Deep Cut

by Nick Sullivan

  “Very different than in Bonaire,” Emily said.

  “Or Curaçao,” Boone added. “The waterfront in Willemstad is a riot of color.”

  “You know, it’s funny you mention Curaçao,” Gordon said. “One of our historians was just telling me about that waterfront. Apparently, the Dutch assigned a new governor to Curaçao back in the early 1800s. Well, everything around the governor’s house was painted bright white and he claimed the glare triggered his migraines, so he decreed that all buildings in the area had to be painted any color but white. And if that apocryphal anecdote isn’t amusing enough, it turned out that the governor was a majority stakeholder in the only paint factory on the island.”

  “Sounds like a few politicians I know,” Boone said, as they passed an old stone church and rejoined the main road. Ahead lay a cozy little bundle of shops, a restaurant, a community center, and a dive shop.

  “There’s the main dive operation on the island—Sea Saba. If you want some dive shirts or gear, that’s the place to get them.”

  “What about where I’m working, Scenery Scuba?” Boone asked. “They have a gift shop, right?”

  Gordon hesitated. “Umm… you haven’t been inside your dive shop yet, have you?”

  “No.”

  “Ah. Well, when you mentioned them yesterday, I was wondering why I’d never heard of them. I fired up the gossip machine and asked around. Turns out they’re new. Very new. They’re renting a space down in Fort Bay. It’s a bit… um… rustic.”

  “Well, I need a new battery for my dive computer,” Emily said. “Maybe get that now, yeah?”

  “Good call. I’ll grab one too.”

  “I’ll stay here and pet Liberty,” Gordon said, bending down to scratch behind the ears of a mixed-breed dog lying near a side door to the shop. He didn’t have to bend far, as the brown canine was quite sizeable. “Who’s a good boy? You guarding the shop, milord?”

  Boone smiled and followed Emily into the shop. “You ever have a dog, Em?”

  “No, you?”

  “Yeah, back in Tennessee. He was part beagle… no idea what the rest was.

  “What was his name?”

  “Shingles.”

  “Ewwww.”

  “No, not the disease,” Boone said, laughing. “Actually, when I got him from a neighbor I called him Buddy, but then he kinda renamed himself. My mom had a roofing job ongoing… and a bunch of shingles in a pile out back. This little puppy thought those were the greatest toys ever… he was obsessed with them. So… Shingles.”

  “Well, if you pick an island and stay on it, maybe you can get another one,” Emily said, walking right past the batteries to examine a lime green T-shirt. She had a particular fondness for the color.

  A woman was manning the desk, phone held to her ear, her computer screen showing a satellite view of the Atlantic. “Yes, it just left the coast of Africa, but it’s still early days. Remember, Harvey never really amounted to much. We’ll keep an eye on it, but we’ll be diving, don’t you worry.” She hung up and looked at Boone, who was holding a dive computer battery and eyeing her screen. “We’ll be closing in about ten minutes, but if you folks need anything, let me know.”

  “Just this for me,” Boone said, handing over the battery and a credit card. He gestured toward the satellite view. “So, nothing to worry about?”

  “Not yet, anyway. The thing to remember with Cape Verde storms—they’re a long way away and a lot can happen between there and here.”

  Boone paid for the battery and thanked her. While Emily remained inside to look at a few more items, Boone joined Gordon and the dog. As he started to reach down to pet Liberty, a sudden chill ran down his spine, a prickly sensation crawling up the back of his scalp. Something was… off. The dog seemed to sense it too, growling low in his throat before rising and padding into the dive shop. Boone straightened and stepped into the street, looking to his right toward a small building that was a little ways down the hill at a bend in the road.

  A Caucasian man was crossing the road, heading away from the building toward a black SUV. The vehicle was parked in a small pull-off, next to a rugged wooden sign proclaiming MT. SCENERY and 90 minutes oneway. Behind the sign, rough-hewn stone steps vanished into the greenery. The man carried a thick handful of folded papers and when he reached his car, he tossed them inside. Taking a couple steps toward the stairs, he looked up them, his back to Boone. He wore what looked like gray workman’s coveralls with sturdy hiking boots, a baseball cap on his head, sun-bleached blond hair protruding from the back. His height appeared to be about an inch shorter than Boone’s, but even through the baggy coveralls he seemed powerfully built.

