by Ian Bull
I turn up the heat and rub out the scrapes on my legs, arms and belly from the windowsills and the coarse stucco wall. I then shut off the water and rub in oily cream. I want my skin to look red, smooth and shiny, not bruised or scraped.
I wrap myself in a towel and open the bathroom door. Diego is in my room.
“You were in there a long time,” he says.
“So what? Is there a water shortage?” I ask.
“Puta,” he mutters and closes the door.
I put my hands on my temples and breathe slower. I look around for a place to hide the sheet ladder. I scan the room. Lamp, bed, bureau, desk, rug, curtains…
The curtains. The ceiling is high, and the metal curtain rod that stretches across the sliding windows is ten feet off the ground. I have to close the curtains though, which people will see. I can’t raise suspicions.
I put on a nightgown and comb my hair. I put on heels, and step out the open glass doors onto my balcony. Showtime again. I put my hands on the ledge and then turn my head so the light from the setting sun hits my face. It’s a fifty-foot drop down to the granite patio below. People are gathered at tables and around the pool.
I feel their eyes on me. It’s an animal instinct, like the feeling you get when you are driving and you glance over and catch someone watching you in the next car. We all have it, but I just use it more, like a muscle you exercise. With one micro-glance, I can spot people watching me, but still keep my own eyes looking where I want.
I let them watch me, and then glance down. Xander and Rolando are still arguing, until Xander glances up, and we make eye contact. I then glance at the people at the tables. Everyone is looking up at me. There’s even a sound track for my scene, low romantic Cuban music from someone’s MP3 player, pumped through a speaker. I spot Trishelle in a chair in front.
I wave. Everyone waves back. It’s a harmless gesture from the starlet. I then flash a thumbs-up, aimed right at Trishelle. I can’t see her reaction from this far away. At first she doesn’t move, and then she flashes thumbs-up back at me.
Behind her, I see that Rolando is not looking at me anymore—he now watches Trishelle.
I toss my hair and then head back to my room, but not before looking over my shoulder at Xander one more time. The music is still playing. Our eyes meet, he nods, but I dip my eyes and go back inside my room and draw my curtains shut. Scene over.
I quickly push the chest of drawers close to the windows, run to the bathroom and pull out my taped sheets. I lay my sheet ladder across the top of the curtain rod, folding it carefully so that it’s flush against the wall and hidden from view. I then stick the roll of duct tape on the finial that juts out from the end of the curtain rod. I jump down and look. It all blends in. I push the chest of drawers back into place, and then collapse into bed.
I made progress today.
Chapter 23
Steven Day 8: Thursday Evening
It takes us three hours to crisscross against the wind back to Long Island, and only when we are within a half mile of shore does the island shelter us enough to finally have smooth sailing. It’s just before sunset as we come close to Deadman’s Cay and the windows of the town are lit up like they’re made of gold, reflecting the setting sun behind us. In less than thirty minutes it will be dark and the town’s few streetlights will come on.
Carl stares hard at the island. I know something is bothering him because his thick worry lines are popping on his bald head again.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I have a feeling Cherie didn’t go to Nicole’s like I asked,” Carl says.
“We’re close enough now. Just call her on the cell phone.”
He turns the sailboat into the wind and lets the sails luff. We drift and he keeps staring.
“Carl, what is it?”
His eyes narrow and he points at The Screw Pump, the decrepit bar leaning out over the harbor. A nautical flagpole juts out of its roof and marine flags fly on the cables that run diagonally down to the base of the pole.
“When a stranger comes to town, Tyler at the bar flies the yellow flag. If they’re looking for me, he also flies the green flag. If they mean to do me harm, he flies the red flag,” he says. “Right now a yellow, a green and four red flags are flying,” Carl says. “And that means four bad guys are looking for me.”
“What do we do?” I ask.
“We don’t call Cherie. We’ll anchor in a cove a mile south and Tyler will pick us up.”
