by Clay Farrow
The teenager never broke stride as she leapt over a chaise lounge, discarding her towel on the fly. Without pausing at the edge of the pool, she extended her arms over her head and sprang into the air. When she cut into the water, her splash, while not loud nor large, was enough, he noticed, to attract the attention of baby Ester. The child turned around with a stern look on her face until Amanda surfaced. Her eyes widened and her face lit up.
Too far away to intervene, Hilton cringed as the child wobbled down the steps of the veranda and tottered to the edge of the pool. Amanda swam from the center of the pool toward the youngster. With a joyous scream, Ester fearlessly hurled herself into the water. Despite her thrashing arms and legs, the toddler began to sink. Amanda arrived at the infant's side as the child slipped beneath the surface. She plucked the baby out of the water and nestled Ester in her arms.
"Ride," Ester demanded, beaming at Amanda with rivulets of water streaming down her cheeks.
Amanda settled back in the water as if she were an air mattress. Laying Ester flat on her chest, she began to gently kick.
Watching the two, Hilton felt a sudden pang. How often had he watched Dylan do exactly the same thing when Amanda was a tot? He glanced at Monica. Her eyes were fixed on the girls. He sensed she was playing the same memory in her mind. So much torn from them.
Monica gazed up at Hilton. A tear trickled from the corner of her eye and rolled down her cheek. With a forlorn smile, she laid her head on his shoulder. He brushed her forehead with his lips and thought of the losses they had endured.
In the space of a month, their lives had been ripped apart. First, Amanda's father and mother, Dylan and Rajanee, had died horribly. Then less than a month later, Monica's husband, Alan, was dead. With Dylan's death Hilton had lost a business partner, confidant, and brother. Alan Fremont's passing ended an enduring friendship based on trust, respect, and wisdom.
There were just the three of them now, and he couldn't conceive of a life without either one of them. They were bound to one another through love and loss. They were a family in the truest sense of the word.
11:
Belize City – Tuesday
Liz Dennison drained the bottle of Belkin, thinking that ten in the morning was a bit early for her first beer of the day, but what the hell. Across the table, Richie Calvin sipped a bottle of soda and munched on a plate of French Fries. They had sought shelter from the sun in the marina's Calypso Restaurant & Bar that was adjacent to their hotel.
She set the bottle on the table to fondle her latest acquisition, a sat phone that had arrived at the front desk of the Princess Hotel just an hour ago. Now she was never out of touch. Connected to her world at anytime, anywhere on the globe.
When she'd checked-in yesterday morning, her first call had been to Ken, explaining that Colonel Rodriguez had balked at allowing his soldiers to enter Belize. Ken had told her to wait at the hotel for the sat phone and that he would handle the colonel; her job was to locate Dr. Fremont. He also promised her a $500 thousand bonus if she got the formula from the good doctor.
While at Tikal, she had learned from JJ’s workers that Monica had last visited several months ago. She decided there was no point waiting around and she and Richie had moved on to Belize City.
Liz stood and tossed a set of keys on the table. "I'm on my way. If you use the SUV, be back here by two."
As Richie pocketed the keys, Liz scooped up her phone and a bulging leather binder lying on the table, then walked toward the dock.
The wharf was a wide wooden ribbon running out to the sea. Several boats were tied up, including a number of waiting water taxis.
Liz strode down the dock and stopped at the first water taxi. "Do you know the Caribbean Breezes resort?"
"On Cay Caulker?"
She nodded. "How much for a return trip?"
"You alone, $80."
"Let's go."
The young man took Liz's hand and helped her into the launch. She sat on a bench close to the stern while the driver inched the taxi into open water. Once clear of the marina, he gunned the engine and the boat shot out to sea, passing an incoming craft carrying three people.
* * * *
Richie Calvin watched Liz step into the water taxi then turned his attention to a scrawny, stray mutt at the entrance to the restaurant. He couldn't let one of God's creatures starve. His veterinarian training had prepared him - he always carried dog treats, just in case.
