.” She spat the words at him. With her new black hair cut so severely, her green eyes seemed harder. Were it possible, those eyes would cut into him like pinpoints of laser.
“In the morning, you will be at the bottom of the gulf and the crabs will be picking at your flesh,” she said. The nine-millimeter automatic was steady in her hand. It was pointed at his head.
Forte remained silent. He sat in the chair with his hands on top of his head, his fingers intertwined. She could not figure out how to bind his hands and legs without putting down the gun. Forte had no doubt, however, that she would shoot him. He could see no sign of shakiness in the hand that held the pistol.
Freida cursed. “If you only knew…”
“If I knew what?” he said.
She glared at him, her lips pressed together in a hard line. “It was almost over. The perfect ending,” she said.
“You planned it all, didn’t you?”
She blinked. “Not this. I didn’t plan this.”
“This?”
“I... didn’t plan… to have to kill you.” Her words came out slowly, but without regret.
“But everything else…”
Freida’s mouth turned up into a mirthless smile. “Yes. I did. I planned it all.”
She waved the gun. “Get up slowly and walk ahead of me.”
They climbed the stairs out of the cabin. Freida motioned for him to stand on the deck area forward of the cabin. Forte backed up until he was against the guard rail along the bow.
“Where is Jerah Schein?” he said.
“That fool. He thought he was helping me. He deserved to die for his stupidity alone.” Freida laughed and the sound of it made Forte think of the cackling of a demented woman.
“You killed him?” he asked.
The woman nodded. “Right about now, the crabs should be nibbling at him. He deserved it. He thought he would have me but you got closer to that than he did.” She laughed again and Forte forced himself to look at her face as it twisted with evil. “I was good, wasn’t I, Mr. Forte? When you were in my bedroom with me, you forgot about poor little Hallee for a few minutes, didn’t you?”
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