Carl turns the boat downwind. We head back around the southern point, out of sight, and into the next bay. He peeks over his shoulder as if waiting for a speedboat to come tearing after us, but we’re alone.
“When do we call Tyler?”
“He’s already there,” Carl says. “Like I said, I plan things out.”
We get to the cove and pull alongside two anchor buoys bobbing in the water. As the sun sets, I walk up on the foredeck and attach the bowline to the front buoy and Carl ties up to the one in the back. A black Zodiac speeds toward us—it’s Tyler. We grab our stuff, lock up the boat and step over the rail and down into the raft. Tyler hits the gas, throwing us back against the rubber walls as we race away.
“Relax, Tyler. I’m in no hurry to get there,” Carl says.
Tyler eases up on the throttle until we just chug along. The sun is now gone, but in the dusky light I can see his hands shaking.
“So what are we looking at?” Carl asks.
“Four guys. Young, but trained. I can’t tell where they’re from. They came to the bar and one guy stood outside while the others ordered beers that they didn’t drink. One guy got up to pee and spent a lot of time looking around and then they all left. They didn’t ask questions…they didn’t say anything.”
“What happened next?”
“I got on the roof and watched them head down your street. A car dropped them off and they were carrying bags. They’ve been there ever since.”
“Anything else?”
“Simon was in the bar, so I gave him a postman’s hat and satchel with some letters and sent him down there about an hour ago, but he didn’t come back. That’s when I raised the flags.”
“Is Cherie still there?”
“I don’t know. I called her cell phone, but there was no answer.”
Tyler beaches the Zodiac and we hop out and pull it up high onto dry sand. We then scramble up a bushy path to the road above. Although it’s now night, the limestone gravel still shines white in the darkness.
Tyler’s car is parked in a rutted driveway lined with sea grape trees that hide us from the main road. Tyler opens the trunk and a small light illuminates Carl’s weapons stash—a single barrel shotgun, a Colt M16 rifle and inside a metal box, two Taurus 92 handguns.
Tyler glances around while Carl puts on a shoulder holster and secures the pistol in place under his left arm, then puts two more rounds in the pocket of his cargo pants.
He glances at me and nods for me to grab something.
“I haven’t touched a weapon in five years.”
“Take the shotgun then,” Carl says. “You’re less likely to miss.”
Carl also makes me grab a leather harness with a long pocket so that I can carry the shotgun snug against my back, then hands me a belt bag full of shotgun shells.
“Loop that through your belt. You’ll know when it’s time to load up.”
I obey, and he hands me a small knife in a belt sheath next.
“And put that on too,” he says, and I loop that through my belt as well.
Finally he opens a plastic storage bin and pulls out surgical tubing in three-foot pieces, and flat exercise bands that are used for stretching.
“Are we doing surgery or working out?” I ask.
“Neither. Tubes are for tying, bands for gagging and blindfolds, and they fit in your pockets. Take a bunch and be ready, because I know you’d rather tie people up than fire that shotgun.”
He knows me well, and I gladly stick as many as I can in
to the pockets of my windbreaker.
Carl shuts the trunk and turns to Tyler. “You need me to drive?”
“I can handle it,” Tyler says, his back stiffening. He stops shaking.
“Drop us past town, at the pothole farm.”
Carl gets into the front passenger seat, Tyler jumps into the driver’s seat and I slip into the backseat. Tyler kicks up dust as we barrel back onto the island’s main road.
We pass the town of Deadman’s Cay, and I spot Carl’s short street in the distance. It is lit up by the one street lamp, which marks the far end of the harbor and the very edge of town. The highway then rises and farmland appears again on either side. Tyler drives a quarter mile and pulls over onto the sandy shoulder where Carl and I jump out.
“You want me to wait?” Tyler asks.
“No. Stick to the plan. Go to Clarence Town, tell the constable what’s going on and bring him back,” Carl says. “Whatever is going to happen will have happened by then.”
Tyler drives back onto the road and disappears going north. Carl heads into the scrubby farmland, walking fast and I have to jog to keep up.