"C'mon, boy, I'm not going to hurt you," he said, holding out a bite-size dog cookie.
The animal sidled left, then right. Richie understood the dog wanted the treat, but experience had been a harsh teacher. The stray had probably been kicked enough that it exercised a great deal of caution when dealing with unpredictable humans. Richie tossed the treat a few feet in front of its nose. The mutt darted in, gobbled the snack, then retreated. It took only three more treats and Richie was kneeling on the floor, petting the dog while the animal nibbled food from his hand.
"Excuse me, sir."
He looked up at the bartender standing over him.
"I'm sorry, sir, but animals aren't permitted in the restaurant."
Richie reached for a couple of dollar bills lying on the table beside his soda and handed them to the waiter. "Could you please look the other way for the next few minutes? The poor pup probably hasn't eaten for days."
The bartender nodded, stuffed the bills into his pocket, and walked back to the bar.
Richie was feeding the dog when his gaze was drawn to an outboard entering the marina. What caught his attention was the youngest passenger, a girl with long black hair. She looked to be just a few years younger than him and was very beautiful. The older blonde woman sitting next to her was probably her mother. The boat docked a few yards from where he was sitting.
The hotel concierge on duty when he and Liz had checked-in, jogged up to the boat. "Welcome, Dr. Fremont and Miss Amanda."
Richie straightened up, startled. This was the woman Liz had just set off to find. She still blamed him for giving Dr. Jeffers an overdose. He listened carefully. Maybe if he found out their destination, he could get back in Liz's good graces.
The concierge helped Monica onto the dock, while Amanda deftly scrambled out of the boat without any assistance.
"Thank you, Daniel," Monica said, unbuckling her life jacket and tossing it back into the outboard.
Pointing to the side of the hotel, the concierge said, "Your truck is just to the right of the parking attendant's station."
Richie paid for the soda, dropped a pile of dog treats on the floor, and slipped out of the Calypso. He watched as Monica backed up the truck and drove toward the parking lot entrance. Richie ran for the SUV, jumped in, and sped after the navy blue pickup. He couldn't let them out of his sight.
* * * *
In the shade of the water taxi's canopy, Liz Dennison hefted the heavy binder onto her lap and opened it.
The day she and Richie arrived in Belize City, she'd searched the Internet for references to Monica and any names linked to hers. Then she sifted through the online archives of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. In partnering with Monica, JJ had become connected to a bizarre cast of characters. The most fascinating was her fiancé, Hilton Hastings. So interesting in fact, she contacted an old FBI colleague.
Sitting on top of a stack of documents in her binder was a photograph of Hastings, full face and profile. The mug shot had been taken when he was twenty-two. He had been arrested along with Monica and a Dylan Alderman for possession of marijuana with intent to sell. Alan Fremont, friend, lawyer, and years later Monica's husband, had negotiated a deal where all charges against Fremont and Alderman were dropped. In return, Hastings pleaded guilty and was sentenced to five years.
Was he the scapegoat? She suspected not. Evidence for her feeling lay in the fact that while Hastings was serving time, Alderman formed Hastings-Alderman Inc. where Hastings was a fifty percent partner from the outset. Against all her ex-cop instincts, she had t
o admire the depth of the two men’s friendship and Hastings’ self-sacrifice.
Liz studied the mug shot closely. She thought Hastings good looking, handsome rather than cute, and wearing a 'the sun shines out of my ass', cocksure grin. In terms of doing time with that attitude, he was a lamb to the slaughter, except for the eyes. Those eyes had a hard and defiant quality to them that might allow him to survive. Something had touched him in a lasting manner, and would only be reinforced in prison.
She set aside the mug shot and pulled a sheaf of papers out of a manila envelope. Hastings’ prison record had been emailed to her by her FBI contact. She hunched over, studying the document a page at a time. Apparently, he hadn't caused trouble and was paroled after three years. Definitely smart - a 160 IQ. You didn't see this type coming out of the prison meat grinder in one piece very often, but apparently he had – the eyes never lie. By all newspaper accounts, he and Alderman were a pair of boy geniuses with a long string of successes.
