“I didn’t swim through a cesspool of producers in my line of work to take men at their word now.”
“He did give you your gun back.”
Carly took it and slid the magazine out into the palm of her hand. She started for the door when Sara sat up in the bed.
“Hey,” she said. “Don’t.”
“You’re taking their side?”
“No sides, Carly. Just come get some sleep. You’re more exhausted than I am.”
“Too tired to sleep.” Carly slid one foot toward the bed but then looked back at the door. “And I wasn’t going to do anything crazy. Just, you know, check things out.”
“Nothing’s going to happen tonight.”
“If that fish comes back—”
“It’s a big ocean.”
“And it’s all over us.”
“Come here, Carly. Please.”
Something in the blonde’s face changed. She was looking at Sara like there was a piece of meat on the bed. Comfort Carly was suddenly desperate to feel.
“Look,” Sara said. “Nothing sexual. But I’ll relax more with you beside me. Throw that chair in front of the door if you really want to make sure nobody else comes in.”
Carly sighed, too bad, but took Sara’s suggestion. She wedged the chair back right beneath the doorknob and then lowered the plastic blinds so there could be no peeping.
She pulled her shirt away and threw it on the floor, crawling across the bed like a cat, smirking as she tried to make Sara reconsider.
Sara’s heart raced, fleeting urges and curiosities that she tamped down.
Carly curled up atop the covers, trembling. Sara’s body was perfectly straight, her palms pressed into her thighs.
“I’ve never felt so alone,” Carly said at last. “My career is basically over. My kid... doesn’t need me. Off to college. Truth is she probably doesn’t even know I’m missing. Nobody does.”
“What about your boyfriend? His family?”
“Jesh? Shit, I was so stupid about him. Oil baron who wanted to break into the movie business just so he could show his dick to actresses.”
“How can you stand it, then?”
“Can’t. You take meds to forget. Why do you think there’s so many overdoses? Breakdowns? Because it’s a perfectly nice town to work in?”
“Never gave it much thought.” Sara threw a gentle elbow against Carly’s arm. “Shit sucks, but today’s the first day of the rest of your life. We make it to that island and help them find what they want, they’re gonna let us walk.”
Carly closed her eyes. Sara listened to her breathe.
It was enough in that moment. Sleep managed to follow. For both of them.
Thirty-Five
Two men. One lifeboat. A single paddle.
They shared the labor.
Kaahin clutched it in his fists and considered swinging for the American. One crack across that skull and he would be looking at a red waterfall streaming down a lacerated scalp. All he’d need to do then was lean to one side and tip him overboard.
Tempting.
But Kaahin was in no rush to do this, for it would mean condemning himself to death too. Given the vast sprawl of ocean around them, they would need to conserve every bit of strength and save it for the labor at hand if they had even a small chance of reaching land.
Overhead, an expanse of bright blue sat high above turquoise waves. Hours passed looking at the same view. The American said very little. He hid behind a steely gaze that was busy calculating its own odds. At last, he asked, “This all part of the plan?”
Kaahin had to swallow a good amount of pride before he could look the bastard in the eye. His overworked fingers felt like jelly, otherwise he’d crack that insufferable smirk off his stubbly mouth. “What would you have done?”
“Hauled my ass back to port.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Kaahin said. “You don’t think I know you. Your reputation.”
“That a fact?” the American said.
“Some cowboy comes south, lives on a boat, and spends his days chasing after women he has no right to.”
“Yeah.” The American grinned, his reputation preceding. “Broke a few of your boys’ noses, you know. Ones who call me colonizer like it’s supposed to keep me up at night.”
Kaahin didn’t have the energy for this. The constant paddling reduced his muscles to mush.
The American lounged across the bow as if he were a passenger, visibly amused by Kaahin’s struggle. “Gotta say I’m disappointed in you, chief,” he goaded. “Steal my ship... for what? Lose the ride you came in on, and the one you lost all your guys trying to take.”
“The fish—”
“I saw the fish. A hundred other ways to roil that sucker.”
“Please,” Kaahin forced a laugh that was both sarcastic and inviting. “Teach me something.”
“Depth charges, for one.”
“I see,” Kaahin said. “Just raid a naval yard, then? Or perhaps swim down to the ocean floor and find a submarine that will hand over its munitions?”
The American brushed him off. “Redneck firecrackers, pal. Made ‘em back home all the time. Flash powder. Seven parts potassium perchlorate to three parts powdered aluminum. Can’t get that stuff in the states without bringing the ATF around, but what you can do is make friends with any sort of fireworks wholesaler. And we’ve got about as many of those per capita down south as we do mosquitos.”
“What’s done is done,” Kaahin said.
“That so?”
“What use is there in dwelling?”
“Alexein Rabetsitonta,” the American said. “That’s one reason.”
Kaahin did not acknowledge that. The only sound was the gentle lapping of ocean green against the wooden hull, heavy paddle drips each time Kaahin lifted the blade.
The American continued, “Ykem Andrianantoandro... Ikem Rajaonarivelo...”
