by Amy Waeschle
She had been thinking about the girl who had disappeared into the neighbor’s apartment, and the man waiting for her return outside. How did such a system even work? Had the neighbor called a certain phone number, and ordered up his request? I’ll take a thin one with long hair who looks terrified, age sixteen or seventeen, and make it snappy. Or was there a website, like Benita had said, and a customer need only click? The concept made her blood boil. The system should be destroyed. How could people do such terrible things to children?
As if drawn by some invisible force, Cassidy entered the building. Climbing the narrow stairs, she thought about Reeve walking these same steps, imagined him leading Jade by the hand down the hallway. The stained and dingy walls looked no more cheery in the daytime. From one of the rooms came the thumping sounds of vigorous drumming, presumably from a set of bongos.
Reaching the end of the hall, Cassidy noticed that Reeve’s doorknob had been fixed and realized that someone had taken over his space. What had they done with Reeve’s broken things? Thrown them into the street? Hauled them off to some pile in the jungle? She paused, wondering what to do, then remember the neighbor. She stepped to his door and gave it a knock. A feeling of intense rage surfaced in her, and she hit the door again, harder, until she was pounding with her fist.
A middle-aged man with coffee-black skin emerged from the door halfway down the hall. “Hey!” he called out in Caribbean-accented English. “You tryin’ to bring down dis door?”
Cassidy paused, her knuckles throbbing. She shook her head. “No,” she said, her small voice barely a whisper. Just this apartment.
The man’s dreadlocks did not stir when he shook his head. “He gone,” the man said. “The police take him away.”
Cassidy watched him curiously. “Why?”
“Too many parties. People coming and going at all hours of de day and night.”
Cassidy frowned. She did not know what he meant, but felt somehow that she should.
“It bettah now. Much more quiet.” His wrinkled face calmed.
Cassidy lowered her arm from the neighbor’s doorway and shuffled down the hall, feeling the man’s eyes on her as she passed.
“Did Peter send you?” he said.
Cassidy froze. Slowly, she turned back to face him. “What?”
The man gave an impatient stomp of his foot. “Did you evah meet him?” This time he used a different cadence, and she realized her mistake, but for a moment it was like he the floor has vanished and she was falling slowly through space.
“Yes,” she said, recovering her composure. “I was looking for someone else, and he . . . came. He had a girl with him,” she added, unable to ban the image of the two together. “I wanted . . . ” Cassidy stopped. Why was she telling this to a stranger? It didn’t matter now.
“He no good,” the dreadlocked man said, shaking his head, and then closed the door.
Outside the apartment, Cassidy took great, heaping lungfuls of air—as if she had just surfaced from a deep dive. She popped the waist strap of the backpack. It slid off her shoulders and landed softly in the dirt, the hip belt curving up like the dead limbs of an insect. She leaned on her knees, gasping, and the tears came leaking down, her silent sobs shaking her shoulders. She sank to her pack and wept.
Twenty
Cassidy turned another corner, knowing she was lost, but not able to arrive at a plan that would get her found. Her brain was working by instinct, and she just walked—first to get away, and after that because she didn’t know how to stop. Her grief counselor had encouraged her to walk or ride a bike, but Cassidy had ignored this advice. Not because she didn’t love doing those things, but because it sounded like something the counselor would say to an elderly client, and she imagined herself as an old, crumpled woman, walking with her cane along the street, stopping to admire a flower or watch a hummingbird.
Cassidy had no time for such nonsense. If she was going to “walk” then she would hike ten miles or climb a peak. If she was going to “ride a bike,” it would not be a cruise through the park, but an eight-mile grind on a forested trail with lots of tricky roots, with a screaming downhill as the reward. And doing those things did help, even if only for a little while.