  Boone had learned to trust the flashes of intuition that came to him from time to time. There was no logical reason for him to have gone into the street and look in that direction, and yet he’d felt it was something he should do. And now, observing this man…

  “Gordon… you probably know most of the people on the island, right?”

  The retired dresser chuckled. “It’s a blessing and a curse, but yes. An island this size—”

  “Who’s that?” Boone interrupted, pointing down at the individual who was craning his neck to the side, his gaze traveling up the stone steps.

  At that moment, Emily’s musical laugh echoed from the store. Something had clearly amused her, and the sound was full of youthful mirth. The man below froze, then turned and stared up the hill toward the dive shop. His face was deeply tan and it was difficult to determine his age. He wore wraparound sunglasses, but even with those, and even at this distance, Boone was certain he was staring right at him.

  “You recognize that man?” Boone asked softly.

  “I’ve never seen him before,” Gordon replied.

  Emily called out as she approached the door to the shop. “Boone, I’ve got a new T-shirt and you’ll never guess—”

  Boone quickly turned and held up a hand to her before she could exit. “Hold up.” As he looked back at the stranger, the man abruptly ceased his staring and got into the SUV, starting it quickly and heading west, away from Windwardside.

  “Umm… is it okay to come out now?” Emily’s tone was light, but it was clear she had picked up on Boone’s tension.

  “Yeah… sorry… I just…”

  “Are you all right?” Emily asked, stepping into the late afternoon sun. “Why’d you stop me?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It was just… a vibe.” He thought but didn’t say: And I just didn’t want that man to see you—I don’t know why, but that was the instinct in the moment. Now that the vehicle was long gone, the strange foreboding lifted, and Boone felt he might have overreacted.

  “He looked like a workman,” Gordon said, picking up on Boone’s earlier unease. “There is a lot of construction on the island—expats buying up property. Probably a contractor.”

  Boone looked at the little building the man had been headed away from. On its side was a sign. “Saba Trail Shop”, he read aloud.

  “Yes,” Gordon said. “There are many, many hiking trails on Saba. Used to be the way people got from village to village. The trail shop is a good place to hire a guide or get a walking stick or a trail map. A little gift shop inside. It’s not open now, though. It closes early on Sundays. Two, I think.”

  Boone grunted, chewed his lip a moment, then started striding toward the little building.

  “Boone, what is up with you?” Emily called.

  “Humor me,” he tossed back over his shoulder. Once he reached the shop’s wooden doors, his eyes rested on the simple padlock. The lock itself was securely closed. The hasp the lock was attached to, on the other hand, had been popped loose from its screws. Boone peered at it. A prybar could have done that easily. And a baggy pair of coveralls would have plenty of places to stash a tool.

  Gordon and Emily reached him and saw wha
t he was looking at. “Did you see him come out of there?” Gordon asked.

  “No,” Boone admitted.

  “Well, that door looks pretty rickety. And besides, the girl who works there takes the cash box with her when she locks up. There’s nothing in there to steal but T-shirts and hats.”

  “Or maps,” Boone said to himself, remembering the bundle of papers the man had tossed into the SUV.

  “Most of the trail maps are online or free at the Tourism Office,” Gordon said. “No, I imagine that lock’s been broken for a while.”

  “Hold on, fellas,” Emily broke in. “How about clueing me in, yeah?”

  “Sorry,” Boone said. “It was just some…guy. Something seemed off about him, but I dunno... after everything that’s happened over the past few days, I’m probably expecting threats where there aren’t any.”

  A cell phone rang and Boone jumped. Reaching down to a cargo pocket, he removed the envelope Amber had given him and extracted Anders’s phone. “Hello?”

  “Boone, this is Rodney. I’ve finished my drop-off. You still want to head down to see Sid?

