Two other men died on Moose Hollow that winter, one with his head caved in by a falling rock and the other when a chain broke and dropped a Jersey barrier on his back. But Ellen only learned of these fatalities later. She never worked on a Northrock site again. Instead, she’d gone back to Connecticut, to the only person who stood by her: Jim Pilson.
If nothing else, Bill’s treachery had taught her how his mind worked. It had led her to this burned-out trailer.
She took several pictures of the rubble with her digital camera, then picked through the wreckage. She found a gas can and took a picture, then took advantage of the gray of early dawn to take several pictures of the surrounding trees to get the trailer in context.
Ellen scrolled through the pictures on her camera before leaving. Perfect.
She’d found the fire. She had proof.
#
The howler monkeys came from the south early the next morning. There had been a lot of early noise from birds, of course, but Wes and Becca managed to go back to sleep in spite of the chattering, fighting, and whatnot. But when Wes heard the monkeys, he knew he had only a few minutes. By the time the howlers reached the fruit trees in the yard, their barks filled every available space in the yard and house.
Becca climbed out of bed, hurried to the veranda in her camisole and panties and cried out, “Wes, hurry! Look.”
Dutifully, Wes pulled on shorts over his boxers, then followed her outside. Becca leaned over the railing and craned her neck to look up into the branches. It was still cool and goose bumps speckled her arms and legs.
Howlers leaped from branch to branch, grunting and bellowing. Others tore into the guanabana fruit, dropping half of it to the ground. Coati and land crabs would come later to take advantage of their sloppy eating habits. There were maybe fifteen or twenty monkeys in all, including the babies, who clung to their mothers’ backs and looked down at Wes and Becca with dark, liquid eyes.
“A toucan,” Wes said, pointing to the long-billed bird gliding across the yard to the thicker trees that separated Casa Guacamaya from the Lopez house.
“Awesome.”
“It’s not a favorite of birders, since it preys on the eggs of song birds.”
“And here I thought they ate Fruit Loops.”
They watched the birds and monkeys as the sun rose over the golfo. Javier Lopez came into the yard carrying a basket. He was still barefooted and bare-chested. A girl walked next to him, pretty, maybe sixteen or seventeen, with long black hair, tied into a pony tail. Becca went inside to get dressed as Javier spotted Wes and called up, “I bring this for you.”
Wes went downstairs and unlocked the door, then went through the kitchen opening the shutters while Javier put the basket on the table. There were stubby bananas, papayas, mangos, and other, more exotic fruits. It had been too long since he’d had fresh, tropical fruit, and even the bananas looked fantastic. Becca came down a minute later. She’d pulled on shorts, but still wore her green camisole top.
“You mean you can just pick this stuff whenever you want?” she asked as Javier told her about a few of the more unusual fruits. “Did you see the monkeys?”
“Monos congos,” Javier said. “The howlers.” He smiled. “Good that you like. Every day they come.”
She said, “We saw a toucan, too. And a scarlet macaw yesterday.” Becca smiled at the girl, who returned a shy smile.
“Ah, sorry. This is my daughter, Maritza.”
“Buenos días, Maritza,” Wes said. He couldn’t believe it was the same girl. He remembered a child who would race up and down the beach barefoot. The eyes were the same, bright and curious. “Do you still draw those wonderful pictures?” he asked.
Javier cut in before she could answer, his face beaming with pride. “My Maritza goes next year to San Jose to study art in university. Look, I show you.”
He had tucked several drawings into the basket and handed half of them to Wes and the other half to Becca. They were drawings of the golfo in pastels or inks. Colors and light glowed from every picture.
“This is fantastic,” Becca said to Maritza, who returned a modest smile. “No, I mean it. Could I buy one of these? I’d love to hang it on my wall back home.”
Maritza blinked and shook her head, not quite following, so Wes translated for her. “Oh, no,” she answered in Spanish. “These are just drawings. Feel free to choose whatever you like. Really, I insist.”
