Whoever had retrieved Dan’s passport had not disturbed anything else that she could see. She closed his door and opened her own. Everything in Cabin 3 looked the same as when she’d left it.
She drank two glasses of water, hoping to dilute the wine in her system. She booted up her computer and found a listing online, tapped in the number of the U.S. Embassy in Quito, and waited breathlessly for a friendly voice. Instead, she got a recording. In Spanish.
“Unbelievable!” The Spanish recording was followed by one in English. The Embassy was closed; hours were nine to five on weekdays; appointments with the office must be arranged in advance; call the local police for emergencies. Goddamn it! What if dealing with the local police was the emergency? The recording ended in a loud beep. Did that mean that she could leave a message? She summarized the situation, left her cell number, and then ended the call, unsure if she’d been whining to dead air or to voicemail.
She searched further on the Internet, came up with the name and number of a U.S. Consulate in Guayaquil. She called that and got the same recording as she had at the Embassy, left the same message to the same silent line.
Then, as she scrolled through the information on the consular website, she found a note stating that Americans in emergency situations in the Galápagos should call the U.S. Consular Agent for the Galápagos on Santa Cruz Island. Finally! She sat on her lower bunk and twitched a foot as she punched the number in. Another message in Spanish. Then it switched to English: “John Parker, Consular Agent for the Galápagos, will be unavailable until March tenth. If you have a problem, please contact the American Consulate office in Guayaquil.”
Damn it! Her colleague had been killed, she might be next, and the police had effectively prevented her from leaving. She jumped up, anxiously strode the five steps to the bathroom and back, banged her knee against the desk chair, turned toward the bathroom again, whacked her shoulder on the partially open closet door. This was not a room designed for pacing, especially when the pacer had consumed half a bottle of wine.
Her cell phone chimed. She snatched it up eagerly.
“Sam?” A male voice. American.
“Chase?” It didn’t sound like him, but oh God, she wanted—
“Where the hell are your files? You gonna keep us up all night? It’s nearly nine p.m.”
Mike Whitney, the managing editor of Out There. A wave of guilt, immediately followed by one of annoyance and then another of grief, washed over her.
“There’s been—” Her throat tightened. She swallowed quickly and forced herself to continue. “There was . . . an accident here, Mike. It’s nearly midnight. I don’t think I’ll make it tonight.”
“You don’t think you’ll make it tonight? This better be one hell of an accident. What happened?”
Dan Kazaki died today. The sentence was on her lips, but she hesitated. Officially, Dan was only missing. Who knew when the American Embassy would notify Elizabeth Kazaki? If she told Whitney that Dan had died, Out There would splash the news across the Internet in a matter of minutes.
“What’s wrong, WildWest?”
“Don’t call me that.” She hated the way the Seattle team talked about her as though she were a virtual character like Zing.
“It’s only a few hundred words. They told me you were a pro. Did you take any film or photos today?”
“Uh . . . yeah.” She could see only two choices: explain what was going on here or send him enough to get him off her back for now. The photos and video from her hike up Alcedo were still in her camera.
“Well, then, if you value your contract and you don’t want to cost me my job, you sure as shit better send us some posts. If those files don’t hit the server in less than an hour, Wyatt will have both our heads.”
For a long moment, she heard only a loud buzzing on the line, or maybe it was the roar of rage building inside her head. But none of this was Whitney’s fault. “They’ll be rough,” she muttered. “But you’ll have them in half an hour.”
Her anger cooled as she connected her camera and downloaded her media files. It was a relief to focus on her job. For Wilderness Westin, she packaged her video clips of the giant tortoise and the iguanas and quickly crafted a post about how the reptiles had adapted to life on the islands, the tortoises living at elevations where more plants grew, and the iguanas adapting to a life in the sea, eating seaweed instead of the leaves and fruit they would have subsisted on in lusher areas.
For Zing, she pulled up the visuals she hadn’t yet sent—the photo of the barracuda hovering over the debris field, the video of the hammerhead showering crabs as it bit into the carcasses. She wrote about how the marine sanctuary was not a safe place for these creatures. She threw in a few photos of the sea cucumbers from her first dive with Dan. As she was sorting through those, she found the first photo she’d taken of Dan. It hurt to look at that smile.
