Wayward Sons

by Wayne Stinnett

  The three of them sipped their drinks. I closed my eyes and concentrated on my breathing while a familiar mix of sensations settled into my belly. Mute anticipation flowed between the crevices of my mind as I tried to blend drips of the past with what I thought might happen tomorrow, when the mission would envelop us all, and our only choice would be to follow the steps of what we were about to plan.

  “So.” Arlen set his tumbler down and smacked his lips. “Now that we’re no longer in mixed company, I need to address a curiosity that’s been burning in the back of my head all night. You actually haven’t told me what about this party with Hildon has you so eager to attend. Are you investigating some kind of securities fraud?”

  Alicia, DJ, and I all looked at each other in turn. We hadn’t told him everything. That wasn’t an accident. None of us wanted to—me least of all, but we’d made Arlen a key component in our investigation. Without him, nothing happened.

  “We believe an executive at Hildon has ordered the murder of at least three people,” I said.

  “Rachel Little,” Arlen said, without missing a beat. “What do you intend to do about her? Surely you don’t think marching into the party and arresting her is going to produce any kind of meaningful justice.”

  “I don’t. Experience has taught me better,” I said. “We’re going to sink the company.”

  He smirked behind his drink. “I’ve got three billion in Hildon Pharmaceuticals. A two percent share of the company.”

  “Consider the loss a donation to a worthy cause.”

  Arlen chuckled, then put his drink down. He stretched out his fingers and slowly rotated the glass between his palms, thinking. “What kind of evidence have you got?”

  “A confession from a co-conspirator,” DJ said. “One of the cops she hired to do the job.”

  “The police?” Arlen laughed. “Isn’t that a hoot? I guess they’re willing to do a little extra work for what she’s paying them.”

  DJ looked at me, as if Arlen had made the point for him.

  “Is this why they’ve got that woman locked up for killing that doctor?” Arlen asked. “Because Rachel had him killed?”

  “James Markel,” I said. “He contacted an investigative journalist named Luc Baptiste. We think Dr. Markel wanted to pass on information about a bad therapy manufactured by Hildon that made people sick.”

  “Makes sense,” Arlen said before he took a gulp of rum. “Rachel Little’s been jumpy as hell.”

  “We think she knew that the drug, Poraxim, was giving people Li-Fraumeni syndrome,” I said. “People like Gabriela Ramos’s daughter, Flor.”

  “She has cancer,” Alicia added. “This is her third diagnosis in as many years. And she’ll have recurrent soft-tissue tumors for the rest of her life, unless we can get her the treatment that Markel was supposedly working on.”

  “So Hildon has a cure, and you want to put them under? Why don’t you just offer your silence for the cure?” Arlen asked. “Is this about saving a little girl, or is it about retribution, Jerry?”

  “It’s not just Hildon,” I said. “It’s everyone like them. You know what these big corporations get up to, where their priorities are. They’d dump mercury in a school yard if it meant posting a good quarter—and as soon as the next quarter rolled around, they’d twist the arms of their former and future employees in Congress until they agreed to pass a law protecting any company that dumped heavy metals on a fifth-grade jungle gym.

  “These people have to be stopped, Arlen,” I said. “They’ll kill us all for a salary bonus.”

  Arlen considered my point with a long stare into his glass. The lights on the sundeck reflected on the rum, twirling, and trembling across his drink like a soul trapped in a glass. He savored each sip.

  “You always did care a great deal about strangers,” he said. “But can you figure out a way to make strangers care about what Hildon did?”

  “There has to be a way.”

  “Most of the people at Hildon’s party will be insiders. Many of them have a considerable amount of resources tied up in Hildon’s continued successful operation. Their livelihoods are at stake,” Arlen said. “When you bust into the party screaming about murders and little girls with cancer, they might simply have their off-duty cops shoot you, then toss your bodies into the ocean.”

  “There’ll be media there,” Alicia said. “A company like Hildon has to toot their own horn.”

  Arlen scratched his chin. “A lot of them will be in Hildon’s pocket. They’ll let themselves be convinced y’all are rabble-rousers.”

