Titan Trilogy 3.5-Black Soul

by T. J. Brearton

  He set it aside, thinking how Sterling had leapt to the conclusion Rene’s message implied her involvement in trafficking. Sterling had asked the police about anyone named “Deon” and found out he had a record. Deon was a minor, so the precise nature of his arrest was sealed, but Mateo had mentioned ammunition.

  The question was, did Deon’s activities correspond with human trafficking? For Sterling to make that connection was a big jump.

  Had Deon sold the man from last night his shotgun or ammunition? Were Deon and that man linked in any way?

  Rene had written, some of the people I’ve met are doing some work locally.

  What work? It could mean anything.

  As far as the vehicle, Nissan Pathfinders weren’t rented on the island — Hanna had checked. It could’ve been rented on the mainland or was privately owned.

  The impulse to just get on the motorcycle and head back to the house in First Bight was strong. But without a doubt, the man would be gone. It would be better to investigate the property through the rental agency in Trujillo, or a property manager on the island, if there was one.

  William dropped the pen and ran his hand through his hair. He stared out at the ocean for a moment, then leaned over the keyboard. He sent Didier Lazard an encrypted email requesting an update on the black box. The box would need to be connected to receive the update. William hoped Lazard responded, soon — he wanted to know where Sterling had his investments.

  Someone knocked on the door. Maybe Hanna had forgotten her room key.

  To be safe, he closed the laptop, zipped up the storage drive and set them aside.

  Mateo was there, holding two helmets. “Good morning, Mr. Chase.”

  “Good morning.”

  “They’re not required, but I thought you might want them.”

  “Sure, great. Just put them on the counter.”

  Mateo smiled and walked past. William thought he detected something in the smile, and couldn’t help wondering if Mateo had heard him and Hanna early that morning. If the whole resort had. He felt the blood rise to his skin and sat back down at the counter.

  “Mr. Sterling has also asked me to apologize. He cannot meet again this morning.”

  “Why not? Do you know what he’s doing?” William was astonished. Sterling was never around. He was here, supposedly, to locate his missing daughter. He’d made it clear it was his top priority but his attentions were consistently diverted.

  “I think he may be gone to the new wreck site, Mr. Chase.”

  The wreck, William thought. In all the excitement of the past night, he’d almost forgotten about it. Jodi Penninger, the diving instructor, had told them about the latest planned wreck. Sterling wanted to see the wreck when his daughter was missing?

  “You can call me William,” he said, distracted. His eyes were wandering and then he looked up at Mateo, standing dutifully on the other side of the counter. “What do you know about Sterling, Mateo?”

  Mateo shook his head. “I know very little, William. But I arranged a car for him this morning. To take him to Oakridge.”

  “Oakridge . . .” William consulted the map of Roatán sitting by the notes. Along the narrow island, Oakridge was about as east as one could get. Thirty miles away. Beyond it lay Isla Barberta, which William had been told was one of the most beautiful places around.

  “Where is the site for the new wreck? Is it Oakridge?”

  Mateo nodded. “Right next to it, in Calabash Bay. Can I do anything else for you, William?”

  “Was there a specific destination for Sterling?”

  “Yes, sir. The Royal Playa Resort.”

  William jotted it down. Maybe it had just been a long, strange night, and an unexpected morning, but Mateo seemed off. “One more thing,” William said. “How are you?”

  Mateo blinked. “How am I?”

  “Yeah. How are you doing? You want a cup of coffee or something?” William gestured to the coffee maker next to the sink.

  “No, thank you, William.”

  Mateo headed for the door.

  “Any word on Deon’s return?”

  “The ship returns tomorrow at noon,” Mateo said. “We’ll see.”

  “Why do you think he might not return?”

  Mateo held the door open, and looked down. He seemed to give the question a moment of deep consideration. “I don’t know,” he said. “What is happening right now in front of me is what I know. No more than that.”

  He left.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  It was only nine in the morning and already William felt behind the eight ball. He tried Sterling’s cell and got no answer. He left a quick message, saying he had information, and wanted to talk. He called the Royal Playa Resort, and left another message with the manager, asking to please have Sterling return the call.

  When Hanna came back with their food — eggs wrapped in flour tortillas, along with mangoes and avocados — he ate hastily, staring out at the view. He could sense her watching him.

  “I don’t know where to start.” He told her what he wanted — photos of the taxi, a call to the realtor, a visit to the hospital, possibly to the police with the picture of the young man, a meeting with Deon if he returned, locating gun sales, Detective Catarino on the mainland, Calabash Bay, where Sterling had gone, and the woman from the café.

  They shared a look — even if they could cover more ground separately, today they wanted to stick together. She picked up one of the helmets. “Is this for me?”

  He smiled as she strapped it on. She looked good in a helmet, her blonde hair tufting out. He gathered his wallet, his watch, the laptop and the box.

  When he turned back to her, he saw something in her eyes.

  “I think we need to go back to the police,” she said. “We bring them the description of the young woman, the young man. We ask them about the woman from the café. We tell them the cab was shot up. Give them the whole story. Get them working for us.”

