Titan Trilogy 3.5-Black Soul

by T. J. Brearton

  He looked out the window. Mateo was talking to a group of tourists, pointing at something in the distance. The tourists laughed and nodded. They sauntered away and Mateo glanced across the street, through the window at William. Mateo grinned and twirled his finger around his ear. Crazy tourists, he meant.

  William turned back to the officer, scanning in the documents one at a time. It was tedious. How did they get anything done?

  He stood up, stretched his legs.

  “Your missionary work,” Conchella asked, “It takes you all over?”

  He felt a touch self-conscious again, but then wondered if what she was asking him was plain. “It does,” he said.

  “You do a lot of work with missing children, missing adults?”

  “Sometimes.” He pointed to the file. “One of the names on there, Deon Cruz . . . He’s been in trouble around here before, is that right?”

  She looked over her shoulder, her eyes shrewd again. Then she nodded in the general direction of the street. “Why don’t you ask that man out there? The one hidin’ from me.”

  William glanced at Mateo, who’d lit another cigarette and was standing facing the ocean, his back turned.

  “Him?”

  “Sure. Ask him about Deon. That’s his nephew.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  William crossed the street, glancing at his watch. There was still an hour before he met Hanna back at the diving school. He imagined her out there, splashing into those pristine waters.

  Mateo greeted him. “All done?”

  “For now. She gave me some helpful information.”

  Mateo looked back for a moment, silent. He dropped his cigarette and mashed it out with his sandal. “Mr. Chase. I drive you around. I do as Mr. Cohen asks, as you ask.”

  “I’m very grateful.”

  Mateo squared his shoulders with William. He was tall, ropy-muscled, very capable. William felt himself tense.

  “When you first get here, you tell me you are with Samaritan’s Purse. I take you to the dive school. I see you asking questions. You’re not just a missionary, or family friend. I’m not stupid.”

  “I don’t think you’re stupid, Mateo.” William glanced back at the police station. Officer Conchella was standing in the window.

  “She tell you about Deon, huh?”

  William thought it through. He decided it was better to let Mateo in a little bit. He decided to trust him. “She said Deon is your nephew.”

  “Yes. My sister’s son. She has four boys. He is the youngest.”

  “Mr. Cohen asked me to find out about the missing girl. I’m sure you know all about it. Rene Sterling.”

  He nodded. “Yes, I know.”

  “Did you ever see her? Ever meet her?”

  Mateo shook his head. “No.”

  “We’re interested in Deon because Rene mentions him in her last email to her father. One of her friends, Tommy, said she and Deon were becoming close. And Sterling says there’s evidence that Deon works for traffickers. But I don’t know what.”

  Mateo took this all in. He leaned against the car and stared off toward the ships in the distance. One of the cruise ships was heading toward the dock. The thing was a monster, at least eight decks high, dwarfing its surroundings.

  “Deon works there,” Mateo said, facing towards the port. “He is a galley worker.”

  “He works on the cruises? Which one?”

  “Paradise.”

  William thought back to earlier in the day, the men in black masks putting a galley worker in the backseat of a waiting SUV. Mateo had said that the guy worked for Norwegian Cruise Lines, and was probably Nicaraguan. “Is Deon involved in smuggling?”

  Without turning, Mateo said, “Deon is a good boy.”

  “Why does Sterling think he’s involved in Rene’s disappearance? Or human trafficking? Where is he? Can I talk to him?”

  Mateo looked around for a moment, then nodded toward the street. “Come on. Have a walk with me.”

  They drifted along the dusty main street, near the water’s edge.

  William found himself looking at Mateo’s watch. “You a diver, Mateo?”

  The big man shuffled along, silent for a moment. “Yes,” he said at last. “I love it.”

  “What about Deon?”

  Mateo sighed, and stopped. “Okay. Deon was working for some people.”

  “What people?” The day seemed to grow even hotter.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know them. I taught Deon to dive. He loves the water, just like his brothers. Like me. He fell in with some people, he was able to make some money retrieving things from the bottom of the ocean.”