  “Nobody’s gonna defend giving a sweet little girl like Flor cancer,” DJ said. “Ain’t a person alive who’s that raw.”

  “You better believe there are, son. There’ll be a couple in the building that night, and they’ll be right on your heels, talking about the cost of innovation, market forces, and all the talking points the pharma industry has honed over decades of silencing their critics. In all those minds you’re trying to change, the idea of a little Puerto Rican girl with cancer will morph into a nameless, faceless statistic,” Arlen said.

  “Big American companies eat up little girls every day by pinching the pockets of schools through sheltering their taxes overseas, by mucking around in drinking water because dumping industrial runoff correctly cuts a half a percent off their bottom line, by pricing families out of their neighborhoods in the name of bigger returns, and we’re all a part of it.” Arlen paused and took a sip of rum. “You ever used a smartphone, or watched football on a big, flatscreen TV? Little girls in Malaysia put together the smallest pieces of those things. The most you’ll ever hear about them would be a page-nine column about factory abuses in some place with a name you couldn’t spell to save your own hide. And if that name somehow beats the odds and sticks in the burger-wrapper minds of mainstream America, the bosses in that factory will sell to a company they created yesterday, changing the name.

  “The system belongs to corporate America, and there isn’t an argument in all of God’s green Earth compelling enough to make them give up control.”

  Arlen’s broader point was hard to swallow, but he was right. No amount of bad news would make a certain type of investor question what their money enabled, so long as the returns came. That kind of person would be everywhere in the room at Hildon’s party, arriving in a limo, and dressed to the nines.

  We would be deep in enemy territory, alone. My specialty.

  “Suppose we should quit now and be content with drinking our misery away until we croak, then?” DJ swigged his rum.

  “Three people can’t change a system as big and as entrenched as the one Hildon serves—which is what you folks are talking about. Burning down Hildon is a romantic idea, but too many people get too much out of it. They’ll do everything they can to turn your little Flor into an acceptable loss in the margins of a spreadsheet.”

  “Not if we don’t let them,” Alicia said.

  “Well, isn’t that my point? No way you can do that, sugar. I think the best approach for you bunch is to get rid of any notion that you’re going to change the world. Best you can do is trade information for Flor’s cure—you can’t upend Hildon at a party.”

  “Not with pictures, or by saying a name out loud,” she insisted. “An idea can be manipulated, you’re right, but the truth is the truth. People at that party can’t explain the truth away.”

  Alicia met each of our eyes in turn, pulling us toward a conclusion we could not sidestep, no matter the mortal danger it would inflict on an innocent life.

  “We need to bring Flor.”

  After plans were made, Alicia collapsed into bed on Wayward. Moving off the bed seemed impossible, even to put on pajamas and brush her teeth. Instead, she watched Jerry, pacing up and down the corridor in the port hull, his fingers mashing the screen of his phone.

  “What’s Macy saying?”

  “She thinks we’re grossly misusing her skillset.” He looked up from his screen. “But she’ll make
the presentation for us.”

  “We’re sure there’ll be a projector or something at the party for us to use?”

  “Arlen’s sure. The man doesn’t mix up details. Besides, if he’s wrong, there are other ways we can get everyone’s attention at the party.”

  Still, Alicia wondered if their plan would work.

  “When are you going to meet Macy tomorrow?”

  “Tonight. At four.”

  “In the morning?”

  “That’s what she wants. She says she’s got a chartered helicopter arriving at Cyril King at 4:05.”

  The clock Velcroed to the wall read 1:00 a.m. “That’s not a lot of sleep, Jerry.”

  “Not a lot of time for Macy to do what we’re asking. And don’t worry, I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

  Alicia gave him a long, hard stare.

  “That’s not happening any time soon,” he said. He came toward her, crawled up over the foot of the bed, and planted a kiss on her forehead. “I’m pretty sure.”

  When he started to move away, Alicia grabbed him by the wrist. “Nuh-uh, buddy. Get in this bed.”

  He smiled at her, then laid his head on the pillow next to hers, and threw his long, lean arm over her body. She traced the veins in his forearm with her eyes until she fell asleep.