“Maybe they just want to scare us,” I suggest.
“Or kill us.”
“Why?”
“Because you told people you wanted to go to Elysian Cay, and someone got pissed.”
Carl moves fast through the sparse fields. The limestone rock is pockmarked with erosion holes that the farmers have filled with soil and planted fruit trees and vegetables. Carl darts between the plants and I run to keep up.
We reach the rocky ledge that overlooks his street below and hunch down and wait. We hear a dog bark in the distance. A light wind blows in from offshore. There’s nothing else.
“Strap on that weapon and get secure.”
I pull the harness over my shoulder and pull the straps tight. Carl slides the shotgun into its slot so it’s tight against my back. It feels odd to be carrying a weapon again.
“From here on, things get real,” Carl says. “Ready?”
I breathe deeply. “Ready,” I answer, feeling his confidence.
Carl kneels down, pulls up a wooden stopper and uncovers a limestone hole. Inside is a knotted rope, which he tosses over the edge of the cliff. Like he said, he’s always prepared. He hands me a carabiner, then clips his own onto his belt and slides the rope into place. He steadies his feet against the wall and drops over the edge.
When I feel the rope go slack, I tie in and back my feet over the edge. The physical stuff is easy for me and I don’t feel rusty even in the dark. I quickly belay down the cliff, staying silent. I land next to Carl inside a wooden fence, surrounded by propane tanks and barrels of diesel fuel. Carl peeks out through the fence. Still nothing.
Carl draws his weapon and gets it ready. He looks at me, which is the signal for me to do the same. I draw out my shotgun, slide a cartridge into the open barrel and close it as quietly as I can. We creep out from behind the fence and ease up to the side of the first empty house. We see our first “red flag”—a dark-skinned man stands in the shadows next to Carl’s house, holding a rifle. He looks south, waiting to ambush whoever comes up the road into the light of the street lamp.
We wait. The man in the darkness rubs his eyes. He puts down his rifle, lights a cigarette, takes one drag, then puts it out and picks up his rifle again. He’s not a total slacker—he took just enough nicotine to keep him alert.
The guard then sighs and stares at the empty street, waiting again for Carl to appear.
Carl re-holsters his pistol and taps the pockets of my windbreaker and nods. He wants me to be ready, and I nod back. I will be.
He stays low and darts across the grassy space with his hands in front of him. He slides his right forearm around the man’s neck from behind, and just as he lifts him off the ground he uses his left hand to grab the man’s rifle from in front of him—all in one fluid motion. Keeping the flow going, Carl leans over so that the man’s back lies flat against his own huge broad back and continues to choke him—while also gently lowering the man’s rifle onto the grass with his left hand. I’ve seen him do this before; while his opponent struggles like a trapped overturned beetle, Carl looks like he’s doing Tai Chi.
The man twists sideways and even tries to flip his legs over, but Carl keeps adjusting his feet or the angle of his back to counter any move the man attempts. There is no noise.
It doesn’t take long. After two minutes without air, the man loses consciousness. Carl turns around and wraps his legs around the man’s waist and thighs and rolls them both back gently onto the grass.
I run up and place my shotgun down next to the rifle. I tie the man’s feet tight with one strip of tubing, then tie a flat exercise band tight around the man’s mouth, leaving him just enough room to breathe. Carl lets him go and rolls him onto his stomach. I hand him another piece of tubing and Carl ties his wrists behind his back. Fast and easy, just like the old days.
I grab the walkie-talkie off the man’s belt and we lay him down next to a bougainvillea bush.
The walkie-talkie crackles in my hands. “Tommy, position three?”
I click the walkie-talkie twice—an easy binary answer—and wait. They click back twice as well.
Carl motions for me to stay and that he is going around, then disappears while I stay hidden next to his house—a house that twenty-four hours ago was pulsing with people and music. Now it looks dark and shuttered as if it’s closed for the winter, though three more guys are in there somewhere, along with Cherie and maybe Simon, the fake postman.
