Deep Cut

by Nick Sullivan

  This is a work of fiction. All events described are imaginary; all characters are entirely fictitious and are not intended to represent actual living persons.

  Copyright © 2019 by Nick Sullivan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover design by Shayne Rutherford of Wicked Good Book Covers

  Cover island photo provided by Cees Timmers and the Saba Board of Tourism

  Cover airplane photo provided by Rolf Jonsen and PlanePics.org

  Copy editing by Marsha Zinberg of The Write Touch

  Proofreading by Sondra Wolfer and Gretchen Tannert Douglas

  Interior Design and Typesetting by Colleen Sheehan of Ampersand Book Interiors

  Original maps by Rainer Lesniewski/Shutterstock.com

  Published by Wild Yonder Press

  www.WildYonderPress.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Map: Saba

  Map: Leeward Islands

  Map: Sint Eustatius "Statia"

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Afterword

  About the Author

  To all the good people of Saba who gave me their time, their knowledge, and their stories.

  August 27, 2017

  “Time is it?” mumbled a voice, filtered through a pillow.

  “No idea,” the young man replied.

  Emily Durand sighed and rolled faceup. “Guess we just stay in bed forever then. Nothing like a lazy lie-in.”

  Boone Fischer swung his long legs over the side of the bed and rose to his feet, wincing a bit at various aches and pains sustained from the day before… as well as a few newer ones from last night. Those he didn’t mind so much. He stretched, his wiry arms nearly brushing the ceiling of the little cottage. “I’ll go check ol’ Mister Sun,” he said through a yawn. “See what he’s got to say about the time.”

  “How very caveman of you.” Emily giggled and sat up in the bed, the sheet slipping partway from her body. “But since when is the sun a bloke?”

  Boone held up a hand. “I’m gonna need some coffee before I can engage you in witty banter…” His eyes dipped down from her face before flicking back to her green eyes. One side of her lips quirked up in a knowing half-smile. Boone blew out a breath, shaking his head with a grin. He approached the floor-length curtains they’d drawn across the exit to the balcony and slid them swiftly to the side. Brilliant sunlight flooded the room.

  Emily hissed in a half-hearted imitation of a sun-scorched vampire, pulling the sheet over her head. “Mister Sun is a prat,” said the lump under the sheet.

  Boone laughed and plucked Emily’s lime green sunglasses from the nightstand, popping them onto the head of the ghost in the bed. “Here. You’ve been without these for hours. Probably suffering from withdrawal.”

  As Emily dropped the sheet from her face and slid the shades on, Boone felt strangely comforted. He’d gotten to know Em through their work at a Bonaire dive shop, and this girl he’d fallen for was rarely without her sunglasses during daylight hours. He grabbed a pair of shorts off the back of a chair. “Looks like it’s about one o’clock. I’m not sure if the other cabins have a view of this cabin, so…” He pulled on the shorts and headed onto the balcony to take in the spectacular view.

  Under an azure blue sky, the cottage was surrounded by bright flowers and lush greenery. Looking straight out to the south over the tops of red-roofed homes and sloping cliffs, he could see the turquoise seas of the Caribbean stretched to the horizon, throwing up occasional sparkles from the sun high overhead. The Dutch island of Saba was essentially a mountain in the ocean, and here at the El Momo cottages atop Booby Hill, they were over 1,600 feet above sea level. A low whistle came from beside Boone.

  “The sunset was nice and all, but this is ace!” Emily was wrapped in the sheet from the bed, her face shining with wonder. “We should go exploring!”

  Boone looked down at her. Emily Durand was just under five feet tall and her makeshift cloak billowed across the deck, completely obscuring her feet. “How many different ways are you gonna wear that sheet?” Boone laughed, pulling her to him.

  “You don’t like it… get rid of it.” She bit her lower lip, a look of mischief playing across her features.

  Boone pressed against her and started to lean in for a kiss but stopped abruptly, snorting a laugh.

  “What?” Emily’s tone was halfway between amused and offended.

  “Your sunglasses… my reflection… it’s like I’m leaning in to kiss myself.”

  “Then close your eyes, you berk.” She reached up and grabbed the back of his head, pulling him down to her lips.

  Boone kissed her deeply but forced himself to withdraw when their breathing began to quicken. “Em, much as I’d like to snog all day with you—”

  Emily burst into laughter. “Snog? You stealing my slang, Tennessee boy?”

  “What can I say? You’re infectious.”

  Emily made a face. “Infectious… oh, you smooth talker, you. While we’re chatting lingo, I probably should teach you the difference between ‘snogging’ and ‘shagging.’ Lesson One: we’ve been doing both.”

  Boone grinned and held up his hands in surrender. “Look, I know Scenery Scuba said they’d give me a couple extra days before I start, but there’s still things I need to do. I should hit the post office before it closes. Most of my stuff from Bonaire won’t be here yet, but I sent a few things over early, so—”

  “Nope. Not gonna happen.”

  “What… you don’t think anything’ll be here yet?”

