Deep Cut

by Nick Sullivan

  “So beautiful. So like her.” His voice was soft, surprisingly gentle, but then it changed, almost as if another person were speaking, and the hand quickly withdrew from her face. “No, of course not! I know! She belongs to you!”

  Off his trolley, no doubt about it. But maybe I can use this. Listen and learn the looney lingo.

  She felt his hands on her again and could tell he was preparing to lift her. It was surprising how much concentration it took to remain completely limp, but she did so, feeling her head loll as he sat her up, stood her up, then tossed her over his shoulder.

  Crikey, someone hasn’t had a bath in a while, she thought as her face met the back of his coveralls. At least I can open my eyes now. She watched the ground as they left the shack and entered the rain. The sun hadn’t set and the raindrops on her back weren’t heavy yet. She risked a slight turn of the head and saw lush, tropical greenery, the leaves flapping and branches bending in the growing wind. The shack stood in a cleared area in what looked to be a small banana plantation, the bananas the little cute ones she’d seen around the island. Something was bumping her head and she carefully tilted her head in the other direction. A large backpack over his other shoulder. Jesus, how strong is this guy? Even though Emily only weighed a hundred pounds dripping wet—which she actually was at the moment— a hundred pounds plus a backpack was still a lot to be hauling up a mountain. Looking back down, she saw they were on a steep trail. The trail soon gave way to stone steps, their rough-hewn surfaces pierced by plants and partially covered in moss and fallen leaves. Oh, bloody hell, no, Emily thought, as she finally divined the answer to her earlier damsel’s query: “Where am I?” She slowly raised her head, looking down the steep steps, back the way they’d come. In the distance, a break in the rain clouds revealed a valley far, far below. Red roofs, like little miniatures at this distance, dotted the landscape. The Bottom. Then the clouds swallowed all. Oh my God! He’s taking me to the top of Mount Scenery.

  Boone knew something was wrong the second he pulled into the driveway. There wasn’t any specific reason for the feeling; the cottage sat silent and shuttered, just as they had left it. It wasn’t on fire, or anything. Nevertheless, there was that little prickle at the back of his scalp. He exited the car.

  “Young man?” an elderly lady called out from the property next door. She was dressed in an orange poncho, flapping one side of it in a pseudo-wave. “Sorry to bother you, but I saw the car and thought Gordon or Gerald was here. Is Mrs. Beach okay?”

  Beach… Beach… where have I heard that name? “I… I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t know who you mean.”

  “Oh. Her car was here a couple hours ago, and it seemed very odd she’d be all the way over here, especially since the landlord closed the place up. She’s got this little yellow thing, so I know it was hers.”

  “Did you see Mrs. Beach?”

  “No, I’m sorry. By the time I got dressed to come over, the car was already heading toward Hell’s Gate. But she lives in the hills above The Bottom, so that seemed strange.”

  “Well… if she was here, maybe she was looking for the landlord, Ms. Linzey. She lives in Hell’s Gate, doesn’t she?”

  “Oh, my goodness, yes. Thank you, I’ll go give her a call. If the phones are still working, that is. Mine was acting up a little while ago.”

  The old lady headed back to her house and Boone made his way around the side to the little porch area. He pushed open the door to the cottage and stepped into the gloom, reaching for the switch by the entrance. Nothing happened when he flipped it.

  “Emily! Em—” His voice caught as his eyes focused on something. The sun was almost set and the shuttered interior was quite dark. In the far room, near the door to the cellar, a bright light shone from the floor, illuminating a patch of ceiling. Boone rushed down the hall. Emily’s cell phone. And her dry bag. “Emily!” he called again. The cellar! Her stuff is right by the door, the lights are out…. Maybe she went to check the fuse, fell, hit her head. Panic rose up inside as he grabbed her lit phone from the floor and tore the door open. He dashed down the cellar stairs. “Em! You here?” The cellar was full of the disassembled patio furniture he and Emily had brought in the day before. He flashed the light to and fro, then went to the fuse box. The switches had been flipped into the off position. He turned them back on. The cellar remained dark, but he saw lights come on upstairs. Well, she’s not down here. Her phone was up there by the door. If she’d fallen, she’d be right at the bottom of the stairs. No, something else happened. He stuffed her phone into his pocket and raced back up the stairs, two at a time.