  “Now more than ever,” Boone responded. Sidney Every was a police “aspirant,” the Dutch equivalent of a rookie cop, and might want to look into a potential break-in.

  “All right. Where can I pick you two up?”

  “We’re by the trail shop.”

  “It’s closed,” Rodney said helpfully.

  “Sort of,” Boone replied.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid!

  The man savagely gripped the wheel of the SUV as he made another hairpin turn on The Road. Far below, the red-and-white buildings of Saba’s capital, The Bottom, stretched across his driver’s side window.

  It had been a simple plan: stop by the shop—just another guy looking to do a hike who didn’t know about the Sunday hours—then pop the lock, grab the maps, drive away. But the mountain had called to him and he had hesitated. And then that voice. That beautiful, feminine laugh, so full of life…

  You’ve already laid the groundwork to get what you need. Anything else is a distraction. On to the next phase. You have your maps.

  The man reached across to the passenger seat and fanned them out. Some of the maps were very old and worn, torn at their folds. Others were photocopies of surveyor’s maps. The tourist trail maps simply didn’t have the detail he needed, and he had guessed correctly that they might have something more “professional” tucked away in the trail shop. These were ideal for his purposes.

  A soft horn toot from below alerted him to an oncoming car approaching the blind curve on the switchback ahead. He eased his vehicle a little more to the right as he approached the Midway Bar, snugging his ball cap further down over his sunglasses. A small yellow car rounded the bend, ascending, an elderly lady at the wheel. The man raised a lazy hand in greeting as she passed, and it was no accident that his casual wave rose to a point that obscured his face. Minutes later he reached the Saba Medical School on the edge of town before curving around an ancient-looking church and coming to a T-intersection. The Saba Police Station sat squarely in front of him. Hunching over, he quickly turned left and headed for the northwestern edge of town called The Gap, passing the hospital before heading up Ladder Road.

  This little street was ideal, with just seven houses along its entire length, only some of which were currently occupied. An eighth house was in the early stages of construction and that was where he pulled in now. He had learned that the owner, a man from the States, had passed away, and the skeleton of the building now sat bare, the roof only partially completed. Popping the hatchback, he removed a couple of industrial buckets and a few tools, setting them against the rear of the SUV to give it the appearance of a workman’s truck. Satisfied, he stepped back from the vehicle and raised his eyes to the east.

  Rising above the nearby ridge, Mount Scenery dominated the sky, the immense stratovolcano filling his view. The cloud cover that frequently shrouded its summit had burned off and he could make out the tall communications tower that crowned its nearly 3,000-foot height. A rush of euphoria flooded his mind and body.

  So beautiful. So… powerful. Soon. Very soon.

  Looking toward the sea, he noted the orange hues beginning to infuse themselves into the sky. The sun would set in less than an hour. Reaching into the back, he retrieved the case of water he’d picked up earlier from Saba Wishes, the only supermarket with Sunday hours. Closing the hatchback, he listened intently for any cars and was greeted with the silence he expected, this being one of the sleepiest roads on the island. He hefted the water bottles and headed toward the unfinished house. Unlike most cottages on Saba, this one had a substantial basement.

  As Rodney Hassell’s taxi van made its winding way down the slopes of Saba, Emily glanced back from the passenger’s seat and watched Boone. He had been unusually quiet since leaving Windwardside. While Rodney had chattered away happily and Emily bantered right back, Boone had sat in the back, occasionally laughing at one of her jokes or asking Rodney a question. Now, as they neared The Bottom, Boone seemed to be deep in thought, silently staring at his feet. Sunset was less than an hour away and already the sky behind the pair of hills to the west was rimmed in fiery colors.

  “Earth to Boone. Beautiful vistas can be yours for the low, low price of a slight turn of the head… … unless the back of Rodney’s car seat is doing it for you.”

  Boone raised his eyes. “Sorry. Woolgathering, as my mom would say.”

  “What, your mum sheared sheep?”