He spoke each surname in almost perfect Malagasy. The esteem this man held for his crew had taken Kaahin by surprise. He felt more than a twinge of embarrassment, even now, because Kaahin hadn’t bothered to learn the names of those who’d died for him.
“We have both lost much,” Kaahin reminded him.
“Whose fault is that?”
“If we wish to survive—”
“Right,” the American said. “Conserve our energies. Speak only when necessary. Pretty convenient for you, huh, pal?”
Speaking hadn’t been necessary. Not at all and not for hours. It wasn’t until a stitch of land appeared on the horizon, far off in the distance, like seeing a spec of dirt on a television screen, that it became necessary.
Kaahin said nothing, flexing his muscles and pushing harder to reach it.
The American took notice. He sat up and craned his neck. Laughter as soon as he saw what Kaahin paddled toward.
“Can’t believe it,” he said. “I really can’t believe it. Hitting this straight on is like throwing a fuckin’ dart at forty feet and landing a bullseye. Vingt Cinq... has to be.”
Kaahin smirked.
Vingt Cinq was one half of the Agaléga Islands. Two small islands governed by the Republic of Mauritius, an island nation some eleven hundred kilometers to the south of Madagascar. While Mauritius was mainly a tourist trap, annexed from one hundred and fifty years of British rule in 1968, nobody could understand precisely why the dominant language there continued to be French Creole.
And the American was not entirely correct in his assertion. Vingt Cinq referred to the capital city on the northern island, where most of the three hundred people on Agaléga called home.
Kaahin had never been. He suspected it would be incredibly difficult to navigate without arousing suspicion. Still, he paddled on thinking about the demon fish that was almost certainly following them.
“What are the chances?” the American snorted.
It shouldn’t have been possible, Kaahin agreed. He smiled inwardly, certain the elders were smiling down on him, bringi
ng good fortune because his quest was too important and they had finally realized this.
The American whooped like an excited mutt, sticking his forearm into the water as if that might get them there any faster. Then he crossed himself, thanking his own god.
Kaahin paddled faster. Given the sun’s position in the sky, and the island spec still on the horizon line, the risk now was reaching safety before nightfall. If they lost the light while paddling, it would be too easy to accidentally go wide and float right past that island in the dark.
He smashed the paddle through water so hard his already tired arms went numb. But once the distant land at last unhooked itself from the horizon and grew just a tiny bit bigger, he knew they were going to make it.
Kaahin continued to hold the paddle until he couldn’t. Until there was no choice but to relinquish it. His arms dropped and dangled like hooks of beef as the American began beating on the water like it was a defiant animal.
Kaahin lounged back and wondered who would try and kill the other first. He also knew the American sense of justice—lex talionis. One of the few things he admired about their hamburger culture. One of the things he agreed with.
Kaahin could not afford to sleep. Because he did not trust this man. So he sat with loose eyes on the distant island, really watching the American. Wondering when their reluctant cease-fire might end.
***
They reached land well after dark.
By the time the wooden hull came upon the shallows, Kaahin had never felt more relief. He was tired. He rolled out of the boat and dropped into knee-high water, resting on his forearms that sunk beneath cool and moist ocean sand.
The American moored the boat by dragging it to the beach and leaving it slumped against a palm tree that dangled so low it was nearly horizontal.
To Kaahin’s surprise, the American propped himself up against that tree. A burly silhouette that watched with folded arms. For some reason, he was waiting for him.
Kaahin took just another moment and began to wade toward the shore, noticing the elongated structure off to the right, an old ship dashed upon shallow rocks.
“Ever hear the story?” the American asked.
“Of that?”
“Sure, you’re nautical.”
“I have not.”
The American seemed to like Kaahin’s wanting answer. “Story goes she was a coastal trading vessel under the British flag. Ran aground right here a couple of hundred years ago. Kinda adds to the atmosphere of this place if I do say so myself.”
Kaahin stared at the decaying ship. The mast was snapped clear, sails long stripped away. The wood on the exposed hull looked battered and recessed. Other patches were punctured straight through. Holes too large to be from cannon fire.
They walked the length of the island in an hour’s time. The one village on this southern landmass, Sainte Rita, was close to the northeastern shore. A row of rural homes accessed by coral and sand tracks served as the sole road through it. Houses had uniformity in the same clay-colored and slatted roofs designed to catch rainwater for all purposes: drinking, cooking, and bathing.
The one market sported hand drawn advertisements for Sprite and Coca-Cola.
Three sides of the coast showed endless sprawls of water that stretched and stretched. And the north led to another, slightly larger island that was connected, not by a bridge or road, but by a reef of sand and coral.
“The one time I was here,” the American said, “I could walk across at low tide, where the reef is awkward and sharp enough to pierce most footwear. Either that or we had to wait for transportation.”
Transportation was a carriage pulled along by an ancient-looking tractor that had long turned the color of rust.
“We should walk,” Kaahin said.
“Sooner or later we’re going to have to explain why we’re here.”
“What have you come up with?”
“Tell me, boss, just how famous are you?”
“They will not know me on sight,” Kaahin said. “Our story should be mundane enough to satisfy them.”