  “Might be. But it’s Sunday. Unless this is an island of heathens, I’m guessing it won’t be open.” She playfully shouldered into him. “See? Aren’t you glad I came along?” She turned and glided back into the little one-room cottage, the sheet trailing behind her like the robe of a princess. “But here’s a better idea: you can take me to lunch, yeah? After all that snogging, I’ve worked up an appetite.”

  “Hard to believe we were working in Bonaire just last week,” Boone said as they headed down the steep hill toward Windwardside. Emily walked briskly beside him, keeping up with his long strides, and Boone found himself admiring the way her blond hair shone in the tropical sun. She caught him looking and smiled up at him.

  “We’d still be there, if you hadn’t decided to swap islands all of a sudden.” She swept an arm out at the mountainous terrain around them. “This’ll take a little getting used to, having spent so much time at sea level!”

  Boone chuckled. “I still can’t believe you just packed up and joined me.”

  “I know, right? It’s so crazy, so impulsive—almost like… oh, I dunno… like deciding to go to a whole ’nother island because some random divemaster
asked you to switch with him.”

  “Point taken. But… I’m glad you’re here.”

  “You bloody well better be.”

  “Having second thoughts?”

  “Nope. Well, there was a second thought or two yesterday. You know, when our boat was sinking? Thank goodness for passing trawlers.”

  Boone nodded. All things considered, they were lucky to be alive. Their pursuit of a hijacked narco sub had resulted in the destruction of the Wavy Davey, the impounded smuggler’s boat they’d been aboard. “That reminds me, we need to check on Sid.”

  “Add it to the list. And you’ve got a rental lined up, yeah? When do we…?”

  “Oh, sorry, forgot to tell you. Since El Momo cottages don’t have phones, our new landlord left a message at the front desk. She wants me to stop by Scout’s Place this afternoon.”

  “Where are the new digs?”

  “No idea. But we get another night at El Momo before we have to move.”

  Emily tipped her sunglasses down onto her turned-up nose. “However will we spend the time?” she asked, raising her eyebrows at him as they neared a little hump in the road. To the right, another street rose higher still, some larger homes visible above. “So, you start Tuesday, yeah?”

  “Tuesday at 7 a.m. That’s the plan.”

  “Are we going to get a car, or—” Emily stopped in her tracks. “Whoooooa. Check it.”

  They had crested the hump in the road and below them lay the central village of Windwardside, nestled in a cradle between Booby Hill and the massive central stratovolcano of Mount Scenery, its summit shrouded in clouds.

  Emily slid her sunglasses onto the top of her head. “When we ran down the hill yesterday, I didn’t really take this in. It’s beautiful.”

  Saba had a unique palette of color, as far as the villages went: every building Boone had seen possessed a red roof atop white walls. The end result was a fairytale vista of man-made red-and-white in a sea of nature’s green. Boone pointed down toward a long two-story building with a pool. “There’s Scout’s Place. Let’s pop in, see the landlord. And maybe Rodney’s there. Bet he’d have all sorts of lunch suggestions.”

  In minutes they’d walked through the courtyard of Scout’s and entered the restaurant. Sure enough, Rodney Hassel sat at the bar in the same spot he’d been the day before when Boone and Em had rushed in, looking for a phone to call the police after they’d spotted the sub. The taxi driver looked up from his sandwich, stopping mid-bite.

  “There better not be another submarine out there….”

  “Nah… just a couple flying saucers and a ghost pirate ship,” Boone said.

  “Might’ve been a Blackbeard Bigfoot captaining the pirate ship,” Emily added.

  Rodney grinned broadly, his pearly white teeth shining. “Oh, that’s okay then. So, how are the conquering heroes doing today?”

  “Bit peckish,” Emily said, hopping up on a stool. “Figured we’d grab some lunch.”

  “You can grab some right here if you like,” said a voice from the kitchen. A moment later a brunette woman in her forties poked her head around the corner. “Be right there—we’re a little short-staffed so I’m doing double duty. Wolfgang—he’s the owner—asked me to help out today.”

  “Well, look who’s here—Amber Linzey!” Rodney called out. “Amber, these two are our submarine slayers, Boone and Emily.”

  “I was hoping you got my message,” Amber said, coming behind the bar. “I’m your new landlord! And I’ve got something for you….” She rummaged energetically through a handbag near the register and extracted a large envelope. “Here you go: map, a few brochures, and some instructions on things like trash and recycling. Keys are in there too, not that you’ll need them. Most folks leave their houses unlocked—there’s almost no crime on Saba. Address is on the envelope. Name of the cottage is Hummingbird Haven. Not to be confused with Hummingbird Villa, which is further down the road. We’ve got a lot of hummingbirds on the island. A lot of goats, too, but ‘Goat Haven’ didn’t have the same ring to it. Oh, and Anders left you his cell phone. Said he figured you could just use the rest of the month and take over his account with the local cell company, Satel.”

  “That was thoughtful of him.” Boone took the envelope. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “He actually emailed me this morning, saying he was settled into your place in Bonaire. This island-swapping idea sounds like fun, I must admit.”