But walking here in Tamarindo was not helping, with the sun closing on the horizon and her hotel somewhere hidden in this maze. The question the man with the dreadlocks had asked—“Did Peter send you?”—rang in her head. She allowed herself a very short fantasy of him here beside her, hiking along, his brain trying to work out all the pieces of Reeve’s story. He would be asking her questions, examining every tidbit of information from every angle. She was sure he would have found Reeve’s grave. Pete never gave up.
The realization that she had given up on Reeve threatened to bring the curtain down on her again, but she pushed it away. “No!” she said, her voice garbled by her clenched teeth.
“Cassidy?” a voice called.
Cassidy turned to find the source, her eyes searching the darkening street, finding only small, squatty homes tucked into the jungle. Was she hearing things now? She realized that she had no idea where she was, and blinked, trying to make sense of her surroundings. Where was the main road? She stood near a small market, the kind attached to someone’s home and that were so common in rural parts of Latin America. A jeep stood parked outside.
Halfway into the diver’s side seat of the jeep stood Mel.
A rush of relief so powerful overcame her that her collarbones contracted, sending a powerful ache through her chest. Her legs hurried forward to where he met her halfway in the muddy street.
“What the hell are you doing out here?” he said, his cornflower-blue eyes looking her up and down, as if the answer to his question could be found there.
“I’m looking for my hotel,” she answered.
Mel looked around, incredulous. “Here?”
“I . . . got lost,” she said, though as soon as she did, wished she could take it back. She never got lost. Ever since she was young, she had always known which way to go.
“What hotel?” he asked, slipping her backpack off her shoulders and carrying it to the jeep.
“Casa Pacifica,” she said, surprised the name hadn’t deserted her. “Can you take me?”
“Of course,” he said. “Hop in.”
Cassidy slid into the passenger seat, buckled the chunky, old-school seat belt, and then felt silly when she noticed that Mel didn’t use his. Mel pulled the jeep in a U-turn, its knobby tires leaving perfect zigzags in the thick mud. He reached into the backseat and put something cold into her hands: a bottle of chilled water. Cassidy gave him a look of gratitude, and he winked.
“I didn’t know you were back,” he said, pressing the off button on his phone, which was held by two prongs mounted on the dashboard.
A flicker of guilt sank into her gut. “Yeah, I . . . got in this morning.” She glanced at him. “I looked for you,” she added, as if sharing this would make up for her lack of communication.
“I was out of town, checking out some property,” he said, then flashed her a smile. They passed a group of tourists and a fancy-looking restaurant.
“So how’d it go?” he asked. “When you texted me, you were heading out to where Reeve’s phone was found,” he said. “Did you find anything?” he asked, his eyes squinting in that way people do when expecting difficult news.
Suddenly, the idea of explaining everything overwhelmed her. “No,” she managed, which of course wasn’t true. Yet it was. She still did not know what had happened to Reeve, though she knew enough to make a good guess.
Cassidy cracked the lid of her bottle of water and took a sip. It tasted like heaven. She watched the verdant green leaves and canopy flash by and thought back to the car chase through the streets of San Juan and the intruders aboard the Trinity. Unable to push the exhaustion out of her voice, she replied: “Uh, it’s been kind of a long day.”
“How was the rest of the trip?” he probed. “Good waves?”
>
“Yeah,” Cassidy said. She wondered when her ability to carry on a conversation would return. Maybe after drinking this water.
“Well,” he said, giving her a long, careful look. “I’m glad you’re back safe.”
Cassidy gazed out of the open doorway, the breeze on her legs feeling incredible. A little like flying, she thought. Mel downshifted the gears, and the jeep descended a winding road. “Bruce took good care of me,” she said—then realized her mistake. “I mean us,” she corrected quickly, though it made her feel weird. “And the food was amazing. Everything was really great.”
They were nearing the center of town now, and occasionally she received glimpses of the ocean. “Wow,” she said at one spot. The sun melted a red stain into the sea, the sky above changing by the second: first pink, then orange, and now stripes of white and yellow over a backdrop of a bright magenta.
