Boone unfolded his long legs from the yellow car and stepped onto the packed sand. “If we’re getting a performance like that before you’ve had a few drinks… we might want to make sure the bartender locks those photo albums away.”
Emily laughed, tossing the fronds aside. “My exhibitionism has its limits. Glad you made it! We’re starving!” She gestured to the group. “C’mon, gang!”
The group followed but Cecilia lingered. “Excuse me? But…” She stepped back from the Thing and looked underneath. “I think something fell out of your car.”
“Y’know, I thought I heard something go clunk when you pulled in,” Greg added, piling on.
Boone frowned, retracing his steps. Crouching, he reached under the rust-rimmed bottom of the car, coming up with the muffler. He looked at it for only an instant before raising his sunglasses to peer at Emily.
Bill broke the silence. “That’s funny. From the sound of it, I didn’t think you had a muffler.”
Emily and the Kansans burst into laughter. Boone smiled, going to the trunk—on his ancient Volkswagen, it was on the front of the car. He put the muffler inside.
“I can help you reattach it, Boone,” Emily offered.
Boone closed the trunk and turned to her, looking down at her face. “I don’t think a muffler with ‘Honda’ stamped on it is likely to fit.”
Emily smiled serenely, eyes hidden behind her green shades.
Boone put his arm around her shoulders and addressed the group. “Hey, y’all! Welcome to Coconuts! Did you know they have a pet crocodile named Wilma?” Suddenly, he scooped up Emily and tossed her over his shoulder. “Sometimes, they let ya feed her.”
Emily squealed with laughter as Boone trudged up the steps that led to the bar and grill. With Boone’s great height, she had quite a view. The tropical shower increased in tempo and everyone moved under the cover of the trees that lined the stairs.
“You okay up there, Em?” Greg called out from several steps down.
“Oh, yeah, peachy keen,” she said, propping her elbows against Boone’s back and cupping her chin in her hands. “Actually, this is a much safer mode of transport than his car.”
The group laughed and took in the sights, the steps sporting a variety of amusing signs sprinkled here and there. Greg paused and pointed at a sign beside a gumbo-limbo tree. “Ha! ‘The Gringo Tree! Always Red and Peeling!’” He stopped to take a photo and the rest of the group joined him.
Emily smiled, enjoying the moment as Boone ascended the steps. She took it all in: the swaying trees, the sound of the rain drumming on the leaves, the sight of the stone steps beneath as she was carried up the mountain, the feel of a man’s powerful grip, holding her tightly over his shoulder—
“Stop-stop-stop-put-me-down-put-me-down-put-me-down!” The frenzied whisper burst from her lips as her heart suddenly pounded in her ears.
Boone stiffened, the alarm in her hissed words freezing him in his tracks. He set her down immediately.
“Em, what’s wrong? I’m sorry—did I hurt you?”
Emily shushed him, not wanting the Kansas group below to hear. “No, it’s… oh bugger me, it’s…” She gestured helplessly at the terraced terrain around them, then emitted a short laugh that was tinged with a sob. “Although this is only fifty bleeding feet, not three thousand…and a tinkle of a shower instead of a storm.”
Boone’s face went pale. “Oh, Jesus, Em… Mount Scenery… I…”
“S’okay!” Em blurted, her eyes darting down to the group, who had finished their photo session. She pushed away from Boone. “Meet you at the top!” she called out with forced gaiety. “Need to hit the loo!” With that, she turned and rushed up the steps.
As Boone watched Emily dash up the hill, he gave himself a vicious mental kick. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The decision to carry her had been a spur-of-the-moment bit of flirtation, and he’d completely forgotten the connection it might have held for her. Back on Saba, as the outermost bands of Hurricane Irma had begun to lash the island, Emily had been carried up 1,064 steps to the island’s highest peak by a homicidal lunatic, slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, eyes watching the steps receding beneath her as they ascended into the steadily thickening clouds surrounding Mount Scenery. I must’ve triggered a panic attack. Swallowing hard, Boone glanced down at the approaching Kansans and forced a smile on his face—a difficult feat, with the thought swimming in his head that his seemingly innocent action had hurt the one he loved.