  Boone stopped at the sight of Emily’s dry bag. Picked it up. The prickly sensation returned. Suddenly his phone rang. He tore it from his pocket and looked at the screen. An unfamiliar number stared back at him. Maybe it’s her, calling from another phone! He punched the talk button. “Em?”

  “Uh, no. “R” maybe. Dis is Reynaldo. Boone, dat you?”

  “I… yes… Reynaldo?”

  “From Statia… what, am I dat forgettable? Listen mon, I got info for ya.”

  “I… yes, okay, sorry Reynaldo… Rey… . I’m a bit distracted.”

  “Category 5 hurricane can do dat. So, listen up, hear? You wit me?”

  Boone was back in the kitchen, now illumniated, looking around for any clue, anything that might… “I’m sorry, Rey… what? What do you have to tell me?”

  “Da Quill. You were right. Dey found da Dutch girl up dere.”

  “What?”

  “You told de police to search da Quill. Well, dey listened and found da missing girl, not far from a high point of da trail leading to da crater.”

  Boone paused in his frantic search, his eyes settling on a wall in the breakfast nook. “Murdered?”

  “I’d say so. Her head was chopped clean off. Almost like what dey found in Kitts. Only dis time—”

  The phone went silent for a moment, then an electronic bleep sounded, indicating a dropped call. Boone barely heard it as he continued to stare at the wall above the breakfast table. A calendar hung there, a beautiful Caribbean beach splashed above the month of September. Boone wasn’t looking at the beach. He was looking at the white circle in the square for tomorrow, September 6. A full moon.

  “No…” he whispered harshly. He yanked the calendar off its nail and looked at August, at the beginning of the month when Imke De Wit had gone missing. Reynaldo said it was a full moon the night before the man showed up looking to get to Saba. There! Full moon, August 7. He went back another page. The waitress on Saint Kitts went missing near the beginning of July. Full moon, July 9. And, he remembered from the emailed files, the body had been found on July 10. The calendar fell from his fingers as his eyes lingered on a fan of brochures on the nook table. One declared Hike Mount Scenery! He grabbed it. Kitts victim… volcano. Statia… volcano. And now… Mount Scenery. It’s a ritual.

  He raised his phone, locating Sid’s number and punching the call button.

  “We’re sorry. All circuits are busy.”

  Boone scooped up Emily’s dry bag and dashed for the door. The rain was coming down at an angle as the wind picked up. Boone raised his eyes toward Mount Scenery, but it was shrouded by fast-moving clouds in the twilit sky. He ran toward the little red car… and stopped.

  Yellow car. Mrs. Beach. Boone suddenly remembered. The stolen car Sid had mentioned. Boone was certain, now. It’s him. He took her. He took Emily. Tears came to his eyes and panic began to bubble up inside. He savagely pushed it back down and focused. He’s taking her up to the summit. I know it. The stairs up the mountain are back in Windwardside… but the neighbor said the car went the other way, toward Hell’s Gate. Then another memory marched front and center. Sid, telling them: Now, there is a road, the Mountain Road, just past English Quarter—it takes you up to a spot in the main trail that lets you bypass the bottom quarter of the hike. But don’t go askin
g for a certificate if you do that shortcut. That would be cheating!

  Boone ran to the Daihatsu, tossing Emily’s dry bag onto the passenger seat and starting the car up as he juggled his phone, trying Sid again with no success. Then 911. Nothing. He pulled to the end of the driveway, mulling his options. The annex was closed, the police station all the way in The Bottom, a half hour in the other direction. Instinct guided his hand on the wheel as he swung to the right, heading for Hell’s Gate. A minute later he slammed on the brakes. To his left, a road rose steeply up the side of the mountain. Well, if that isn’t a mountain road, I don’t know what is. He swung the car in a tight turn and gunned the engine, the little car doing surprisingly well on the significant incline.