Becca seemed hesitant, and Maritza equally insistent that she wouldn’t take money. At last Becca thanked her and chose a picture of a grinning boy straining to lift a green sea turtle while the surf foamed around his ankles.
“And look at this one,” Javier said, removing one more. “Not new, this one, but maybe you remember this day, Wes.”
The picture was a man working on a roof. There was an overhanging tree with a spider monkey hanging by its tail, watching the man work. Two brown-skinned children played soccer at the bottom of the tree.
Javier said, “Maritza draws this five years ago. We save for your family. This picture she draws of your uncle, putting solar on the roof.”
The girl spoke, again in Spanish, “Could you give it to your aunt, please? She was so kind, always bringing me art supplies from Vermont. I felt so bad when Señor Carter died and I never had a chance to tell her I was sorry for what had happened.”
“I’m sure she’ll love it.”
It was a skilled drawing, stylistic, yet perfectly capturing this place in the Costa Rican rain forest. And Maritza had been only twelve when she’d drawn it. Wes thought he could even remember her sitting in the notch of a tree, drawing the picture. And just like a Carter for his uncle to work while on vacation.
“This is good,” Becca said. She turned to Wes. “Look at these boys playing soccer. This one’s face. And the hands of this boy kicking the ball.”
“Very good,” Wes agreed. “I’m so glad you’ve got the chance to study in San Jose.”
Javier said, “Maritza wants to be teacher of art. But San Jose, I think, is very different for her, no?”
Wes and Becca set the two drawings aside, returned the rest to Maritza, then took out some of the fruit and covered the rest with a cloth. Becca found a knife and sliced papaya, mango, and star fruit. Wes grabbed a piece of mango and popped it in his mouth. Juice dribbled down his chin. Fantastic.
Javier sent his daughter to get clean towels and more toiletries for the house, even though Wes and Becca insisted they had everything they needed.
“If I remember,” Wes said after the girl was gone, “my Uncle Davis was obsessed about solar power down here that last trip.”
“The electricity makes big difference for us. He say he puts solar on every roof on the Osa. He has plans for Vermont, too.”
“Así es. He did have big plans. But you know, solar power doesn’t work nearly as well in Vermont. For one thing, the roofs are covered with snow half the winter.”
“I would like to see that, someday.”
Wes smiled. “Might need different clothes before you come.” He grabbed more fruit, which Becca was eating almost as fast as she cut it. “His plan in Vermont was wind mills. Most of our electricity comes from hydropower in Canada or from a nuclear plant.”
“Unless they build that coal-fired plant they keep talking about,” Becca added.
“That’s what got my uncle worked up. He wanted windmills instead.”
“Your family builds roads, yes?” Javier asked.
“Not my mother and father, but the bigger family, yeah. Roads, bridges, all sorts of construction. I don’t know if Uncle Davis was going to start another company or do it with Northrock, but wind was his big plan. That and solar panels in Central America.”
“He is good man. How do you say, generoso?”
“Generous.”
“Yes, generous. We are very sad when he dies.”
“Were you with him when he died?”
Javier frowned. “But he died in the United States, no?”
“Something wrong?” Becca asked. She turned to Javier. “I’m sorry, Javier, would you like some fruit? I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just so good I forgot.”
“No, we already have a lot of fruit.” He was watching Wes.
“No, nothing is wrong,” Wes lied. “I mean, thinking about it brought back memories. Sad memories. But you know, I couldn’t remember exactly how it happened. I wasn’t there. I flew home early because spring break was over. And it’s been a few years.”
“There is no hospital in Puerto Jiménez,” Javier said. “Just a clinic. So they take him in boat to Golfito. Then to Neily. It is near the border with Panama. But it is not enough so they take him in airplane to go home.”
Only Wes knew the body had never gone home. Instead, they had cremated Uncle Davis in Costa Rica, then flown the ashes home. Wes remembered quite clearly the internment at the mausoleum, and the urn containing Uncle Davis’s remains. Aunt Charlotte weeping, his mother stone-faced, pale as a dead woman herself. And Wes sitting in the overly heated room, tie so tight it felt like it would suffocate him, thinking that just a few days earlier he’d been diving with Uncle Davis. And thinking of that awesome picture with the shark and how his uncle’s next dive had been his last.
