Sea of Cortez

by Garry Ryan

  Lane walked on as the waves rolled in. Ahead he spotted a trio of men looking out at the Sea of Cortez. He turned and peered toward the horizon. A whale’s tail slapped the water. There was a spout of spray as another exhaled. A third whale smacked the water with a pectoral fin. Then a whale launched itself out of the water and tipped sideways to fall back into the sea with a splash breaking the horizon’s grey line.

  Lane stood waiting for the whales to breach again. A wave rolled up onto the beach and reached halfway to his knees. He remembered the kokanee as they swam upstream in answer to their instinctive drive to spawn, turning the fresh water to orange gold. Here the whales practised a ritualistic dance they had refined over centuries. Before recorded history, they had travelled here in the winter and to the Bering Sea in the summer. Lane, ever the hunter, was hypnotized by them and wondered why kokanee, whales and people alike seemed unable to break the pattern of their behaviours. Was it nature or nurture? Was it woven into their very DNA?

  A pair of boats appeared close to the whales as they continued their performance. A cigarette boat with its long bow, open cockpit and throbbing engine aimed itself at the whales. There was an intermittent crackle of gunfire. The whales ceased their breaching and tail slapping. The cigarette boat’s engine roared and the boat accelerated toward Puerto Los Cabos. Waves splashed from its bow. The others on the beach turned to one another wide-eyed, as if seeking confirmation of what they had just witnessed.

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 10

  chapter 8

  Christine,

  I know it was stupid of me to allow Lola’s comments to get under my skin. The simple fact is that they did. It is difficult to explain how killing Andrew Pierce has fundamentally affected my perceptions of the world and myself. I believed what separated me from the people I hunted was not being a killer. Becoming a killer has tipped me off balance.

  I think that you and Linda and Arthur are correct. Lola has a gift for sensing weaknesses and exploiting them. Her LOLAGETS licence plate is very revealing. It is so obviously a clue to understanding her that I missed it at first. Her main focus is getting what she wants.

  I also think you and Linda are right. She has power over us only if we allow that to happen.

  As far as apologies go, I can only hope you will accept mine. I was wrong to fall for such an obvious ploy. I should never have allowed so much time to pass without apologizing to you.

  Love,

  Your Uncle

  Lane lifted his right foot onto the bathroom counter and lathered aloe vera onto his red pepper sunburned skin. He shifted feet and did the other.

  “How are they?” Arthur asked.

  Lane looked at his partner’s reflection in the mirror. Arthur’s Lebanese skin was darker. A bit of puffiness around the eyes was the only indication they had spent about the same amount of time in yesterday’s Mexican sun. “Sore, but they’ll be okay by tomorrow. My own fault for not putting on sunscreen before standing out there and watching the whales.”

  “They were magnificent, though.”

  “Can’t believe those guys in the cigarette boat were shooting at them.” Lane washed his hands and wiped them on the towel. “Ready for breakfast?” He slipped his feet into sandals and winced.

  There was a knock at the door. Arthur opened it. A round woman in a grey housekeeping uniform stood as tall as the cart she pushed. Her nametag read Elena. “Cleaning?”

  Arthur smiled. “We were just going out for breakfast.” He reached in his shirt pocket and handed her US dollars. The men left.

  They went out into the sun next to the pool. Beyond the stone wall and toward the horizon, the sea reflected the sun’s light off its back. Waves rolled onto the beach, pounding a drumbeat. Lane and Arthur walked around the bar then to the cafeteria where the maître d’ directed them to a table. The room had a high ceiling, murals of colourful rural Mexican life on the walls and a view of the ocean. Lane sat and waited for coffee while Arthur went to fill his plate. Lane spotted Fuentes at a long table where five children under ten years sat, ate and squirmed. Fuentes fed the youngest, a boy with thick black hair and a red T-shirt. A thirty-something woman sat at the middle of the table between twin girls with braided hair. At the far end another, younger woman sat and ate slowly while avoiding eye contact with Fuentes. He sat with his perfect whitened teeth, carefully coiffed black hair, chiseled chin and aquiline nose.