“Is there really a crocodile up there?” Cindy asked.
“Yep. And Chimichanga the cockatoo, a blue macaw named Tequila, some other birds… a few cats and a couple dogs. Sometimes we bring our pooch here… but figured our cars were packed enough today. Ricardo’s taking care of him.”
Greg reached his step. “Hey, umm… Boone, down below you said something about ‘photo albums.’ Are these the ones with the… umm…”
“Topless women, Greg,” Cecilia said, smacking his arm. “I saw your guidebook. And you aren’t going to see them.”
Boone started up the stairs. “Yeah, it’s a bit of a tradition, but they’ve kinda toned it down. I actually haven’t seen them myself.”
“But… they do exist, right?” Greg asked, earning himself a second arm-punch.
The steps ended and a sandy path leveled off and led through the palms, ending at a huge thatched roof covering a circular bar. Beyond, a seating area with plastic tables and blue umbrellas rimmed the cliff’s edge, overlooking the crashing waves of the eastern coastline.
“Check it out!” Cindy pointed excitedly to an area alongside the bar. A white umbrella cockatoo was gripping a rope perch strung between posts, spinning on it like a gymnast on an uneven bar.
“That’s Chimichanga,” Boone said, approaching the bird and addressing it. “Hola.”
“Hola!” the bird croaked.
Cindy laughed and reached toward the bird, but Boone held up a hand in warning.
“Not a good idea. He’s a biter.”
“Hola!” Chimichanga affirmed.
“Whoa, check out all the T-shirts!” Greg was under the thatched roof, looking up at the ceiling. Every inch of the circular space was plastered with T-shirts from all over the world. Countless license plates decorated the support beams, and numerous humorous signs—most extolling the virtues of beer or sex—lined the walls. Greg dropped his eyes and focused on a large, brown book that was placed on the edge of the bar. He looked back at Cecilia, then nonchalantly approached the bar and raised a hand toward the book.
“Wait…” Boone said in a low voice, halting Cecilia before she could stop her husband. “Let him. Trust me.”
Eager for titillation, Greg opened the book… and was greeted with a spring-loaded rubber cobra that popped out and bounced off his wrist. Greg yelped and stumbled back to gales of laughter from his friends.
A Mexican man wearing glasses and sporting a green parrot on his shoulder was wiping down some menus at the edge of the bar. “Señor Hiss strikes again. Hola, Boone. You need a table for your guests?”
“Yeah, thanks Cuco. One by the view if we could.”
“Pick a good one,” the man said, handing Boone a pile of menus. “The conch ceviche is on special.” He made a show of looking around Boone. “Where is your lovely señorita?”
Boone felt a lump rise in his throat but he swallowed it down. “She’ll be along.”
“I thought I was on the mend!” Emily said into her mobile. The tears from several minutes ago had evaporated and her voice carried more frustration than anxiety.
“You are. You’ve made tremendous strides, Emily. You know that, don’t you?”
Emily sighed and nodded. The face on her smartphone’s screen smiled.
Emily had bypassed the restrooms and instead gone to the north side of the Coconuts property, managing to snag the Wi-Fi
from the lobby of the little hotel next door. After firing up WhatsApp, she’d placed a video call to her therapist, who’d picked up on the second ring. Christine Dale was an American expat based in Costa Rica that Emily had been fortunate enough to find when she’d arrived in Belize and suffered her first panic attack. Christine was an unconventional therapist, but her advice had done wonders thus far.
“From what you described, Emily… the sensory stimuli—the stone stairs, the trees, the rain, and being carried over the shoulder—it’s not at all surprising that triggered an episode.”
“But I haven’t had a—”
“Wait, let me finish… give me three long breaths while I make this point. The situation was pitch perfect to trigger a panic attack. But… when it did… you came down from it very quickly, did you not?”