Hastings had been arrested during his first month of a Masters program in computer science. His undergraduate degree in math came with a summa cum laude designation and a place on the dean's list. After his release, he joined Alderman and the two built a very successful investment firm with Hastings designing and programming the firm's cutting edge software. In the late nineties he dropped out of sight, presumably to open the resort where she was now headed.
Liz put the Hastings' chronicle to one side. She sorted through the archive material on Monica. With the exception of two or three mentions of her in conjunction with Maya museum exhibitions, everything else was society page news. There were numerous photos of Monica on the arm of her husband, Alan Fremont, a former prosecutor, law professor, and politically connected fixer.
The largest amount of material related to Dylan Alderman. There were articles and photographs from both the financial and social pages of the Pittsburgh paper. Damn, he was gorgeous – tall and almost beautiful. A woman couldn't walk past him without looking back. And in every news photo he was the center of attention. A social animal and a big fish in a small pond. His marriage twenty years ago was the event of the season. Looking at a newspaper photo of the bride and groom, she was willing to bet the marriage had caused a stir in staid Pittsburgh society. As with Hastings, this was someone not afraid to swim against the current. Four years after the marriage, the Aldermans announced the birth of their daughter, Amanda. Throughout the years, numerous stories appeared in the social and financial sections of the Post-Gazette, then three years ago the grisly murders of Alderman and his wife were blazoned across the paper’s front page. A month later, the hit-and-run death of Alan Fremont made headlines. Were the two incidents related? The last item Liz had been able to dig up was the sale of Hastings-Alderman Inc., almost two years ago, to a Pittsburgh bank for an undisclosed amount.
What kind of screwy soap opera was she getting sucked into? Liz glanced at the warden’s handwritten notation on the last page of Hastings' file. He was suspected of three killings early in his sentence, but there wasn't enough evidence to charge him.
"Miss, we're almost there" the driver said, pointing to a series of buildings set back from a broad, sandy beach.
In her haste to repack the binder, she dropped Hilton's mug shot. As she reached for the photograph, a gust of wind whisked the print overboard and the tide began to gently wash the mug shot toward the beach.
With a shrug, she shifted her gaze to the resort. No expense spared here, she thought - five stars at least. The only eyesore was an ugly duckling with sails, named the Greener Grass. On the opposite side of the dock were two sleek outboards packed with diving equipment. Another powerful outboard with four blonde women and a resort staff member was approaching the jetty just behind her taxi.
Liz stood as the boat slid alongside the dock. She was about to leap out, when a man wearing only a bathing suit emerged from the cabin of the sloop and gracefully vaulted over the side onto the pier. Her breath stopped for an instant. She almost lost her footing. This was the infamous Hilton Hastings twenty years later. She smiled to herself. Forty-one, but with a body by Chippendales. As she stepped onto the dock she couldn't help but notice the scar on his forehead, which he didn't have in the mug shot. The disfigurement added a dangerous quality to his looks. He'd aged some, but still had his rugged good looks. And those eyes. Those eyes, if anything, were harder – hard as diamonds, constantly watchful, always suspicious.
* * * *
Hilton Hastings stood next to the Greener Grass, curious about the woman who strode toward him, wearing an odd, licentious smile.
She approached Hilton with an outstretched hand. "Liz Dennison."
Hilton took her hand. "How can I help you, Ms. Dennison?"
"Call me Liz. I’m looking for Dr. Monica Fremont."
"Why?"
"She's a colleague of my co-worker, Dr. Jeffery Jeffers. They're also friends I gather."
The hairs on the back of Hilton's neck stood up. JJ was a chronic complainer about the lack of funding. And except for local laborers and Monica's unpaid help, he always worked alone. "She's away at the moment. What is it in regard to?"
"Her specialization in Mayan hieroglyphics. I'm hoping she can give me some insight into the more obscure Maya consonant/vowel pairs. Do you know where I can find her? JJ told me he relies on her for a great deal of his hieroglyph translating."