Maritza returned with the towels and the toiletries and she and her father left a few minutes later. As soon as they were out of sight, Becca gave Wes a curious look. “Thought you were going to ask about the Solorios.”
“Sure,” he said. “Only I stopped trusting Javier all of a sudden.” He told her about the discrepancy between what had happened after Uncle Davis died and what Javier had told him about flying the body to the U.S.
“Are you sure they didn’t bring him back to the U.S. and then cremate him?”
“Yeah, because I remember there was some kind of problem bringing back the body. My Aunt Charlotte had a hard time deciding whether to bury him in Costa Rica or cremate him and bury his ashes in Vermont. And I’m sure Javier wouldn’t forget something like that. So why is he lying?”
“Maybe he’s not,” she said, cutting the skin from another mango. “And it’s not just that I like him for bringing all this fruit.”
“Speaking of which, you eat anymore and you’ll be running for bathrooms all day.”
“Just this last piece. Then I’ll have a piece of bread.” She popped a slice of mango into her mouth, then held out the plate to Wes, who couldn’t resist, in spite of the distinct feeling that he’d already eaten too much himself. “Here’s why I don’t think Javier was lying,” she continued. “First, it’s a stupid thing to lie about. Where does it matter where he died? Second, we already know your family is covering up something. Makes more sense that they’re the ones who lied to you about how it played out. Right?”
“So my Uncle Davis died in the States?” Wes asked. “Like you said, why does it matter?”
“Wouldn’t matter to Javier, but it might matter to your family. Maybe they botched something on the air ambulance. It was in international airspace and they wanted to cover up what happened. So they cremated him quietly back home and told you and the authorities it had happened in Costa Rica.”
Wes thought about it. “The only thing that explains is why Javier has a different story about the cremation and funeral. Doesn’t cover anything else. Such as Rosa coming to Vermont, or why people think the secret is big enough to threaten my life and try to run you off the road. Anyway, I don’t want to trust Javier. Not yet.”
He watched as Becca finished off her fruit then dutifully reached into the fridge to get a piece of bread. He said, “I’m going to jump in the shower. We should get going; it’ll be 9:00 before we get to Puerto Jiménez.”
It was after 9:00, in fact, by the time they pulled into the dive shop, a place named Tropical Adventures. The shop was on the golfo side of town, next to a small resort with a restaurant where several foreigners ate breakfast on a patio overlooking the water. The owner of the shop was a German man named Bernd who’d lived in Costa Rica for fifteen years.
After checking out prices on equipment and making small talk, Wes asked the owner, “Know of a charter service run by someone named Solorio?”
“Don’t think so. Here in Puerto Jiménez?” Bernd asked.
Becca was over checking out the goodies aisle: dive sausages, fancy logbooks, dive computers with all the bells and whistles, and dive scooters. It was all stuff that cost too much and added little to a dive but was so fun to look at.
Wes shrugged. “I don’t know.” He’d already thought of a story. “My father came to the Osa a couple of years ago, said Solorio took him to some great places that nobody else knew about.”
“Every Tico with a lancha has his own secret dive spots or fishing holes. I wouldn’t worry too much if you can’t find the exact guy.”
“Yeah, I know,” Wes said. “Only my dad made a big deal of it. He and this Solorio guy still email. My dad already told him I was coming, and sent me off with all the contact information. Which I promptly lost, of course.”
Bernd laughed. “Alright. What else do you know about the guy?”
“Not a lot. Can’t even remember if the dive thing is his main business or if he usually does fishing trips or whatever.” Wes thought of the hand-written receipt. “Probably just a side business. We’ll be all over the Osa in the next couple of days and probably even head across to Golfito. So maybe I’ll just poke my head in wherever and see if they’ve heard of the guy.”
“You might try Andres at Tiburón Tours in Golfito. He knows just about everyone on the Golfo Dulce.”