Emily breathed out a long, slow breath. “Yes. My heart was hammering when Boone put me down, I was hyperventilating a bit, and I was still pretty amped when I got to the bar—partly because I ran up the steps, I s’pose. But yeah, by the time I had my mobile out, I was close to normal.”
“You were upset when you called me, but what I saw and heard was a young woman who was angry with herself. And instead… you should be proud of yourself.”
Emily smiled. “You’re right.” She blew out a final, cleansing whoosh of breath. “Say, Christine, how’s the diving in Costa Rica?”
“Come here and find out.” She turned to listen to someone off-camera before returning to the video call. “I have to go and lead a group session. Namaste, Emily. And be proud.”
“Thank you, Christine.” Emily ended the call and slid the phone into her shorts pocket. The rain stopped, brushed aside by a late afternoon sun.
“Here she comes!” Cecilia called out, her voice colored by the half a margarita she’d consumed. “Emily, you missed the mariachi band!”
Boone looked up from his cerveza as Emily approached. She looks good, he thought with some relief. He started to rise but she pressed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down into the molded plastic chair. He wasn’t surprised to feel her fingertips dig in meaningfully, a message to “drop it and move on.”
“Sorry, lads ’n’ lasses, I had a call to make.” Emily plopped down beside Boone.
“Call go okay?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. Her royal majesty is in fine health and inquired about my own well-being. So seldom do you see such attention to the peasantry from a monarch.”
Boone started to speak again but Emily gave him a look, and then changed the subject with a visual display, producing a little green object and setting it down with a flourish.
“What’s that?” Greg asked.
“It’s a grasshopper, silly,” Cecilia said.
“I know that. It’s just that it looks really cool and I want one.”
Emily laughed. “Well, keep your eyes peeled for a guy in a hat made of woven palm leaves. He makes these from palm and grasses and straw. I caught him on a break on my way over.”
“Another critter for your menagerie?” Boone asked. He addressed the table. “Emily has some carved wooden animals from Belize and a buncha little ones that she got from a bar in Bonaire.”
“That you got me from a bar in Bonaire. Well… except one.”
“You still haven’t told me who gave that flamingo to you,” Boone prodded. He’d been trying to learn the identity of that mystery date ever since she’d hinted at it back in Belize.
Emily responded by making the grasshopper hop across the table to Cecilia’s frozen margarita. Held lightly in Em’s fingertips, the woven insect slowly turned to look at Boone, then quickly looked back at the perspiring glass. Then back at Boone.
He laughed and rose from the table. “All right, all right… it’ll be quicker if I grab it from the bar. Rocks? Salt?”
“Salt, yes… but I’ll go frozen this time. Cecilia’s looks gooooood. What’s left of it.”
“Back in a jiff.”
Boone ducked under the thatched roof and made his way to the bar. The crowd was starting to grow, and he had to wait a moment to catch the bartender’s eye. He ordered Emily a margarita and kept his eyes peeled for their waiter, a colorful character in a fancy apron, figuring he’d send the young man over to the table to take Em’s food order. Looking around for the server, his eyes passed over the crowd before returning to the bartender as Emily’s drink was presented. After thanking the man, he handed over some pesos and turned to leave, but stopped two steps from the bar. What did I see?
Boone looked beyond the bartender to the far side of the circular bar. A man in a flamboyant shirt covered in colorful skulls was hunched over an open photo album, pointing at a page and laughing uproariously, coughing out a cloud of cigarette smoke. Beside him, a thick-set woman in a tight T-shirt rolled her eyes, but there was the ghost of a smile on her lips. They look very familiar.
“Earth to Boone. You get lost? My grasshopper thirsts.”
Boone blinked and looked down at Emily, who had sidled up beside him. “The couple from the Aqua Safari pier,” he said, nodding his head toward the pair. “The ones we saw when the drone was there.”
“Who? The bloke looking at the Big Book o’ Boobs? I don’t recognize… wait a tick. They had on some kind of boating polos, didn’t they?”
“Guess they’re off duty,” Boone said.
“Check out the weird fag.”