  Arthur set his plate down. It was a colourful collection of fresh baked banana bread, pineapple, honeydew melon, strawberries, fried plantains and yogurt. “Your turn.”

  The waiter arrived with a carafe of coffee and filled their cups. Lane glanced to the left.

  Arthur asked, “Want me to keep my eyes open?”

  Lane nodded, got up and walked toward the buffet. Moving down the steps, he surveyed the layout. Omelettes were being prepared on his right and left. In the centre were two lines of hot trays under glass where people crowded around a hill of bacon. In the middle was fresh fruit; on his left, a chef preparing tacos. He went for an omelettes and filled a bowl with fresh corn, peas, mushrooms and cilantro.

  Heads turned. A woman with shimmering black hair, wearing a flowing silvery-blue silk dress, four-inch silver heels and a gold necklace, walked off a Paris runway and stepped into line in front of him. The woman preparing the omelettes wore a white uniform, apron and cap; her nametag said Mercedes. Lane opened his mouth to say something to the supermodel. Mercedes avoided looking at her; instead, she gave Lane an apologetic smile. Lane closed his mouth and watched. Supermodel picked out her choices, handed them to Mercedes, then flicked her Cher hair with her free hand as she surveyed the room with practised detachment.

  From behind her, Lane observed the reactions to Supermodel’s appearance. Some of the older Americans and Canadians stopped and stared. The Latinos took quick glances at her from a safe distance. That is not normal. The men should be puffing out their chests and trying to make eye contact or offering assistance.

  Mercedes blushed when Supermodel departed, blushing again as she prepared Lane’s omelette. She even went so far as to say, “Muchas gracias, señor,” as she handed him the plate and he sprinkled the omelette with salsa. He returned to the table and sat across from Arthur, who asked, “What happened?”

  Lane shrugged as he cut into the omelette with his fork and began to eat. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Fuentes frown as the woman in blue silk passed, leaving a wake of pungent perfume and stiletto staccato on her way to the deck where the morning sun glared at the ocean.

  Lane and Arthur spent much of the day on the patio watching the comings and goings of tourists and staff while distorted music blasted from a pair of inadequate speakers near the pool. A group of Canadians, clad in ball caps, straw cowboy hats, beards and black muscle shirts, drank and laughed with their wives. Their voices grew louder, causing nearby families to leave. Fuentes and his family spent the day poolside with a minor army of attendants who fetched towels, drinks and food.

  Lane later wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t had insomnia that night.

  TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 11

  chapter 9

  The clock read 3:11 when Lane woke with his senses on alert, his mind running a ten-kilometre race. He decided to take a walk in the cool warmth of the early morning. Arthur snored in the other queen bed. Lane pulled on shorts and a shirt but when his sunburned feet smarted at the touch of leather, decided against the sandals. He stuffed the key and his iPhone in his shirt pocket, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and slipped out the door.

  He turned right and walked the hundred-metre hallway leading to the lobby. Along the way, he passed the children’s play area where a pirate ship and a variety of brightly painted mammals posed. His nose reacted to the obscene stench of blood and shit. He turned his head to the left and looked though a half-moon portal. In the open mouth of the whale was the body of a woman in a blue silk dress and silver four-inch heels. Her skirt was pulled up over her waist, her legs
were open and a black thong covered her Brazilian-waxed vulva. Shit slid down the tongue of the whale and mixed with the blood meandering into the wading pool beyond the tip of the whale’s tongue. There was a line beneath the woman’s chin, a wound stretching from under one looped earring to the other. He saw something sparkling in the open mouth of the wound: she still wore her gold necklace.

  Lane looked left and right along the pool level hallway. No footprints on the tiled floor. He looked back at the woman and her open eyes. His right hand tapped his shirt pocket. He picked out his phone and took three quick photos of the body. He walked on tiptoes to the end of the corridor, past the slide, past the camel, the buffalo and the well-hung lion and looked at the glass door leading to the children’s playground. One word was painted on the door in hand-drawn red letters: LOVE.