  Boone looked confused for a second, then burst into laughter. Emily smiled and turned back around. That’s better. There’s my Boone. But then again, if she was honest with herself, this lanky man did have an introspective side that could crank itself up to eleven from time to time. He’d clearly gotten the heebie-jeebies back there, and while it was true that coming off a few days of fighting terrorists would set any sane person on edge, Boone seemed to have a knack for picking up on things most people would never sense.

  She remembered two separate incidents on dive boats while working at Rock Beauty Divers in Bonaire. In one instance, he’d taken Emily aside and asked her to keep a sharp eye on a woman whose dive log indicated she was a veteran diver. They’d been diving with her for several days and she seemed highly competent, but Emily had promised she’d keep her in sight. Once they were at depth, the diver had suffered a panic attack and Em had been right by her side to calm her down and slowly bring her up to fifteen feet for a safety stop.

  Another time, on a two-tank boat dive, he had gotten a vibe off a solo diver who had complained about ear problems and sat out the first dive, remaining aboard with the boat’s captain. During the surface interval the man said he’d sit out the second dive as well, heading up the ladder to the flybridge to take a nap. Emily watched Boone look up at the man for a moment, then go below, saying he needed to fix a piece of gear before they hit the water. After the second dive, as the boat was heading back to Kralendijk, Boone retrieved something from near the water cooler and motioned for Emily to join him on the flybridge alongside the skipper. He produced a paper cup with his name written in Sharpie—it was common practice on dive boats to label a single cup and try to use it throughout your stay to cut down on trash. Emily noticed the cup had a hole cut into the side, concealed in one of the O’s in Boone’s name. Boone reached in and withdrew the tiny GoPro he used from time to time. He explained he’d removed it from the watertight case and adjusted the video to a lower resolution so it could run throughout their dive, then set the cup over by the cooler. They leaned in as he pressed the play button: the image showed one of the benches back in the sheltered portion of the cockpit, opposite the water cooler. There was a pile of three or four dry bags that a group of Floridians had placed there, out of the sun and spray. Boone fast-forwarded the video and fifteen minutes into the dive, Mr. “My-ears-are-giving-me-trouble” entered the frame and q
uickly went through the dry bags, extracting money from two wallets he found within. The captain cursed and picked up his cell phone. By the time the boat reached the shore, the Bonaire police were waiting on the dock.

  “Here we are,” Rodney said, snapping Emily from her reverie. He pulled alongside a low wall below a tidy Saban cottage. A little wooden sign read Island Thyme in green lettering. “This is Sophie’s place. She’ll be inside playing nursemaid to Sid, I ’spect. She can probably run you back to El Momo, but I’ll be back at Scout’s if you need me.”

  As Rodney drove away down the narrow backstreet, Boone and Emily stepped onto the porch of the little cottage. The inner door was open and Emily could hear voices inside. She rapped a knuckle against the screen door frame.

  “One moment,” came a feminine voice, and a tall woman with caramel skin came into view, swinging open the screen door. “You must be Boone and Emily,” she said, her voice rich with a light island singsong. “Rodney said you’d be by. I’m Sophie Levenstone.” Emily couldn’t help notice the woman’s eyes lingering on Boone a moment longer than she would have preferred. Not that she could blame her. Tall and sculpted with lean muscle without an ounce of fat, Boone was a striking man. Sophie’s eyes met Emily’s and she smiled broadly. “Come in, please. Sid’s on the couch there, pretending to be hurt.”

  “Oh, come on, Sofe. You’re the one treating me like I broke my neck,” Sidney Every said from a rattan-framed sofa in the far corner. Over his head were a number of watercolors depicting a progression of vistas, identical except for the position of the sun. The room was lit by soft light from a pair of floor lamps, and the gentle hum of a ceiling fan pulsed against Emily’s ears. Sid waggled a bottle of Heineken at the pair. “Can I offer you two a beer? Figure I owe you one.”

  “Sure,” Boone said. “Heineken? Aren’t we on a tropical isle?

  “We’re on a tropical Dutch isle. I’ll have you know, Saba is one of the highest per capita consumers of Heineken in the world.”