  “Things . . .”

  “Rather than come all the way in to shore, the fishermen sink the drugs in weighted bags. Guns, too. Deon did some retrieving. But, no more.”

  “No more? You’re sure?” William’s mind was performing some gymnastics — who Deon might have worked for, how Sterling knew about Deon, if he did, and how Rene fit in.

  Mateo turned back toward the Port and started ambling along again, scuffing his feet. “They use young people because they don’t know any better. Deon just loved to dive. Someone told him he could make money. The cops found him with ammunition, and then it was over.”

  “The cops didn’t try to follow it up the ladder? See who Deon was working for?”

  Mateo shrugged. He pointed at the Port. “The line started calling there in 2009. Deon began working there last year. That’s what I know. He’s out of that other business. He’s got a solid job. But . . . it is an ocean-going maquiladora.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “A sweatshop at sea. Deon wants to go to Miami or Los Angeles so he can make two dollars an hour.”

  It sounded pitiful. He wondered if he could trust an uncle’s view of his nephew, that Deon had indeed gone straight. And it would be hard for anyone to give up bigger money for such a pittance.

  The breeze picked up, rippling the water. William enjoyed the momentary cooling. “Where is Deon now, Mateo?”

  “He is supposed to be back in two days.”

  “Supposed to be?”

  Mateo shrugged his shoulders and lit another cigarette. “You never know with Deon.”

  William let it lie for now. His head was already buzzing with a growing list questions. Obviously Deon was a lead, but it would also be good to know what businesses Arnold Sterling might be involved with, where he concentrated his holdings. It could be nothing, but it could be something if Sterling was invested in a cruise line like Carnival, or Paradise.

  He wished he could check with the cruise lines for passenger lists, thinking that Rene could’ve hopped aboard any one of them and been miles away. But cruises didn’t offer much in the way of public manifests anymore, and even if they did, it was way out of his limited jurisdiction. Officially, everything was out of his jurisdiction. He was a private citizen, a missionary with Samaritan’s Purse. They’d been willing to lend their name, thanks to the PJP, but Samaritan’s Purse had no pull when it came to the law.

  They strolled toward the town center. William had one more question for the time being. “What do you know about the woman this morning?”

  Mateo stopped walking. “I see Isabella for some time now, coming to the resort, spending days with Mr. Cohen.”

  “Do you know what happened to her? How she lost her legs?”

  “I don’t.” Mateo offered him a smoke. William lit up and watched as the cruise ship finished docking. Then he turned back towards Dixon Cove.

  As he stared off, he felt an uncertain dread growing in his stomach. He didn’t like that Hanna was still out there. He suddenly wanted her to come back.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  William stood on the dock where the Zodiac had been tethered. It had been more than two hours, and Hanna was still gone. The sun was beginning to set. He squinted toward the ocean, trying to catch a glimpse of the raft near the wreck, but, nothing.

  He searched the
Ship Divers grounds for another diving instructor, or someone who could help. He found a middle-aged woman, athletically built, cleaning up in the locker room near the freshwater pools. William stepped into the open room. “Hello.”

  She started and turned around. She was folding up wetsuits made of top-quality neoprene. Next to her were aluminum canisters of air.

  “I’m looking for my friend? Her name is Hanna Becket. She went out on a skin dive with Mr. Penninger . . .”

  He trailed off when he read the look on the woman’s face — she didn’t understand what he was saying. Maybe she didn’t speak English.

  “Tauchsport?” He pointed at the ocean. “Jodi Penninger? The instructor? He took a woman with him . . .”

  She seemed to comprehend a bit better. Nodding, she spoke a few words in German and then walked off. Not knowing what else to do, he followed her, thinking he needed to learn a few new languages.

  She led him to another building, up a wide flight of decking stairs, to a room with a huge bay window that viewed the water through swaying palms.

