Caribbean Rim

by Randy Wayne White

  The download would take several minutes. He used the time to search. Bags of groceries told him Hubert and the mate would soon leave on another trip. Possibly tonight. Cabinets contained nothing unexpected, including haphazard entries and a lot of empty pages in the vessel’s logbook.

  The most recent was in pencil, four days ago: Prof & Lidee. $$$. A number was written to the right, area code 242, a Bahamian exchange.

  Professor Nickelby and his girlfriend had purchased a phone locally, apparently, before paying top dollar to charter the Sandman.

  Ford photographed the page, and a few others. When the download was complete, he used a scrubber program to delete all waypoints on the GPS chart plotter. Waypoints were Hubert Purcell’s private entries. They marked favorite fishing and wreck locations he had saved electronically but hadn’t bothered to log in writing.

  In the charter business, GPS numbers are considered monetary assets. Ford had just stolen Purcell’s life savings and deposited them in his personal account.

  The SD card went back into the Garmin. Curtains were re-opened, cabinets closed. A photo taken upon entry confirmed everything was as he’d found it. The odor of diesel, foul ice, an ashtray, trailed him to the door. And something else . . . a chalky bacterial stink he should have recognized but didn’t take time to process.

  He closed his bag and left.

  * * *

  —

  At the Turtle Kraals Café, Tamara was behind the bar with a mop, lights dimmed, but still a few stragglers slamming dominoes under the palms. Her aloofness suggested she’d been awaiting his arrival but didn’t want the locals to know.

  “You gentlemen carry yourselves on home,” she warned the men, “lest I tell your wives when I see ’em at church.” As proof, she killed the music. Ford kept his distance until the stragglers had been displaced by the murmur of waves, frogs, an east wind off the sea.

  When she acknowledged him, it was by speaking loud enough for the shadows to hear. “Last call, sir. Kitchen’s closed, but we do have two kinds of beer. Kalik is what most visitors like, but some like Sands. New to the islands. It’s very nice.”

  Tamara looked heavier in shorts and an apron, not fashionable, but confident, leaving no doubt who was in charge. Nothing like the frightened girl he’d gotten a glimpse of earlier in the day.

  “A six-pack to go, I guess. Is there someplace I can—”

  “Can’t drink it here,” she replied. Then, after making change, handed him a sack, close enough to speak privately. Her murmured directions were followed by, “Give me fifteen minutes.”

  She didn’t want to be seen with him. Why? The city of Nassau aside, Bahamian whites, blacks, Asians, East Indians, and every possible combination, had intermingled since British land grant days and the collapse of slavery. Isolation had funneled most rurals into one small church or another. That bond, passed through generations, had resulted in an amicable tolerance, even a harmony, that Ford had observed in few other places in the world.

  Perhaps a jealous husband was the problem.

  The beach was through the trees, on the island’s windward side. There was a picnic table and a fire pit, probably where Leonard Nickelby, a nerd reborn, had led a conga line. Ford didn’t open the sack until Tamara was sitting across from him. She wore a fresh white blouse and slacks. The forethought this required was touching. It also demanded a peremptory approach. He asked about her child, and mentioned his own children, a subterfuge that hinted at him having a wife.

  “Don’t you worry about my personal affairs,” she said. “I’m here to discuss what we found . . . Marion.” Saying it for the first time amused her. “A pretty name, sure is, but somehow it just doesn’t feel right.” She removed two bottles, opened one, then the other, while deciding. “Think I’ll stick with calling you sir.”

  That quickly, all subtext of seduction was neutralized.

  “Call me Doc. I want to show you something.” He opened his laptop. “Is it okay if I sit next to you?”

  “Doc . . . sorta fits the way you are,” she said, scooching over to make room even as she warned, “but not too close. On this island, a pigeon coos and every dog for miles starts barking. Understand? Sip-sip, is what we call gossip, and tote the news is what folks love to do. Now”—the computer brightened her hazel eyes—“what did you find? Something about elephant ivory, I hope.”

  No, he had screenshots captured from the Sandman’s chart plotter. There were a dozen, which he wanted Tamara to view in reverse chronological order. He opened the first. It was a Google Earth–type chart overlaid with lat/long lines that had been recorded this morning.