  She woke again at 3:15, when Jerry slipped out of bed, and cracked open an eyelid to watch him pull on a light jacket, then bound up the stairs into the salon. A few minutes later, the dinghy’s motor puttered to life. Alicia fell asleep again.

  —

  The next morning, Arlen had the tailor and his assistant flown out to Charlotte Amalie. He, DJ, and I did a fitting onboard Heart and Soul while Flor and Alicia ate breakfast and critiqued our modeling skills. The tailor brought a couple of tuxes, which he fit to DJ and me, as well as a half-dozen dresses for Alicia and Flor to choose from when we were done. I didn’t see Tamara.

  Flor had never worn anything like this before. She seemed giddy to the point that I worried about her overwhelming her own frail body, but she pulled through, alternating between sitting and standing when she had to. Flor’s glowing face lifted everyone’s spirits.

  After picking out our evening wear, the tailor and his assistant got to work on alterations. Alicia and Flor went back to Wayward to see what hair and makeup products they could scrounge together, while Arlen, DJ and I ate lunch at the sundeck bar and discussed some of the details of our plan for that night.

  Alicia and Flor returned an hour later with a bag that smelled like rubbing alcohol and fruit. Arlen had three of his crew sail Wayward back to Long Bay Marina. When they returned in Heart and Soul’s tender, we were off for San Juan. The voyage would take about three hours, giving us time to kill before we had to get dressed and ready to ruin a party.

  I caught Flor on Heart and Soul’s lowest deck, in her own stateroom. As she sat at a built-in vanity, pinning her hair high on her head, she spotted me in the mirror.

  “You’re looking awful sad for a man about to take on the whole world.”

  “It’s a bittersweet time.” I leaned against the open door and smiled at her. “Whatever happens tonight, Flor, I’m glad to have met you. You’re a hell of a kid.”

  “Whatever happens?” She put down her bobby pin and turned on the vanity stool to face me. The hollows around her eyes seemed to deepen. “These people did this to me—you caught them trying to bury it. They’re sunk.”

  I was caught off-guard by the blind optimism of youth.

  “You’re right,” I said. “I’m just having pre-game jitters. We’ll knock their teeth out. You’re the star of the show, so you better think about what you’re going to tell your mom when you see her.”

  She grinned at me, then turned back to the mirror. I hoped that shine never wore off her.

  I turned to my left and was heading toward Heart and Soul’s aft when Tamara Price appeared in the hall. Her hair was done, and she wore a robe, her eyes cherry red. When I stopped, she sniffled at me.

  “You’re good with her.” Her voice faltered.

  “It wasn’t easy at first, but I’m a quick learner.” I kept my voice low—Flor’s door hung open about ten feet behind me.

  “I’m sorry for causing a scene last night,” Tamara said. “I care deeply about her. And her mother.”

  “What I said wasn’t easy news to take. And I didn’t sugarcoat it.”

  She nodded, her chin wrinkling like she had to bite back tears. I started to walk away when Tamara grabbed my hand. A wet sheen guarded her eyes as they pierced mine.

  “Jerry, I want you to know that whatever you and Arlen are doing tonight, I’m all in. Rachel has to be stopped.”

  I wasn’t surprised she’d figured it out. She knew we had Markel’s laptop and all the incriminating information it held. Why wouldn’t we throw that in Rachel Little’s face?

  “All right,” I said. “When things get hairy, I’ll be looking for your help.”

  She smiled. “You can count on me.” She slipped back into her room and shut the door.

  I went deeper into the belly of Heart and Soul, to the fore stateroom, where my tux had been laid on a queen-sized bed next to Alicia’s emerald green gown. I had glimpsed her trying that dress on earlier in the day. It left her shoulders bare and cut her figure in a way that got my heart popping. Tonight, when she put it on with her hair and makeup done, I hoped I’d be able to breathe.

  Once dressed, I went topside, and spotted a stranger in a tux at the bar. From the aft staircase, I thought he was another of Arlen’s surprise guests, who had come aboard when we’d docked a few minutes ago.