  He turned away from the door and walked along the corridor as it took one ninety-degree turn then another before reaching the elevators. He pressed the button and waited for the doors to open completely before he stepped inside and used his knuckle to press L for the lobby. Again he waited for the doors to open wide before stepping out one floor above pool level, walking along the hallway leading to the lobby and wondering whether anyone would be working the front desk. He spotted a bald man in a green jacket crested with the white La Luna Cortez logo standing behind a computer monitor. The glass of the man’s white-framed lenses reflected blue. Lane looked down at his own swollen red feet then walked up to the desk. He put his hands on the counter and read the man’s nametag. “Ruben?”

  The man’s brown eyes lifted and took Lane in. “Si?”

  Lane took a breath and forced himself to talk slowly. “A woman has been murdered and her body is in the mouth of the whale in the children’s playground.”

  Ruben frowned as if he were doing an English-to-Spanish translation of what Lane had just told him.

  “You speak English?”

  Ruben nodded and pushed his glasses up. Lane could see sweat on the man’s bald scalp. Ruben said, “My manager is coming.”

  “What about the police? Have you called them?” Something is off here.

  The man was near pleading when he said, “My manager told me to —” he held his hand to his ear mimicking a phone “— call his friend from the ambulance company.” He looked around. “My manager is coming.”

  An ambulance pulled up just outside the sliding glass front doors. Two men in white uniforms took a gurney out of the back.

  Lane looked at Ruben. You already knew about the body.

  Ruben read Lane’s reaction and shrugged. “It’s Mexico.”

  The doors whispered open. With a nod to Ruben, the men rolled the gurney across the white marble floor and headed for the elevators. A few minutes later, they rolled the gurney back along the hallway. A black body bag was strapped to the gurney. The ambulance attendants acted as if Lane and Ruben did not exist. The doors slipped opened and they rolled the gurney outside. They loaded the body in the back of the ambulance and were gone. Lane turned to Ruben. He was sweating despite the coolness of the evening, his brown eyes magnified by the lenses. His pupils were dilated. They told Lane all that he needed to know. This murder is going to be hushed up and hidden away.

  He went down one floor, returned to the room for his laptop then walked barefoot back to the hotel lobby and logged on to the WiFi. He emailed the pictures from his phone to himself. Then to ensure the evidence was preserved, he emailed the photos and a detailed description of what he’d seen to Nigel and Harper. He looked out the windows at the pool, the lights that lined its edges and the palm tress lit by spotlights recessed in the ground. He opened his personal email.

  Uncle Lane,

  Don’t let Christine know that I told you and don’t allow this to ruin your trip.

  Christine and Indiana have moved back into the house. She and Dan had a fight. She arrived last night. She says that she is going to change her name back to Lane. She said, “What Lola did was horrible, and I don’t want to be associated with Dan’s family anymore.” She said something about living in the condominium was costing too much. Lola seemed to think because they were living there that she had control over their lives. Christine thinks there isn’t much difference between being under the bishop’s thumb in Paradise and being under Lola’s control in the condo. She said that she was stupid for allowing someone like that into her life again.

  I thought you would want to know what was going on. Now that you know, don’t let it ruin your holiday. Sam is fine. He keeps looking at the door and expecting you and Arthur to arrive. Indiana and Sam are acting like old friends. Indy crawls up to Sam and the dog licks his face. Then Indiana laughs and laughs. That kid has the best laugh.

  Enjoy the beach. I’ll take care of Christine and Indiana. Dan will probably show up here in a day or two. How come some people think it’s okay to mess with other people’s lives?

  Matt

  Lane went for a walk by the pool, then back to the bar for a coffee in the silver urn set up for the nocturnal guests. All the time he was thinking about how to reply to his nephew.

  Matt,

  Thank you for letting me know what is happening.

  I think Christine and I need to learn that we cannot permit others to affect us in such negative ways.