  Roadside foliage fluttered in the growing wind and rain pelted the windshield as Boone tore up the road in the waning glow of twilight. In minutes, he reached a dead end and skidded to a stop. Ahead… a small yellow car. He dug through Emily’s dry bag and extracted his dive light before leaping out of his vehicle and running toward the other car, its hatchback illuminated in the headlights of the Daihatsu. A Hyundai Getz. He flipped on the dive light and opened the hatch, peering inside. The rear seats had been lowered and a bright plastic object reflected the flashlight’s glare. Sunglasses. Lime green sunglasses. Emily! To his right, a wooden signpost caught his eye. Next to it, a small boat on a trailer rusted away in the brush. Boone shined his light on the sign. A plank with Ecolodge’s Hotel Restaurant crowned the post, with six arrowed signs below it. Five pointed to the left and only one pointed to the right: Mt Scenery. Boone didn’t hesitate—he broke into a run.

  Emily felt a tiny glimmer of triumph as she looked back down the stone steps. Her captor had produced a flashlight some time ago and a miniscule amount of its glow scattered behind, where Emily dangled over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The flash of lime green was visible for an instant before it was swallowed by the night. The item around her neck had slid down her inverted face as she bounced and jostled on her kidnapper’s shoulder, but it had gotten stuck on her ponytail, requiring a toss of her head to free it. Hopefully, that little stunt didn’t alert Mister Cuckoo-bananas.

  “I know you’re awake.”

  Bollocks. Still, she’d managed to leave a clue for Boone. And he’ll come for me. I know he will. But, on the off chance this dog’s dinner isn’t destined for a fairytale ending, I’ll just have to rescue myself in the meantime.

  Again, Emily was gobsmacked she wasn’t paralyzed by fear. Paralyzed by duct tape, yes… but her mind was sharp. No sense blubbering and shivering from terror—that won’t help me get out of this. Shivering from cold, on the other hand… Emily wasn’t exactly dressed for the occasion. Her clothing was more liquid than fabric at this point, the driving rain having soaked through her tank top and shorts. Rivulets of water streamed from her upside-down face.

  “I said, I know you’re awake.”

  Yeah, I heard you the first time, you stupid git. But you taped my mouth shut, so what do you want me to do, struggle and squirm? Oh, wait… I’ve got a better idea. Emily started humming a tune through the tape. Loudly. Specifically, the nursery song “Old Macdonald”. That song always drove me mum crazy; maybe it’ll do the same for this berk. Emily hummed with gusto, putting particular emphasis on the farm animal sounds, garbled and distorted through her tape gag.

  “What are you doing?”

  After a horse, cow, and rooster, she summoned a particular favorite, the pig. When she found she could do a pretty passable oink through the gag she burst into muffled laughter, dropping the song entirely and cycling through oinks, grunts, and squeals.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Psychological warfare for the illogical psycho, she thought. And it sounds like I’m getting under his skin. Emily didn’t want to drive him into a murderous rage, but she thought she had some leeway. She had gathered from his periodic one-man conversations that he wouldn’t harm her until they reached the summit, and maybe not even then, judging by some cryptic “at the appointed hour” rubbish he’d mumbled. She needed to slow him down and if she pushed his buttons enough, maybe he’d set her on the ground. And if I can get him to free my mouth, then I can really get inside his head.

  Sure enough, all it took was about ten seconds of blessed silence, shattered by a rousing encore presentation of “Old MacDonald” and the man screamed, lowering her off his shoulder and sitting her on a rain-slick stone step. He shone a flashlight straight in her face.

  “Stop it! Have you lost your mind?”

  That gem of a question could have sent Emily into hysterical laughter, but instead she did her best not to squint, keeping her green eyes focused above the sphere of light. She spoke at length, her voice calm, collected… and completely unintelligible.

  “Nn, u hvn lh mmh mnd. Mmh sng-gng tu st sn.”

  A hand appeared in the glow of the flashlight. Rather than tearing the tape from her mouth, its removal was done with care.

  “Again.”