  I was halfway across the deck when the man at the bar bellowed, “Don’t look at me like that, Dep.”

  “DJ?”

  His hair was buzzed, and his goatee had been trimmed like the green at the Riviera Club. I walked over to him, my brain searching for a way to recognize my partner. When I was within distance, I kicked him in his right shin. The titanium rang.

  “It’s me, wiseass,” DJ scratched his goatee. “Enjoy looking at this handsome mug while you can, because after tonight, I’m growing it all back, man.”

  “Who cut your hair?” I asked, as I settled into the stool next to him. There was no bartender on duty, so I reached behind the bar and pulled out a pair of beer cans. One for me, one for him.

  “A crewman hooked me up. It was my idea. I figured with me being face-to-face with Rachel Little not so long ago, I’d better change things up if I want to get inside.”

  I cracked the beer, sipped, and nodded. “Smart thinking, Dudley.”

  “I told you to forget that name,” he grumbled.

  “DJ Martin told me that. I don’t know who you are, buddy.” I passed the other can to him. He cracked it open.

  “You’re gonna kill me one of these days. Ain’t gonna be a bullet. It’s gonna be you, Dep.”

  “Speaking of killing you, how’s that shoulder holding up without a sling?”

  DJ’s right hand rested in his lap. I knew that wasn’t an accident. He clenched his fingers into a fist, then relaxed them.

  “Hurts,” he said. “But granddad’s cough syrup is gonna keep me well-oiled.”

  We drank our beers and watched the crew use the crane near the bow to lower Heart and Soul’s tender into the water. Shortly after, Arlen joined us on the sundeck.

  “Gentlemen.” He reached behind the bar and pulled out a bottle of gin. “If I knew you boys were here tailgating, I’d have come up a hell of a lot sooner.” He poured himself a glass. “Actually, that’s a lie. The business world waits for no man.”

  Over the next hour, the three of us drank quietly at the bar, and watched the sun paint San Juan red as it lowered to rest. The last streams of light were following the sun out of the sky when I heard my wife’s voice behind me.

  “The three of you ever coming down from your treehouse? Your ladies are waiting.”

  I turned on my stool, and nearly fell off when I laid eyes on Alicia. At t
he top of the aft stairs, she was every bit as beautiful as the day I met her. God, I wanted to walk across the deck, pick her up and take her down to our private stateroom.

  “Jerry, where did you find her?” Arlen rose from his seat. “And do they make more of her somewhere?”

  My wife beamed and blushed. I had to remind myself to breathe. Her smile had the power of a clear, moonless night, far out on the sea where a million pinpoints of light kissed the Earth and lifted a man’s heart in his chest.

  “No,” I said. “She’s one of a kind.” I rushed to help her down the stairs, grabbed her hand and kissed her cheek. We looked deeply into each other’s eyes. I had a flashback to our wedding on the beach in Nassau.

  “You’re looking handsome, Jer. Part of me wishes we weren’t cratering a multinational organization tonight,” she whispered. “Feels like I’m getting dressed up for nothing.”

  “The night’s still young,” I answered.

  We headed down the stairs to Heart and Soul’s swim platform. Tamara Price was already seated on the tender, and a pair of crewmen worked in tandem to get Flor off the swim dock and into the tender. Arlen had arranged for a wheelchair for Flor, which was neatly folded and tied down to the tender.

  Charity, the other Armstrong asset, was there to see us off as well. I wondered if she planned to come along—maybe Armstrong had been onto Hildon for some time—but when our eyes met, and she smiled like a crew member wishing a guest farewell, I got the feeling she wasn’t coming. She must have been there for a different mission. I didn’t have time to know what it was, and I didn’t need to know.

  The tender—more a speedboat than anything—was big enough to accommodate all six of us, plus a crewman at the helm and one at the stern. I hopped on board after Flor was situated in the cockpit, then I held my hand out for my wife. Alicia bunched up her skirt, then stepped across, settling on one fork of the V-shaped bench in the bow. Then I helped DJ aboard. He plopped down next to Flor, the two of them exchanging big, goofy grins.