  This is my fault as much as anyone’s because I allowed myself to be manipulated by Lola. Thank you for taking care of things while we are away. I hope Dan will come and talk with Christine sooner rather than later. This must be difficult for him. He is caught between his loyalty to his mother and his loyalty to Christine and Indiana.

  Be sure to take care of yourself. Are you and Christine still going to class?

  Love,

  Uncle Lane

  He logged off and went back to the room where he plugged in his laptop and phone. Arthur lay in the same position as before and continued to snore. Lane decided to try to get some rest. He lay in the interminable darkness waiting for impossible sleep. The edges of the curtains gradually revealed a rising sun. He got up, retrieved his shorts and shirt, added his ball cap, sunglasses and sunscreen on his feet, and went for a walk along the beach.

  The sand nearest the hotel was deep but along the edge of the ocean the footing was firm. Waves pounded the shoreline. He walked east toward the rising sun and Estero San José, a wildlife sanctuary. As the waves crashed then ran up to the beach, the sparkle of precious gems was momentarily left behind in the glare of the sun. Ahead half a dozen boarders were already swimming out to meet the rolling water. They rose up over the incoming waves and swam further out. A promising wave arrived. They turned and began to kick. The wave lifted them, and they slid down its green face. Then the wave curled over their heads and they were engulfed. Their friends on the beach erupted with coyote laughter when the surfers’ heads appeared.

  Lane looked ahead and saw two riders on horseback approaching. The male wore a straw hat, lifted his right hand to the brim and looked out onto the ocean. Lane turned as he heard the sound of a powerful boat. The surfers turned as well.

  The cigarette boat pounded the swells. Its roar was audible over the crash of waves. Beyond the boat a whale spouted a vapour plume. Another rose more than halfway out of the water, leaned sideways and created a splash of white against the deeper blue.

  The cigarette boat aimed for the whales. All of the surfers turned to watch. The boat drew closer to the whales. Humpback tails slapped the ocean’s back as they dove. There were flashes of gunfire from the cigarette boat. The sound reached Lane seconds later.

  The man on the horse said, “Fuentes. No pinches con tu madre o tu madre pinche contigo.”

  The young woman next to him said, “Papa!”

  The surfers looked up at the man, their mouths open wide. None of them made eye contact with Lane.

  I think he said something about not messing with your mother or she’ll mess you up. Lane turned, walked down the beach, up the stairs to the patio, past the pool and into his room. The shower was
running. He stripped off his clothes, joined Arthur and thought about how to break the news of the early-morning murder.

  Later, he unplugged his laptop and phone. The laptop went in the safe. He opened the phone and confirmed the pictures were still there. There were text messages from Harper and Nigel. Nigel’s said, No identity yet on the victim. Harper’s said, Look for Alejandro.

  Arthur rubbed the top of his head with a towel. “What’s it say?”

  Lane recognized the curiosity in those brown eyes. I guess this is how I’ll break the news. He handed the phone over.

  Arthur looked up from the pictures. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  You should see the shock on your face, Arthur. This is the nasty side of the work I do. I’ve tried to keep it away from you.

  Arthur handed the phone back. “Don’t try to protect me. I’m stronger than you think. We need to get dressed and see what’s happening now.” He reached into the closet for a shirt.

  They walked along the corridor to the playground. The air was thick with the catch-at-the-back-of-the-throat stink of bleach. They stopped to look through the half-moon portal. PROHIBIDO EL PASO was written in black on the yellow tape wrapped around the wooden stakes and enclosing the perimeter of the wading pool fed from the whale’s mouth. A quartet of workers dressed in grey and wearing blue surgical masks worked around the sculptured whale.

  Lane and Arthur took the elevator to the lobby and ordered two cappuccinos from Lucy. They sat under the flat-screen TV where a soccer game played. Arthur put his sunglasses on the table. “You’re back.”

  Lane frowned and looked at Arthur’s knowing brown eyes. What are you getting at?

  “You’re back to being the person you were before the shooting.”

  “Christine and Matt have been writing emails and I’ve been writing back. I think I’m beginning to understand what happened.” Lane nodded as Lucy set two tall cappuccino glasses in front of them.