  A man with dark hair and olive skin sat at a desk by the windows, talking on the phone. The woman tapped him on the shoulder, spoke quietly to him in German, pointed at William, then out to the sea. The man stared at William.

  William thought the room smelled a bit funny, a tinge of something sweet in the air.

  The man hung up the phone, rose from his swivel chair and put out his hand.

  “I’m Jorge. Can I help you? You’re looking for your friend?”

  “Yes. Hanna Becket.” William’s patience was wearing thin. It had been a long day, a long flight before that, and his head was already chock-full of names and places and ideas. And he still had dinner with Sterling to look forward to. All he wanted to do was go back to the room with Hanna and talk to her. Try to sort some of this out. Then sleep. Like the dead.

  Jorge was nodding, and placed his hands on his hips. “Yes,” he said, pronouncing it jess. “They are on a nice dive. Nice dive.”

  “They were supposed to be back,” William glanced at his watch, “twenty minutes ago.”

  “Oh, okay,” Jorge said, still nodding. The man was looking around at everything, it seemed, but William. William glanced around too, wondering why the Jorge’s eyes were eating up the room. There was a long desk by the bay windows with a computer and radios on it. And there was a coffee table with an ashtray cradling a pipe. William’s gaze landed there just as Jorge’s did.

  Jorge gave William a nervous look. “You are an investigator, huh?”

  “I don’t care about your weed,” William said, naming the smell in the air. “I care about my friend.”

  Jorge seemed relieved. The woman slipped out of the room.

  “Yes,” Jorge said, “normally we don’t dive so late, not without the proper equipment for night dives. But Jodi seemed to want to help.”

  “Do you have any way to reach him?” William pointed to the radios. “Does he have a two-way? Can we talk to him?”

  Jorge snatched up the radio. “Yes, absolutely.” Beside the radio on the desk was a framed photo of Jorge, his arm around a young girl, maybe fourteen years old, both of them grinning. He pressed the button, looking at William out of the corner of his eye. “Jorge for Jodi. Come in, Jodi.”

  He let off the transmit button and grinned nervously. “So you’re looking for someone, Jodi said? A missing person?”

  “Yeah.” William peered through the window. Pretty soon the whole island would know they were investigating.

  The glass reflected the room and him, standing there. He looked bad. The other tourists were pale, but he was paler, bruised and bandaged. He looked like the type of guy who walked into a bar, picked a seat away from the lights, and faced the door. No wonder he made people skittish.

  Maybe Rene Sterling was scared of something. Or, maybe she had hopped a cruise with Deon. It was certainly possible. A young woman decided to detach from her authoritative father and go off on her own. She was an American — she could’ve been back in the States days ago and Sterling might not even know it.

  William would get more answers when Deon came back the next day, he hoped. If he did come back. Mateo had seemed doubtful.

  Whether Rene had been abducted or absconded on her own, William thought he and Hanna were in the midst of something. Something where drugs, human trafficking, and Rene’s disappearance collided.

  There was a light in the distance, flickering over the water.

  “There!” Jorge said with relief. He was off the hook.

  William knew there were multiple diving businesses on the island. He wondered if the rest of them were as strange as Ship Divers.

  The radio crackled, then a voice. “Jodi here. We’re on our way back. Fifteen minutes.”

  The light on the horizon grew stronger as the Zodiac returned to shore.

  * * *

  William left Jorge and made his way back over to the Maritime Terminal. Other than by plane, the ferry was the main way on and off the island. He had a few minutes left to kill and wanted a ferry schedule. He also wanted to see if the terminal, or the boats themselves, had any cameras.

  He’d already caught sight of private security cameras at Penninger’s. If the terminal had cameras, he might be able to convince someone on staff to let him have a look. After meeting with Conchella and looking through the scant file on Rene, he doubted the local cops had done as much.

  As he began to head down from the elevated berm towards the terminal, the passengers were disembarking. He caught sight of a familiar face in the small crowd.

  The woman from the café was standing near the ferry, watching the passengers.