“There’s a rumor that Bruce isn’t all that he seems, so I’m glad to hear it’s not true,” Mel said as they approached an intersection.
Cassidy had a mouthful of cold water, so made sure to swallow slowly before looking at him. “What do you mean?”
Mel sighed. “Nah, forget it. He’s a good guy. I never believed it anyways.”
“Okay, really,” she said, turning in her seat a little. “Now you have to tell me.”
Mel paused, looking both ways at an intersection before crossing, the jeep accelerating. She could smell the sea now, mingling with the aroma of grilling food over cooking fires at the beachside restaurants.
“I’m a bartender, so, you know, people tell me all kinds of garbage.” He chuckled a little. “But I heard that he supplements his income with smuggling. You know, that boat of his.”
Cassidy caught his casual look, and sat back, thinking: Bruce, a smuggler? “Like, drugs?”
Mel shrugged. “I guess. I have no idea.”
“Stop,” Cassidy said. “Stop the car.”
Mel looked alarmed and eased the jeep off to the side of the road. They were in a busy section of the town, with pedestrians moving along the broken sidewalk in a steady stream. It felt claustrophobic, like there wasn’t enough space in the town—or the world—for her. “Why are there so many people here?” she said, her voice sounding desperate.
“Because it’s Thanksgiving,” he replied.
“It is?” Cassidy replied, feeling even more off-kilter. “Today?”
“No, it’s Tuesday today. Thanksgiving isn’t until Thursday.”
Cassidy was so annoyed at herself for needing to ask such a stupid question that she swung her legs out of the cab and strode off toward the beach. After following a narrow path through the scraggly trees and ground scrub, she kicked off her sandals and waded into the black water up to her hips. Though the water felt warm, it still gave her a chill. The waves pushed and the current swayed down-shore—not powerful but she would have to be careful not to get swept away. In a moment she was underwater. Maybe I should get swept away, she thought. I could crawl out of the ocean in some new place and forget all about this.
And then Mel’s head popped up near hers, his look marked with concern.
“When we were in San Juan, I found out that Reeve had rescued a girl from the sex trade,” she said, bobbing.
“Whoa,” Mel said, his arms paddling to keep him upright, his breathing audible over the sloshing of the waves.
“But I must have triggered something, and some men came after me.”
A shadow passed over Mel’s face.
Cassidy bobbed over a lump of swell. “And Bruce, well, he was there. He helped me escape. He even brought me back last night to make sure I was safe.”
They dipped into the trough of the wave, and it crashed onto the shore. “Like I said, I’m sure that rumor isn’t true,” Mel said. “People like to talk, that’s all. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Cassidy nodded and told herself that it wasn’t true. How could Bruce be involved with something illegal? Wouldn’t I know if Bruce was some kind of criminal? But something had shifted in her mind. Little details that had bugged her were surfacing. Like the way he had jumped her on the boat. That he had a gun. Then there was what he had said to the intruders: then you’re going to have to kill me. She had assumed that he had been protecting her, but why would he die for her? It was entirely possible that the encounter had been about something else, like a job he was doing, or refusing. She remembered the envelope he had handed to the hotel owner on that first day at the hotel in Playa del Coco. What if that had been some kind of payoff? A cold, sick feeling spread through her insides.
Back on the shore, Cassidy wrung out her hair and stood with her arms crossed, shivering.
“Listo?” he said.
Cassidy nodded.
At the hotel, Mel hoisted her backpack and walked her in to the small, brightly-lit lobby. A half-dozen college-aged kids milled about, talking loudly, with generous use of the F-bomb. Beyond the desk, Cassidy saw a rectangular pool, with rooms lining its edge. She counted five people in the pool, one lounging on an air mattress, and heard reggae music thumping low and steady from an invisible speaker. The layout reminded her of a motel her family used to stay at when her dad had driven them back and forth to Ventura while dating Pamela.
Cassidy turned around and walked out of the hotel.