Only Wes didn’t think it was on the golfo side of the peninsula. The week of the accident they’d already dived on the golfo several times, so he thought it likely that Uncle Davis had driven around to the other side of the Osa Peninsula, to dive in open ocean. “How about on the far side of the Osa? Anything out there?”
“Sure.” Bernd thought for a moment. “Is your dad a serious diver?”
“Yeah, pretty serious. Advanced Open Water, with an additional course in wrecks and underwater photography. Why?”
“Because there’s a group of fisherman at Agujitas, you know, near Drake. They do stuff on the side, like sport fishing and hauling divers to Isla del Caño at a discount. You’ve got to do all your own prep and safety stuff. They don’t dive themselves, but they keep their ears open and know plenty of good dive spots. Your guy might be out there.”
Wes nodded. “Sounds like something my dad would’ve dug up. What’s the going rate for something like that?”
“Fuel is through the roof at the moment, so more expensive than you might think. Say, forty thousand, fifty thousand colones. More if you want a long dive and you’ve got to take the boat out farther.”
Fifty thousand colones would be about a hundred bucks. “Still, that’s a lot cheaper than signing on with an official tour.”
“Exactly. Just be sure you know how to handle your own equipment because most of these fisherman don’t know the first thing about dive safety.”
“No problems there. Thanks. We’ll probably swing by later today or tomorrow to rent some gear.” He grabbed a card from the counter as Becca followed him outside.
“Sounds like good info,” Becca said when they were outside again. “You see their camera stuff? Wicked expensive, of course. It’d be great to take some pictures, but I guess I’ll be stuck with one of those underwater disposable jobs.”
“They take decent enough pictures,” Wes said. “But please tell me you’re not one of those divers who spends her dive trying to get the perfect picture of a rooster fish.”
“Can’t say. They don’t have rooster fish in Lake Champlain.” She grinned. “Seriously, though. I’m not going to waste this dive floating in one spot until my tank runs out of air.”
It was three times as far to Agujitas as to their beach house in Mat
apalo and Wes didn’t want to waste a day driving out just to hit a dead end. So he wandered around town, checking in shops until he found a woman in one of the sodas—little restaurants that served rice, beans, and chicken—who gave him the number of her cousin in Agujitas. Wes bought a 2,000 colones phone card and hit the public phone while Becca hung out in the park, reading her book and sipping a banana licuado.
The cousin in Agujitas had never heard of the Solorios, but gave Wes the number of someone who might. This next woman had what he was looking for. “Claro que lo conozco,” she said. Of course I know him. “Ernesto Solorio is my cousin’s padrino. He’s a fisherman.”
Wes didn’t know what padrino meant. Godfather, maybe? And the name on the receipt had been T. Solorio, not Ernesto. But what were the odds? Had to be related. He took a risk. “Is Ernesto related to Rosa Solorio?”
“Asi es. Rosa is Ernesto’s daughter. But she’s gone to El Norte.”
He flashed a thumbs-up to Becca as she looked up from her book. She returned the signal. But then he realized that the woman in Agujitas still considered Rosa to be in the U.S., which wasn’t a good sign.
“Rosa said her father might rent me a boat for some diving.”
“I have no idea about that. The Solorios don’t have a phone, but I can give Ernesto a message if you want. Or you could ask around at the docks when you come to Agujitas. They’ll show you his boat or tell you when he’ll come in.”
Only problem was, Wes and Becca could drive out and still find that Solorio had taken his boat out fishing for the day. “A message would be great. Just tell him we want to hire him to take us diving tomorrow.”
“What time?”
“We’ll be in Agujitas by ten in the morning.”
Sound of a woman scratching out the message. “Under what name?”
“Last name is Gull,” he said, giving Becca’s name instead of his own.
Ten was early. They’d have to leave the house by six. But he figured Ernesto Solorio would wait if he thought they’d show up early. Any later and he might just head out fishing. When he hung up, he went to Becca and told her what he’d learned.
The Devil's Deep Page 14