  He shook his head. “She might have run from the hospital because she feared police. Besides, they’re going to wonder why two religious missionaries are getting into so much trouble. They start digging into who we are, find our pictures in the State Department fugitive database, it’s bad.”

  She picked up Catarino’s business card. Catarino was the national police detective in San Pedro Sula. “We need to at least call him.”

  “Okay. Later today. How about this? Let’s go to Oakridge. Sterling hires us, then he’s never around. He’s off to the site of this weekend’s planned wreck.”

  She hesitated, her eyes locked on him. He wondered if she was going to concede or dig in her heels about Catarino. It was hard to know with her sometimes.

  “Alright,” she said. “I can go with that.”

  ***

  They were soon speeding along the streets of Coxen Hole on the motorcycle. Her arms were wrapped around his midsection. She held tight as he took a sharp turn.

  Thirty miles to Oakridge. He thought they were making excellent time, even thought they might swing by the house in First Bight on the way, just have a quick look. Maybe the guy was ballsy. Maybe the Pathfinder was still sitting in the driveway.

  The police roadblock slowed them right down.

  “Shit.”

  The motorcycle purred between his legs. Hanna loosened her grip behind him.

  There was nowhere to turn off, only to turn around. They were somewhere in between French Harbor and First Bight. William saw a small, white-faced monkey watching him from a nearby tree.

  The traffic crawled.

  “We’re on our way to check out the site of the new wreck,” Hanna said. Her voice was muffled but he could hear her; she was coaching him on what to say to the cops. “There’s an Evangelical church in Oakridge, too. That’s all.”

  He nodded. He reflexively gunned the engine of the Honda dual-sport. The little 450 cc engine raced for a moment, and then they inched forward again.

  Missionaries on motorcycle.

>   “It probably has to do with yesterday,” Hanna said. “The cruise line drug bust.”

  He twisted his head to see her. “Why?”

  She shrugged. “Just a guess. Could be standard checking for papers.”

  William patted his pants pocket. He’d dressed in new cargo shorts which Mateo provided. The motorcycle registration was there. “I got it,” he said to her.

  The roadblock was a few orange cones and four police in their bluish military camouflage. He looked for Conchella but didn’t see her. When it was their turn, William flashed a smile and raised the visor on his helmet.

  “Matricula,” said the officer.

  William pulled the registration from his pocket while Hanna handed over their passports. He held his breath while the officer, a tall, young man with dark skin, looked it all over.

  Then the police officer handed the papers back. “Any robberies to report?”

  William shook his head, no.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Calabash Bay. To see the new wreck site.”

  The officer scowled. “The wreck doesn’t happen until tomorrow.”

  “We’re checking into a hotel today.”

  The officer’s eyes lingered. “Are you with a cruise line?”

  “You mean passengers?”

  The officer just stared. Another one was coming closer; it seemed they were taking longer to get through than other vehicles.

  “We’re not passengers. We’re missionary outreach. With Samaritan’s Purse. We flew in.”

  The second officer stepped beside the first. They spoke to each other in Garifuna.

  The first officer faced them again. “You don’t work for any cruise line?”

  William shook his head. “No. Not at all.”

  At last the officers stepped back and waved them on.

  William felt relief spreading through his body as he gunned the engine and the Honda shot forward. Hanna gave him a reassuring squeeze.

  They zipped along Carretera Principal, swerving to avoid an iguana crossing the road at one point, and came into First Bight.

  He followed the road from the night before, and within a few minutes, they were sitting in front of the Spanish-colonial house. There was no Pathfinder in the driveway. The place looked empty.

  He kept his helmet on just in case, raised the visor. Hanna stretched, looking around. He hadn’t expected it, but the emotions charged through him. He couldn’t believe that the young woman would have chosen to be there.

  Hanna had other things on her mind. Looking at the house, she said, “Six months ago a galley worker was gunned down near the Port.”

  He waited for her to continue. She placed her hands on the small of her back, bent forward, and spoke through her helmet as she continued to stretch. “As a result, a major cruise line temporarily pulled out and an excursion company canceled its tours of the island. I looked into it, and the cruise line and the excursion company are owned by the same corporation — Paradise.”

  She pulled off her helmet. It was safe by now, he figured, and did the same. The helmet was stiflingly hot without the wind and it was a relief to remove it.

  Hanna ran her hands through her hair. “There’s been a lot of robberies. Like the cop asked us about. At gunpoint, with machetes. You go on the island website and it says, if you’re robbed, hand over your money immediately, or the robbers are likely to kill you. That’s the welcoming committee.”

  He thought it through. “So Roatán is hurting? How bad?”

  “I’m still looking for exact figures but from what I’ve seen, there’s a significant loss. On the other hand, it’s good for competitors — less cruise lines, less excursion companies, more profit. But it’s not in the interest of Honduras, or the Bay Islands, to lose tourism. It’s their main industry, far and away.”