  William stopped in his tracks. The two Rastafarian men she’d been with at the café were getting off, both carrying duffel bags. They started up the incline towards the parking lot, and she fell in with them. William had seen one of the men on the ferry as it had pulled out, headed for the mainland, but maybe they’d both been aboard.

  The trio stopped at the edge of the parking lot and spoke briefly, then the Rastafarians continued on with the bags. The bags looked full, but not heavy. They climbed into a pickup truck in the lot, though she remained standing aside, as if waiting for something else, or someone else. William waited too, careful to act like he was people-watching as the new passengers boarded, stealing sidelong looks.

  A young man and woman wearing backpacks emerged from the crowd and met up with the woman from the café. They seemed to know her, and they were listening to her as she spoke.

  They didn’t look happy.

  And dammit if the young man wasn’t the spitting image of one of the scuba kids in the picture of Rene. The one with the dark curls Arnold Sterling hadn’t been able to identify.

  William got moving. He hurried away from the ferry and found Mateo sitting in the car, listening to the radio. He instructed Mateo to wait for Hanna, to take her back to the resort. Before Mateo could respond, William jogged back toward the terminal.

  The disembarking passengers were still getting to their cars. William cut through the herd, seeking one of the kids, or the woman from the café. He caught sight of a backpack. He pushed through the people towards the parking lot.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The two young people and the woman gathered by a small tan car. William slowed, keeping a distance.

  Something was wrong with the young woman, she seemed unsteady on her feet. The kid from the scuba picture grabbed her and helped the café woman put her in the back of the car.

  Then the young man gestured, pointing inland. He looked upset. The café woman nodded sympathetically and her body language suggested she was trying to calm him down. Then they both got in the car.

  The pickup truck carrying the Rastafarians and the duffel bags had already driven out of the parking lot, and waited in the line of traffic inching its way toward the main road.

  William hurried to the taxi stand.

  One driver leaned against his c
ab, talking into a cellphone. William got his attention and the driver ended his call and opened the rear door.

  The tan car pulled into the back of the traffic queue.

  The young man was riding in the front passenger seat, chewing his fingernails and staring out. He met eyes with William as the vehicle passed. The young woman was in the back, but William couldn’t see her face.

  William sank into the taxi and closed the door. The driver had loud music playing, raucous, spirited music that evoked Mardi Gras.

  The cars and trucks slowly trundled up the hill toward Carretera Principal. The pickup made it to the main road first and drove out of sight — there was no following it. But the car with the woman and two young people was only three vehicles ahead.

  “We need to follow that car,” William said over the music. He pointed, saying, “the tan one. Looks like a Chevy Cavalier.”

  “Tan?”

  “Right there. Light brown.”

  “Alright then.”

  The taxi driver flipped on the meter and the time started ticking. The base fee was two dollars. Traffic moved painfully slow up the hill, but Carretera Principal was flowing a bit better. The tan car made a right turn and a few seconds later, so did the taxi.

  “We really need to stay right on them.”

  “Uh?” The taxi driver had to turn down the music.

  “I said we need to stay right on that car. Don’t lose it.”

  “Nah, mon. Not gonna lose it.”

  He wasn’t Caracole, he sounded Jamaican. William looked around the cab, which was clean as a whistle. The driver’s identification was Hosea Neysmith.

  Up ahead, the tan car was within view. William relaxed a little and sat back.

  The taxi was air-conditioned, and it felt good. He gazed out the window. The ocean was visible as they drove along, appearing in gaps between swathes of a mangrove forest teeming with wildlife.

  A large turtle sat alongside the road, narrowly missed by the vehicles jouncing over the potholes. Something fast and furry blurred through the trees, maybe a monkey.

  They approached the next village, Barefoot Cay, upscale and stunning. Bungalow-style buildings burrowed into the lush bromeliads. In the distance, a peach-colored building with rounded white balconies, surrounded by coconut palms, looked like something out of a dream. Small birds, tanagers, flitted over the roof.