“Tell me what you need, darlin’,” Mel said at the curb, his eyes warm and kind, like she was the only person in the world.
“Somewhere quiet. Something to eat. A soft bed,” she said, and it felt so good to finally find her voice, to take charge.
“I have a friend who’s out of town. I’m sure he’d let you stay a night. I could call—”
The thought of being alone crashed down on her. She shook her head.
Mel looked thoughtfully at her, as if he could read her mind. “Of course, you can stay with me,” he said. “As long as you don’t mind the frogs, it’s quiet,” he added.
Cassidy smiled.
Mel lifted her pack into the back of the jeep then paused, his eyes sparkling. “How do you feel about treehouses?” he asked.
She laughed. “You live in a treehouse?”
“Best view in town,” he said.
She stepped into his arms, and he stroked the back of her head. “Thank you,” she said.
“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t been home in a few days. The geckos might have taken over the place.”
Twenty-One
If Cassidy hadn’t been so hungry, she would have fallen asleep in the jeep. They stopped at a roadside restaurant where Mel had dashed inside then returned with two Styrofoam boxes of something that smelled divine. They continued on, eventually turning onto a winding road that crested a hilltop. A handful of nicer homes peppered the vast jungle, sharp corners or brightly colored paint poking out of the trees, one with a giant metal gate and guardhouse. She saw a few SE VENDE signs posted on trees or rusted barbed-wire fences, but otherwise the area looked shut off from the rest of the town, even though they had only been driving for less than ten minutes.
Mel turned down a muddy, rutted driveway lined with purple flowering trees. After a short distance, the shape of what looked like something out of a storybook emerged. Tiny lights on a long stairway illuminated the outline of a square home with a large, covered porch area high up off the ground. Mel parked at the base of the stairway and removed the takeout boxes from her lap. “Wow,” Cassidy breathed as a shiver of anticipation tingled her skin.
Without the sound of the jeep’s engine, the noises of the night assaulted her ears with the humming, buzzing, chirping coming from every corner of the canopy.
She stepped out and grabbed her pack while Mel scooped up the tiny plastic bags of groceries with his other hand.
“Let’s go up,” he said with a grin, and led her up the stairs.
Cassidy shouldered her backpack and followed. Once through a thick, heavily polished door with a driftwood doorknob, they stepped into a large, open space. A small kitchen area
with a wood countertop, narrow fridge, and a range filled the far corner, a red woven hammock hung limp from the rafters in the middle of the space.
In the center of the room, a giant tree trunk extended through a hole in the floor and continued through the ceiling to the upstairs. A set of stairs curved around the tree to what Cassidy assumed was the bedroom. Between the front door and these stairs sat a simple futon couch with end tables crafted from gnarled hardwood. Cassidy set her pack by the couch and walked further into the room, admiring the warm feel of the wood, and the way she felt part of the forest. The main floor extended to a covered porch, which felt as if it hovered above the ground. A set of wood rocking chairs sat waiting for the next sunset, and a square wooden table between them held pair of large binoculars and what looked to be a bird identification book.
She looked at Mel who stood mixing drinks at the kitchen counter, and noticed a small office space against the wall adjacent to it consisting of a roll-top desk and stool with a gooseneck lamp. “This is amazing,” Cassidy said, dutifully amazed at the airy, open feel of being high in the trees. She could tell her compliment pleased him, because he gave her a rakish grin. Though the sun had long since set, she imagined a sweeping view over the gray-green canopy that sloped down to the shiny sea. She realized that the sunrise would be stunning, and wondered what it would be like to drink coffee from this very porch with Mel at her side.
A breeze blew softly from the ocean. She realized how sticky and salty her skin felt.
“You don’t happen to have a shower up here, do you?” she asked.
He raised an eyebrow. “But of course.” He used a long metal stir stick from one of the drinks to point in the direction around the deck’s corner. “Help yourself. Towels are in the cupboard.”