“We’re not exactly storytellers.”
“Why were you here?” Kaahin asked.
“Worked in Mauritius for a few years after getting discharged. Bounced around a few of the resorts. Got a job for a telecommunications company there and they sent me out this way to make sure the satellite connection was good enough right before the World Cup.”
Kaahin laughed as he started across the thin island connector. “Of course.”
The American followed, but Kaahin did not like keeping his back to him. He turned and waited until they were side-by-side. The American could’ve finished him off on the beach had he wanted to, but reluctance did not make them allies.
They reached the northern island’s hub just before sun up. Unlike the peaceful village they had moved through on the southern island, the settlement of Vingt Cinq was as modern as a forgotten little village could afford to be.
Generator hums said they were getting close. They marched beneath a canopy of palm trees, stumbling over the occasional fallen coconut.
Kaahin decided the American would take point, and that they were to pose as the only two survivors of the Frozen Cocktail: The captain and his deck supervisor.
They moved in knee high brush toward the administrative building—La Grande Case. A row of guest bungalows lined the path that moved up toward the central structure. In narrow slats of moonlight, all the curtains on those accommodations were drawn wide.
“Can’t imagine they’re full up,” the American said.
They were about to emerge from the brush and move the rest of the way on the proper road when Kaahin snatched the American by the elbow and tore him back as headlights bounced toward them.
They went prone as the area around them glowed yellow, pushing the darkness further into the forest. Severe shadows grew and twisted on the buildings across the way as the jeep steered along the curved road.
Both men held their breaths.
There were three or four police on this island. Very little need to employ more than that. Most of the time their presence was symbolic, a reminder to residents they still belonged to society. It was otherwise the sort of beat men would kill for because there was hardly anything to do.
The jeep slowed as it passed the front steps of the administrative building. A quick rumble and it was past their hiding space. The yellow light receded, taking the deepest shadows with it, leaving red brake lights to stain the night.
There was no guarantee that reaching this building would solve their problems. Though if they could plant their excuse first, really sell it to the bureaucrats, the law here would fall in line.
Kaahin rose to his knees and watched the brake lights as they continued skipping south in between the trees. They froze abruptly, squeaking brakes that sounded like a yelping animal. Excited voices followed as Kaahin and the American looked at each other.
The police were looking for them.
The American mumbled, “Shit.”
A shadow jogged back up the road and a click followed—the unmistakable sound of a weapon being drawn.
“Out.” The voice spoke in Creole.
“Jig’s up, aye?” the American whispered.
Kaahin did not know. They were capable men and could pacify a single officer, if necessary. These were not the department’s best, but rather the laziest. Dulled edges. Blunted skills. There was no place to hide on an island this small. And if Mauritius had an opportunity to bring reinforcements from the mainland...
“Our story stands,” Kaahin said through a clenched jaw. He stuffed the jewel into the dirt at the base of the tree and covered it with a few leaves. Then he stood and stepped to the road with his hands to the stars. His Creole was bad, but it would be enough. He fed lines to the nervous officer whose face remained hidden behind the blinding flashlight.
The American followed his lead and began to blabber a similar story. Behind them, the jeep wound back up the t
rail in reverse. This was time they could not afford to lose.
If they couldn’t sell this, they’d sit in jail and wait for the arrival of a magistrate. Magistrates visited the island once or twice a year in order to preside over all matters of law. It had the potential to be a very long wait.
They got on their knees and the officer waited until the jeep got all the way back. The officers then traded Creole at furious speeds that Kaahin couldn’t follow.
The officers didn’t have much to say to their prisoners. They simply bound their wrists together with zip ties and loaded them into the back of the jeep. They headed away from the administrative building, taking with it any hope of making it through this arm of their journey without suspicion.
The American looked to Kaahin for a lead. His reluctance stood. He hated to admit it, hated feeling constricted by these binds, but it was the only choice they had.
For now.
Thirty-Six
The weight of the handgun in Sara’s fist brought relief. That was a strange feeling to reconcile as she stood amidships with Carly, trying to understand who she was anymore. Her memories and experiences felt alien now, part of someone else’s life.
The sky was crayon blue, a scribble of clouds dotted across it. Sara stared up at it and a scoff passed her throat as she realized she was still technically on her honeymoon.
“Here,” Carly said, taking Sara’s arm. “Let me show you the trick to aiming that Keanu Reeves once showed me.”
Sara pulled away. “Told you I’ve shot a gun before.”
Carly lifted her hands and widened her eyes, gesturing “excuse me all to hell.”
It brought a smirk to Sara’s face. “Sorry,” she said. “Guess I should be willing to hear what John Wick has to say.”
“That’s right,” Carly agreed. “When most people aim, they tend to look beyond the iron sight. Don’t. Look right at it. Your target will be a bit blurry and that’s normal. Your sight will hover around some because we’re not robots and no one, not even Keanu, can hold a handgun totally still.”
“Ladies, I do not want to die of old age,” Guillaume called out. He had fastened some empty liquor bottles to the port bow’s rail.
Ocean Grave Page 17