“Taxi!” Carl shouts. “Where’s my taxi?”
Carl staggers up the street, wearing a hat low on his face and acting drunk. He shouts up at the houses.
“Where is everybody? Don’t you Bahamians know how to party?”
The front door opens. A young white guy with close-cropped hair wearing army fatigues exits the house carrying a rifle. My face is right next to his feet on the steps, so I sink down on my haunches to stay hidden. He walks down the stairs but stays in the dark.
I turn down the walkie-talkie in my hand just in time.
“Tommy, where are you? Move to the front,” he whispers into his headset.
Carl spots him and waves.
“Hey! I’m wasted! Can you drive me to my hotel in Santa Maria? I’ll pay you.”
I lift the shotgun off the grass and dash up behind the man hoping he won’t turn. The man clicks his walkie again. “Tommy, get to position three, I have—”
Carl draws his pistol. The man stops talking and swings his rifle up to shoot Carl—just as I hit him hard in the back of the head with the butt end of my shotgun. Too hard, because as he crumples I can’t stop and I collapse on top of him—just as gunfire from the balcony tears up the street behind me. Carl returns fire at the balcony and runs up to the next building and I scamper right behind him, cowering.
“Boy, did I blow that,” I gasp, trying to stop shaking.
“You did fine.”
Carl pulls out a key from a chain around his neck and motions for me to follow him. We reach the back door of the neighboring house. He sticks in a key and unlocks it. “Go to the front of my house and try to draw them out on the balcony.”
He eases inside. I hear him going up the stairs. The two men inside his house have the advantage of height over us, but they won’t for much longer. I dart around the side of the building and look up at Carl’s home.
The lights are off, but the windows are open. Two men with guns are up there in the dark, waiting. I take the walkie-talkie, turn the volume up high and throw it hard at the open window. It goes in and smashes against something, which gives me time to run across the empty space between the empty house and Carl’s house while they shoot random bullets out the window.
“Tommy, move around!” the voice blares from inside the house before they realize it’s the echo from Tommy’s open walkie. All goes quiet inside again, but as I creep around the side of the house, I hear a woma
n crying.
I sneak around to the front of the house, pull Tommy out of the bougainvillea, cut the tubing around his ankles and yank him to his feet. I stick the shotgun up the front of his shirt so the barrel rests against his chin, then pull him into the street.
“Hey! Out here!” I yell. Dark figures move on the balcony but don’t step forward.
I keep Tommy in front of me while staying close to the sea wall so I can jump over if I need to. The second man is still unconscious in the middle of the street. I make sure not to glance at the house next door.
“You have Cherie? I’ll trade her for Tommy!” I yell.
“Where’s Webb?” a voice shouts.
“Down here against the house,” I yell up.
“I want to see him too,” the voice says.
“You shot him. He can’t move.”
“Say something, Webb!” the voice yells. “I need to know where you’re at!”
“He can’t answer!” I yell. “It’s me you want anyway! Just let Cherie go.”
There is a pause. The men move out onto the wide patio balcony, the same outdoor patio where Carl and I talked just last night. I can see that one of the silhouettes holds Cherie from behind, just like I’m holding Tommy.
Tommy tries to pull away, and I pull down hard on the tubing on his wrists and jam the shotgun up hard against his chin.
“Fair trade, right?” I ask. “Tommy for Cherie?”
“Sure,” the voice says. “Fair trade.”
Nothing happens. I extract the shotgun from under Tommy’s shirt, and then push him face down in the street. My arms are open and my head is up—an easy target. The one man lets go of Cherie as they both step to the edge of the balcony and raise their weapons.
I dive for the street as a gun pops twice, like a car backfiring. I hear two bodies fall and hit the wood floor of the balcony. Cherie screams.
I look up and see Carl lying flat on his back on the sloped roof of the next house, his handgun aimed between his thighs, with a straight shot down onto his own balcony.