  “It’s a big world… seemed like a good way to see more of it.” Boone looked at the address before sliding the bulging envelope into the outer pocket of his cargo shorts. “English Quarter? I thought I knew the four villages: Hell’s Gate, Windwardside, St. John’s, and The Bottom.”

  “Oh, the English Quarter isn’t a village, it’s a neighborhood. You’re in Windwardside and it’s the northeast part, on the way to Hell’s Gate…. or Zion’s Hill, if you’re feeling properly religious. I’m over in Hell’s Gate myself, up above the airport, not far from Tricia’s place.”

  “Tricia the Trip!” Rodney crowed. “Trish is the Queen of Martini Night.”

  “Make sure you stop by on Thursdays,” Amber said. “This week it’s Passion Fruit Martinis.”

  “Sign me up!” Emily proclaimed.

  “Hey, Rodney, how’s Sid doing?” Boone asked. “He was pretty banged up. Figure we should go see him.”

  “I heard he cracked a couple ribs but he should be all right. Think he’s at his girlfriend’s house, down in The Bottom.”

  “It’s a beautiful day,” Emily remarked. “Maybe we can walk down there, pay him a visit?”

  Rodney shook his head. “You could, but I wouldn’t recommend it. Saba may be only five square miles, but a lot of that is steep slopes. I’ve got an airport pickup at five but I can run you down to The Bottom after. I’ll call you on Anders’s phone when I’m back up top.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Boone said as Amber offered them menus.

  After a quick lunch they decided to walk around town until Rodney called them. Down the street from Scout’s they came to a T-intersection.

  “This looks familiar,” Emily said. “When Rodney ran us down to the port, right?”

  “Yeah, this is The Road. He nodded to the left. “That way’s The Bottom and Fort Bay. We go the other way, you’ll hit Hell’s Gate, and then the airport.”

  “I still can’t get over that landing. Like flying straight at a cliff and then plopping down to stop on a dime. Hey, speaking of the airport, there’s the fella who gave us a ride up.”

  Across the road, a dapper older man in khakis and a tweed vest over a crisp, white shirt was exiting a little building with a sign over the door reading Saba Snack. Carrying what looked like a vanilla milkshake, he was taking a long pull on a straw, a look of ecstasy on his face.

  “Hey, Gordon!” Boone called out.

  Gordon Hollenbeck stopped mid-sip and squinted across the road before making his way to their side. “Well, fancy meeting you two! I hear you had quite the day of it yesterday. You know, you’re lucky to see me out and about on a lazy Sunday, with all the grocery stores and half the restaurants closed, but I heard the soursop crop had come in and I just had to get a smoothie.” Gordon spoke with a breezy, theatrical air and Boone remembered the little man had said he’d been a dresser on Broadway.

  “What’s soursop?” Boone asked.

  “Oh… delightful fruit, spiky and green on the outside, creamy and white on the inside. It grows in a few places up on the mountain and it’s only available for a month or two. The owner here calls it by the Spanish name, guanábana.”

  “What’s it taste like?”

  “You tell me.” He removed the lid and offered the drink for each to take a sip.

  “Whoa… tastes like strawberries and pineapple,” Emily gushed.

  “I was gonna say mango and banana,” Bo
one said. “A little tart, too.”

  Gordon snatched it back. “And the fruit itself—the flesh is soft and custardy… nothing like it! Well, enough about fruit. Have you moved into your new abode?”

  “Figured I’d do that tomorrow after I fetch anything that’s arrived at the post office. I’ve got El Momo for another night and the view’s too nice to pass up. I start work Tuesday.”

  “Well,” Emily mused, “if we find another sub to blow up, maybe we could get a couple more days’ extension.”

  Gordon got a gleam in his eye. “The whole island is abuzz with your exploits.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “I tell you what. Why don’t we stroll together for a bit? I’ll show you around and in return you can tell me what really happened out there.”

  An hour later they had circled through much of the little village, Gordon pointing out various points of interest. As they came up one particular hill along a side street, Boone gestured at a small cemetery beside a cottage.

  “I’m seeing a lot of cemeteries. Above ground, like Bonaire.”

  “Oh, yes, the Sabans have been burying their families in backyard plots for centuries. Given the mountainous terrain and the fact that eighty years ago there wasn’t a road on the island, you can see why that might come about.”

  Emily pointed at a large, concrete rectangle with a curved top, nestled in between a cottage and the burial plots. “Is there, like… a whole family in that one?”

  Gordon burst into laughter. “Oh, my goodness, no! That’s a cistern. The old style. Most of the potable water on Saba is rainwater and nearly every house has a cistern. Some of them are even set up to collect some of what runs down the steep roads during a heavy rain. That cottage must’ve belonged to a rich family—the bigger the cistern, the wealthier the homeowner.”

  “I noticed all the buildings are white with red roofs….” Boone offered.

  “Island ordinance. All structures must have white walls and red roofs, and most roofs have the same pitch—thirty-five degrees. You can throw a little green on the trim, but that’s the extent of architectural whimsy.”