Just as she prepared to send Zing’s post to Seattle, a knock sounded at her door. The two uniformed men stepped in, filling her tiny cabin.
She stood up and slid the chair under the desk to make room. The heavy odor of sweat and cigarettes emanated from Officer Aguirre, just inches away. He carried Dan’s notebook computer under one arm.
Schwartz thrust a photo toward her. Elizabeth and Sean. She averted her eyes from those happy faces. “Familia Kazaki,” she croaked. The officer nodded, tucked the photo into his shirt pocket.
Aguirre explored her cabin, pawed through her clothes and books in the closet, while Schwartz kept his gaze on her. Her breath stopped as Aguirre’s hand passed over her tampons. She turned back toward her computer. Would they confiscate her laptop? She quickly pressed the key combination to send the files to Seattle.
Schwartz’s hand shot out to grab her arm. “Qué hace usted?”
“What?” Where was Eduardo? She needed a translator. Schwartz placed a hand on the corner of the laptop screen as if to fold it shut. She grabbed the opposing corner, holding the laptop open. “No.”
What the hell was the word for work? Something weird, something like travail. “Travalo,” she tried, gesturing toward herself. “My travalo.”
“Trabajo,” he corrected. “Usted es cientista también?”
She knew the words for “you”—usted—and “too”—también. Sounded like he was asking if she was a scientist, too. “I am a writer.” She held her hands above the keyboard and made motions of typing. “Writer.”
“Escritor. Autor,” Schwartz guessed.
The last word sounded like “author.” Close enough. She nodded.
“Pero ustedes trabajaban juntos.” His blue eyes searched hers for agreement. There were a lot of syllables in there she didn’t recognize.
“Trabajaban juntos.” He held two fingers up together.
She and Dan worked together? Why did he keep asking? “Yes.”
A look passed between the two officers. A trill of fear zipped through Sam’s body. What had she just agreed to? Had she given them good reason to clap her in the local jail? But then, Schwartz straightened and said something to Aguirre, who nodded and exited into the hallway. As the door closed behind them, she sat down and heaved a sigh of relief. Folding down the laptop screen, she leaned forward and rested her forearms and head on top of the computer.
Would Out There expect her to complete this assignment by herself? She didn’t need to ponder that question for more than a few seconds: of course they would. That was her claim to fame, after all; she was a one-woman team: writer, photographer, videographer. Hiker, kayaker, climber. Diver. She had asked for this, hadn’t she?
No, she argued with herself. She’d signed up to dive and photograph and write. She hadn’t signed up to watch a friend die, to get tangled up in a murder investigation. What the hell was she supposed to do now?
A few minutes after 1 A.M., she heard the rumble of the Navy boat’s engines as it pulled away. The reverberation was replaced by the repetitive barking of a patrolling sea lion bull outside and heavy steps overhead i
n the ship’s lounge area. Maybe now that the authorities had gone, Constantino and the captain were helping themselves to the bar.
She sat up and opened the laptop. Dan stared at her from the screen. I refuse to have a peon for a partner. She rubbed at the tears in her eyes. Sniveling wuss. Zing wouldn’t sit around feeling sorry for herself if her friend had died. Zing would never sob alone, cowering in a dark cabin. Sam slid off the chair, stuck a small notebook and pen into the back pocket of her shorts, and slipped out of her room.
The walkway around the main deck was quiet. A gentle breeze tickled her nostrils with odors of the rocky shore a few hundred yards away: the sweat-like scent of seaweed decayed by a day of blistering sun, along with the acrid mix of bird guano.
She leaned for a minute on the deck rail, letting the night air cool her burning face and dry her wet cheeks. Among the dark triangles of lapping waves, large black discs bobbed just under the waterline. The swish of a flipper sparked a curlicue of luminescent algae. Sea turtles. Pacific greens, or maybe the subspecies they called black sea turtles down here. Just this morning she’d taken a photo of them, their speckled heads lifted out of the water as they begged for breakfast scraps at Papagayo’s stern like aquatic cocker spaniels.