  Emily spat out a wad of rag and took a moment to run her tongue over her lips. Mostly for her own benefit, but not entirely. Anything I can do to distract, divert, delay. “I said… no, I haven’t lost my mind. I’m singing to stay sane. You’re taking us up a mountain and even if you don’t rape me or kill me the storm surely will. Well… the storm won’t rape me. Just kill. But I digress. You do know there’s a hurricane coming, right? Tonight? Like… a big hurricane?”

  “How big?”

  Good. Keep him talking. “A high Category 5, maybe the strongest this island has ever seen.”

  “Really?” His voice carried a touch of excitement. “I knew it was strong, but I haven’t exactly kept up with the news. I’ve been… busy.”

  “Oh, I’ll bet. Especially if you have to run around, doing errands for a Nazi smuggler. I mean, the sulphur mine is a hike, right?”

  Silence. “How did you know about that?”

  “Hey, you think you’re the only one who has voices that tell them things?”

  “Don’t mock me! Don’t mock them!”

  Emily knew she was dancing on the edge, but she pushed ahead, nevertheless.

  “I’m not! I’m not mocking you. When I saw you by the restaurant, I heard the voices. They… they told me to go to the sulphur mine. Could you… could you lower your torch a bit?”

  The flashlight dropped to the side, no longer blinding her. “I saw you there,” he said. “Above the mine.”

  “See? They must have known you would be there! My voices, I mean… not yours.” Easy, Em… think. “The… the customs house.”

  “What…?”

  “I was supposed to go there too. They told me to. The voices. Several nights ago. But then my dive shop made me go on a night dive instead. But I made them dive near the customs house.” She lifted her green eyes to the shadowy face above her. “You were there, though. Weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I knew it,” Emily said softly, allowing just a touch of huskiness to touch her voice. “I felt you up there.”

  More silence. “Perhaps… there is a connection.”

  The mural down in Fort Bay popped into Emily’s mind and she spoke in a whispered rush. “A symbiosis! Nothing in this universe exists alone.”

  The man looked at her sharply. “I know that phrase… where do I…?”

  “Perhaps your voices spoke it to you?” Emily quickly suggested.

  The man was silent again, looking down at her. “The customs house. I would have chosen you, had you been there.”

  “Chosen me for what?”

  “They haven’t told you? Your voices?”

  “I…” Suddenly, Emily felt her level-headed calm evaporate as the reality of her situation tore through her mind. Oh my God, he’s going to sacrifice me. He’s going to take me to the top and kill me because he’s batshit crazy and thin
ks something’s telling him to— She stomped down on the rising panic, cramming it back inside. “No… no, they didn’t tell me that part… . I think I was supposed to learn from you….”

  The man abruptly crouched, his face very close to hers. Emily had to admit, he was actually quite handsome… for a murderous psychopath.

  “Then I will teach you.” He reached out a callused hand to brush aside the rain from her face.

  Emily felt her gorge rise but she kept her eyes locked on his. “Yes… teach me. Let me walk with you to the summit…”

  But he was already lifting her, placing her back onto his shoulder. “I will teach you. So that you know just how important you are.”

  The wind howled as they resumed their climb into the darkness above. As her kidnapper shouted about volcanoes and the Earth, Emily firmly gripped the little rock she’d clawed from the ground behind her when he’d set her down, carefully securing it in her fingertips.

  The steps were beginning to look like little waterfalls as Boone ran up them, taking them two at a time where he could. Although he was in peak physical condition, the footing was treacherous, and the driving rain, sometimes sheeting horizontally, made it difficult to see, even with the megawatt dive light. Three times he’d fallen, slipping on the mud and slick stones. His left knee ached from smashing it against a rock, but still he ran.

  How long has he had her? How much of a head start? Boone kicked himself for not asking the neighbor when exactly the yellow car had left, but at the time he hadn’t put two and two together, hadn’t realized it was stolen. What if he’s already at the top? What if he’s already— A sob escaped his lips. Stop it! He’s probably carrying her. I must be gaining on them. Keep your eyes on the stairs ahead of you. No more falls.