“Emily!” Boone rasped, mortified.
Emily laughed, “Oh for shite’s sake, Boone, learn my lingo. The cigarette, you berk.”
Boone shook his head, then glanced across. “It’s black.”
“Yeah, I recognize it from my youth. A Black Russian… or as I call it, a Poseur Puffer… all the Goth kids smoked ’em. It’s a Brit cig, comes in a fancy black box with gold foil.”
“You ever smoke?”
Emily smiled, looking into the middle distance. “Not cigarettes.”
Boone nudged her. “C’mon. Let’s take a leisurely stroll to the other side of the bar. Here’s your marg.”
“Thanks much.” She sipped and followed Boone as he made his way around the bar. “Mmm, good that!”
Boone nodded, half-listening to Em, the other part of his attention drifting toward the couple. The man was a loud talker and he seemed to be several drinks into his evening. From the sound of it, he was Eastern European—maybe Russian. The woman sounded like a refugee from the movie Fargo.
“Kiska, come on,” the man begged. “You get free shot if you do this!”
“Oh, no, not happening. Come on, let’s settle up. We’ve been gone long enough. The boss is going to be pissed.”
Boone led Emily to a spot just behind the pair and squared off with her. “This seems like a good spot for us to enjoy your drink.”
Emily smiled, licking the salt rim and taking a sip, glancing furtively around Boone’s biceps. “He’s moved on to another booby book.”
“Bozhe moi, look at the siski on this one!”
“I’m going down to call a cab. You pay the bill.” The woman got up and left.
“Oh, don’t like that be!” he cried, tracking her as she left. As his eyes swept back, he spotted Emily, giving her a fairly thorough once-over as he tucked a fresh cigarette into the corner of his mouth. “How about you, little one? You want free shot, yes?”
Boone stepped forward but Emily stopped him.
“Oh, you want to see these?” Emily gave her breasts a quick cup through the tank top. “No, alas, they don’t let me do that anymore. I cost them too many shots. I mean, one time, I got so plastered, I was…” she trailed off, as if remembering something fondly.
The man’s cigarette fell from his mouth. “Da? I mean… yes?”
“Oh, I was way too hammered to remember anything… but it’s all there in that brown book on the other end of the bar. Half the content is me, I th
ink.”
Boone stifled a laugh as he and Emily made their way back to the table. “Señor Hiss will eat well today.”
“Depends on if he’s a picky eater,” Em said. “Russian macker might not be on the menu.”
“And ‘macker’ is…?”
“Oh, did you not absorb that one yet, either? It’s a man who hits on women. Womanizer. A player. That older Othonos brother, Achilles? That’s a macker.”
They reached the table and joined the Kansas gang just as the food arrived.
After their dinner, Boone and Emily chauffeured the group back to the Hotel Barracuda, parking their cars in the lot across the street.
“We had such a great time!” Cecilia said. “Thank you so much for the diving and the outing.”
“You heading back to the States, then?” Emily asked.
“Yep. Off to Houston in the morning, then on to Wichita,” Greg said. “Back to the grind.”
“Let’s grab one more drink by the pool,” Cecilia insisted. “Boone, Emily, will you join us? Our treat!”
Boone looked at his watch. “We gotta go pick up our dog, but it’s still early. Em?”
“Fine by me. We have some driving to do, so maybe just a couple Cokes.”
They went into the No Name Bar and found a few chairs alongside the pool. It was fairly busy, and the only spot available was next to a speaker that was pounding out “Despacito.” As they sat down, Em’s cell jangled with her old-timey ring. She answered, “Bubble Chasers Diving. We make your underwater dreams come true. This is Emily.” She listened, then spoke loudly to compete with the music, looking at Boone as she replied. “Oh, hi Nicholas! What’s up? How’s Lyra doing?” She plugged one ear with a finger, then rose and cocked her head, motioning for Boone to join her farther from the music.
“Be right back,” Boone said, leaving the table to follow her.
Deep Devil (The Deep Book 4) Page 14