The turtles bobbed on the surface, resting silently near the boat in the quiet water. Would these trusting animals would be next on shopping lists in Taiwan and Tokyo?
Turning away from the water, she slid open the door to the lounge area and stepped inside. The lights were dimmed. Around the corner in the tiny alcove behind the bar, deep voices murmured softly, but a wall separated her from the speakers and she couldn’t make out the words.
She moved toward the lecture area and turned on a lamp over the bookcase of reference books. Kneeling, she trailed her fingertips across encyclopedias of marine life, a few guidebooks on the Galápagos, and then finally found what she was searching for, a book of maps. Sitting close to the lamp on the nearby couch, she checked for maps of currents. She thumbed through the pages until she found Isabela Island.
The men emerged from the alcove and then stopped, startled by her presence. The top buttons of the captain’s dress whites were undone, his tie loose around his neck, his hair rumpled as if he’d run his hands through it. She was surprised to see that his companion was Jonathan Sanders. Sanders downed the drink he held in one swallow, set the empty glass on the end table. Turning to Quiroga, he said, “Good night, Captain.” He swiveled in her direction and inclined his head. “Good night, Miss Westin. Tomorrow will be a better day.”
Sam doubted that. Sanders strode to the sliding door and exited quickly, headed for his cabin.
Captain Quiroga bent toward her. “Señorita Westin, the lounge is now closed. All passengers should be in bed.”
“Are the police finished?” she asked.
He scratched at the shadow of whiskers on his cheek. “Tomorrow the fiscalia will return for questioning.” He clasped his fingers around the book she was holding. “Please, good night.”
He pulled the book from her grasp. It was okay; she’d found what she’d been looking for. According to the charts, the current that swept past them now was joined by two others that swirled around the islands. The arrows were bold, indicating strong currents. If he swam out—or was dropped off a boat—past the rocky peninsula that guarded their previous anchorage, Dan could have drifted to the bay where she’d found him.
Quiroga slid open the door to go outside, letting the fresh breeze fill the lounge. Then he paused, waiting for her to descend the interior stairs to her cabin. She felt his gaze on her back as she headed for her airless subterranean quarters. Would anyone protest if she carried her bedding up to the top deck and slept under the stars? Maybe if they all went—if she suggested it to the rest of the bottom dwellers: Sandy and Jerry, the Cabin 6 students, Dan . . .
Shit. How often would such a thought ambush her in the days to come?
* * * * *
Chase and Nicole—now known locally as Charlie and Nikki—sat in the Horseshoe Tavern, sharing beer and their fake sob stories of lost jobs and home with Dread and three other protesters. Chase sipped his beer slowly, memorizing details to communicate later. Randy Dakin was a brown-haired twenty-something hulk, whose hair and beard were exactly the same quarter-inch length, giving him a concentration camp look. He wore a muscle shirt, exposing a shield design tattooed on his bicep. His thin wife Joanne looked to be a few years older than Randy. She didn’t say much, and her jawline held the yellowish stain of an old bruise.
Completing their band of six was Alvin Marshall, who understandably used only his last name. He was a slight, mean-looking man with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow, the kind of man who wouldn’t carry a gun in plain sight but would have a switchblade in his back pocket. After they’d all had a couple of rounds and eyed one another for a suitable amount of time, Dread handed out the address of “the action” for the evening. They all left in their own vehicles.
Nicole drove their dented pickup truck out of the suburbs while Chase’s thoughts traveled out of the country, thousands of miles to the Galápagos Islands. This morning, Out There had featured two posts from Ecuador: Summer’s usual online persona, Wilderness Westin, and someone named Zing. While Westin’s post was a light-hearted island tour with blue-footed birds strutting to rap music, Zing’s post was all about illegal fishing, with some horrific footage of a finless shark being ripped to shreds while still alive. Westin’s post received only a few bland comments, but Zing’s post had garnered dozens of responses in both Spanish and English. The negative messages could be summarized as This is none of your business; go home, bitch. There was an implied Or else.