  William nodded toward the house. “Who do you think he was?”

  “This asshole? He could be anybody. Down here for a little R&R, who knows.”

  “Maybe he’s a widower and his children are all grown, huh? So he takes his vacations alone to Shangri La, and then sexually assaults drugged-up women.” He realized he was laying the sarcasm on pretty thick.

  Hanna grimaced. “What if he’s involved, somehow, in the economic fate of Roatán? Maybe he’s an investor in a cruise line.”

  William had been thinking the same thing. His gut had been telling him straight away that the man with the Pathfinder wasn’t just a tourist, but knew his way around. He’d had a damned gun.

  William stared over at Hanna. She looked amazing in her T-shirt and shorts, with her long legs.

  “Mateo told me about Deon as a galley worker,” she said. “So while you were out last night I did research. The majority of vessels in the North American market are owned by Carnival, Royal Caribbean, and Paradise. With their subsidiaries, those three enterprises carry seventy-eight percent of the trade, yet operate largely outside American labor and tax laws.”

  “Of course.”

  “Paradise grossed almost four billion and posted operating profits of thirty percent, but paid less than three million in U.S. income taxes. Paradise gets a lot of its workers from here. And they’re fighting for domination of the Central American market. Central America wants them, too. Wants the tourists. Nicaragua plans the Atlantic-to-Pacific canal. It’s big bucks, all around, lots of competition.”

  She gazed at the empty rental house a moment, then strapped into her helmet and mounted the bike.

  He pulled his helmet back on and keyed the Honda’s engine. He tore a half-circle in the dirt, the bike’s off-road tires biting in.

  He liked how they were working together again, doing what they did best, following the money trail.

  They headed for Oakridge.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  They went down a hill towards the water where houses built on sticks rode the edge of the surf, and battered boats bobbed in the Oakridge bay. The darker water and boathouses made William nostalgic for upstate New York, a place he usually kept mentally locked away.

  They rode a bridge over a narrow canal and drove along until they saw signs for Royal Playa Resort Parking and Water Taxis. Apparently the resort was water-access only. They parked the motorcycle and walked into a reception area.

  “Hi. Can we visit the resort if we’re not guests?”

  The clerk smiled and said, “I’m sorry, sir. The water taxis are for guests only.”

  “Is there another route?”

  “Yes. You can go back to Oakridge Road, take The Bight Road to Diamond Rock Road in Islas De La Bahía. That will take you to Port Royal Road. There you can hike through the national park to the resort, if you wish to have a look.”

  “How long would that take?”

  “About an hour, sir, depending.”

  “Any chance you have a bungalow available? I realize people must book them months in advance . . .”

  Hanna took him by the arm and led him away from the clerk. “We don’t even know if Sterling is staying here . . .”

  He turned back to the clerk. “We’re actually looking for a friend of ours. Arnold Sterling? I actually called earlier, in attempt to speak with him. My name is William Chase.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Chase. He is here. I gave him your phone message from earlier today. The resort is very remote, sir.”

  William wasn’t sure if the clerk was apologizing for Sterling, or what else he might mean. “We’d really like to book a room, if it’s at all possible.”

  “You’re in luck, we do have one cancellation. A bungalow is available.”

  He glanced at Hanna, who raised her eyebrows. Sterling had become their most promising lead. The missing girl’s father was mysterious and evasive.

  They got a few supplies from a store called Tienda Emel, returned to the docks and boarded a water taxi that was basically a row boat with a small outboard motor and a cabana for shade. The boat’s driver was old with an ivory white beard and skin like parchment paper.
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  They snapped on life preservers and the boat burbled to life. Then it cut through the waves, leaving the stilted, ramshackle homes and the banged-up boats bobbing in the harbor.

  They rounded a peninsula and the bay opened up, the landscape looking tropical again. Coral formed undulant patterns beneath the surface and schools of fish flashed like lures. Hanna dragged her hand in the water and titled her head back in the dazzling, hot sun. For a few minutes, it was as if all the darkness in their world had vanished.

  The water taxi cruised the crystal clear water toward a grouping of thatched bungalows and white beaches with palm trees.

  * * *

  The primitive simplicity of the Royal Playa Resort made Cohen’s resort look downright opulent. It was a place surrounded by a national park, totally secluded, away from the hustle and bustle of the island. The bungalows were tucked into the jungle, the single dock terminated in a thatched-roof gazebo.

  The taxi let them off. William and Hanna walked along the beach before checking in.

  Further away from the resort, people were sunbathing and picnicking. The people had large packs with them — they must have arrived via the national park trails.

  Hanna took William by the hand as they walked towards the tourists. She pointed to a small island off shore, palms bent in the shape of the wind.

  Behind them, an engine gurgled as another taxi drifted to a stop at the dock.

  William turned around to look. Someone was coming down to greet the newcomers gathering in the gazebo.

  “There he is.” William said. “That’s Sterling.”

  They watched as Arnold Sterling mingled with the people from the water taxi. It looked like a married couple and their three kids.