Hilton hesitated, debating whether or not he should tell this woman her whereabouts. Monica constantly urged him to be more open, forthright, and trustful of strangers. He was trying, but … . He chose to err on the side of caution and shook his head. "If you'd like to leave a number, I'll be talking to her tonight."
The four women, in skimpy bikinis, climbed out of the boat onto the dock and headed toward Hilton and Liz, chattering.
"If you'll excuse me," Hilton said, "I'm guiding a diving expedition in a short while."
"Where?"
One of the blonde foursome stopped. She scrutinized Liz from head to foot. "We're scuba diving at the Great Blue Hole, this afternoon."
"What time?" Liz asked.
"One, but you're too late. The dive is completely booked." She brushed a proprietary hand across Hilton's bronzed shoulder. "And he'll be tied up with us tomorrow as well."
Her companions burst into laughter and the group sauntered down the dock to the resort.
"I can be reached at the Princess Hotel," Liz said, extending her hand to Hilton. "Thank you for your time."
They shook hands and Liz hurried back to her taxi. After a few words were exchanged between her and the driver, the taxi barreled out to sea. Hilton saw her lift a phone to her ear. She'd be disappointed, he thought, since there was no cellular service on the Cay.
Hilton paid no attention to the incoming surf washing up on the sandy beach, around his ankles. He kept strolling, mentally preparing for the dive this afternoon. Before these outings, he required time alone. Extended contact with groups left him drained, longing for the uncomplicated logic and calming solitude of computer programming.
"Hilton," shouted the ringleader of the blondes.
He looked up. All four women waved as they made their way across the beach toward the dock.
He waved back. "It's early. Give me another fifteen minutes." He wanted to postpone the inevitable for as long as he could.
Glancing along the shoreline, he spotted a piece of garbage washed up on the beach. He walked over to pick it up. What he thought was a scrap of paper turned out to be a photograph. He took a closer look, then stepped back, startled. He was staring at a picture of himself, one he had never seen before, one taken almost twenty years earlier.
He smiled as he gazed at the image. So many lifetimes ago. Monica, Dylan, and he had shared a rundown townhouse throughout university. Those years had been wild and crazy. Inseparable friends, he and Dylan had been partners from the day they met, partners in business, partners in crime, and on occasion, almost partners in death.
At the end
of their freshmen year, Monica had wheedled summer jobs for them with her archeologist father at Altun Ha. They had enjoyed the freedom of working outdoors and the meticulous nature of archaeological excavation. On Saturday nights, he and Dylan, and on occasion, Monica, would blow off steam, carousing in Belize City bars. On one of those forays, they had met Francesca. Nineteen-year-old Dylan had fallen head-over-heels in love with the exotic older woman. She was a marijuana grower, who cultivated her crops deep in the jungles of the Orange Walk district. He and Dylan had stumbled into an ideal situation to pay for university and raise the capital essential for the investment firm they dreamed of starting after grad school. The enterprise had the added benefit of providing the requisite amount of risk their systems demanded.
The lucrative dealing during their undergraduate years had lasted until the summer after their graduation. Leaving Belize in the wake of Francesca’s death had been a horror for Dylan. The tears and recriminations had been compounded by more misery barely a month after they returned to Pittsburgh.
He gazed out to sea, searching for the water taxi with Liz Dennison. A wasted effort he knew, because she had long since slipped over the horizon. He lifted the picture out of the water. His examination of the photograph was detached, as if he was staring at a stranger, which he was. The person in the mug shot was not him, but a twenty-two-year-old attempting to hide his terror behind a mask of arrogance, and who was about to be taught a few facts of life.
How had Dennison come by his mug shot? Who was she and why him? Supposedly, she was interested in Monica. He was tempted to cancel this afternoon's dive to make certain Monica was safe, but if Dennison was after Monica, she knew no more now than she did on her arrival. If she wanted him, so be it. He could take care of himself.