Summer hadn’t mentioned Zing. only a partner named Dr. Kazaki. Chase had the sickening suspicion that Wilderness and Zing were the same small blond woman. If she’d shot that underwater footage of circling sharks, she was taking a lot of risks down there. Why was she hell-bent on getting herself killed?
Who was he to talk? she’d argue. Yes, his job was risky, but Nicole had his back and he had the full force of the FBI behind him. Summer had what—a handful of do-gooder conservation types?
Nicole switched on the radio, tuning it to a talk radio station renowned for lambasting both local and national government. No better than Nazis, the host said now. They should all be taken out and shot. It was a frequent refrain from him; the guy could have been talking about the Arizona state representatives, the national government, or gays or any other minorities.
Chase grimaced. Only two days into this gig and he was already sick of sticking to his low-brow character, but the dirt brown Suburban he saw in the rearview mirror was a reminder they were constantly under observation. Supper last night was scorched ribs and corn and Coors at a greasy barbeque joint. Then he and Nicole had spent a restless night in a local campground, trying not to bump backsides while sharing an air mattress in the pickup bed.
He rubbed at the coating of grit on the back of his neck. He hoped his next undercover gig would be playing a high roller in some luxury hotel in Vegas or Miami.
Summer’s blog posts hadn’t mentioned where she was staying. Were there upscale hotels in the Galápagos? He thought of the islands as a thatched hut kind of place, all wooden boats and lizards and mosquito nets.
Nicole parked in the far corner of a gravel parking lot and pulled on the brake. “Ready, Charlie?” She poked him in the shoulder with a long nail decorated with a miniature American flag. “Are you in there, hon?”
Summer was tough, he reminded himself. She was with Kazaki, an experienced diver and scientist who understood Spanish and the local political situation. Chase briefly stuck his tongue out at Nicole. “Dyin’ to see some action, sweetbuns.” That earned him a smoldering look. He turned to take his rifle out of the rack behind him. “Lock and load, Nikki darlin’.”
They parked in front of an ancient one-story ramshackle motel hunkered down beside the former highway on the outskirts of Tucson. It was aft
er midnight. The place was dark except for a dim light that overhung a corner of the parking lot. A tire swing dangled from a leafless tree near one corner of the building, and a kid’s tricycle was parked in front of door number 8. The vehicles in the gravel lot—mostly worn Ford pickups, old Nissans and Hondas—had license plates from Arizona, Nevada, and California. More than one had a child’s car seat in the back.
“Shit, this one’s got two baby carriers.” Nicole rested her baseball bat on the ground to peer in a car window. As she bent over, her shirt rode up, revealing the Glock she wore in the small of her back.
“Don’t go all soft on us,” Chase/Charlie grumbled beside her.
“Baby cockroaches,” Randy’s wife Joanne murmured, giving Nicole a curious look.
Nicole/Nikki persisted. “How do y’all know these folks are all illegals?” Chase thought she was laying on the Southern accent a bit too heavily.
Joanne rested her right hand on the pistol tucked into her waistband. “If they ain’t cockroaches themselves, they’re livin’ with cockroaches.”
“And there’s only one way to get rid of cockroaches, right?” Randy held up a gasoline can in one hand and a cigarette lighter in the other.
“Amen,” Chase said. He turned to Dread. “So, what’s the grand plan here?”
“We want ’em to run back to their hidey-holes and tell their friends there’s not a welcome mat out for them anymore. We burn them out, trash their cars, strand ’em on foot like they were when they came here. If you got to hit a cockroach, get an arm or leg. We don’t want to kill anyone tonight.”
“Sounds good,” Chase said. “You four want to take the front? Nikki and I’ll cover the back.” He and Nicole trotted into the shadows at the side of the old wooden building.
As he’d suspected, there were already several windows open along the back of the building. Anyone desperate enough to live here would be watching for trouble. People in various stages of dress were escaping out the windows and dashing into the desert.
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