  “Does this look familiar?”

  After a second, she banged her bottle on the table harder than necessary. “You had no right. You didn’t tell me you were carrying a GPS because you knew I wouldn’t allow it. That’s a picture of where we anchored when—”

  “It’s not mine. It’s from a commercial chart plotter. Take a closer look.”

  The Garmin had been programmed to track breadcrumbs. These were dotted lines that traced a vessel’s course on the chart plotter’s display screen. After the near collision, Sandman had continued west, then south to a seamount that nearly breached six thousand feet of water—but only after Hubert Purcell had marked where the dory had been anchored. A solitary red diamond served as the icon.

  Tamara used her finger without touching the screen. “That’s my wreck, where we were diving”—the date stamp caught her attention—“at the exact same time that fool just about swamped us. If it wasn’t you who marked this spot, then it had be—”

  “That’s right,” Ford said.

  She faced him no longer angry, just serious. “Where’d you get this picture? No . . . how did you get it. I know darn well Hubert Purcell didn’t invite you aboard his boat, and . . . Wait—” Her tone and expression changed. “Something tells me you went and did what you promised you wouldn’t. Did something stupid, and I’d be a fool to ask.”

  Ford didn’t bother with pretense. “I’ve got some earlier shots from when Nickelby and the girl chartered the Sandman. The dates seem to match anyway. I don’t know these islands. You do. I’d appreciate your opinion on—”

  “Hold it right there. Hubert finds his GPS missing, you know where he’s gonna come, don’t you? Straight to me. He saw us out there diving today, man.” She shushed Ford’s attempt at a denial. “Those papers of yours, they had the Crown imprint made with one of those”—she flexed her hand as if using an embossing stamp—“so they aren’t fake. That much I know. The Crown’s approval, it means something in the Bahamas. People from the States wouldn’t understand, so maybe what you did was . . . Legal’s not the word . . . authorized . . . Maybe you are, but I’m the one he’ll come looking for.”

  “Fine,” Ford said. “I want you to introduce us.”

  It scared her. This scientist, so calm as her boat drifted away, had also wanted her to believe he was a novice diver. Now this. “You’re up to something,” she said. “Why are you really here?”

  The man’s puzzlement was genuine. “I told you.”

  “Not the part about stealing Hubert’s GPS, you didn’t, and using me for bait. I don’t want any trouble with the law. Especially where a man—you, maybe—could get hurt. I won’t tolerate violence.”

  “You think I . . . No, you’re confusing two issues. Purcell could’ve killed us today. You’re afraid of him, right? You can’t go to the police even though he’s trying to ruin your business. So I came up with something that might help us both. No guarantees, but first let’s stick to the—” He angled the laptop so she had a better view. “These dotted lines are water he covered over the last week or so. His boat did a lot of circling in shoal areas. Even if they had trolling lines out, that makes no sense. And why would Nickelby want to travel seventy miles east to dive when it would’ve been easier to charter a boat out of
. . .” The biologist lifted his wire glasses and squinted, suddenly pleased with something. “Cat Island. I’ll be darn.”

  “What about it?”

  “An odd coincidence, that’s all. I’ve got a cousin—that’s what she claims anyway—who grew up on Cat Island. She reminds me of you in a lot of ways.”

  Tamara pushed the computer away and started to get up. “I hope she’s been luckier in life than some of us born on Andros. I believe our conversation is done here, Doc, or Marion, or whatever your real name is.”

  “Hold on, it’s true. I had an uncle who—well, he doesn’t matter now—but a few years back this woman—his daughter, it turns out—she showed up at my door and—”

  “That’s not the part I don’t believe. Use your cousin if you need bait to put Hubert in jail—I want nothing to do with it. I came here expecting to talk about my wreck, how the elephant tusk got there, but you tricked me into—”

  “Tamara, at least hear me out.” Ford’s voice was soft, very low, oddly calming. He waited until she was seated again. “Let me explain something. I want to help you, not hurt Hubert Purcell. There are ways to change a man’s behavior that don’t include threats, jail, whatever it is you picture. If you’re protecting him for a reason, well, I’m just going to come out and ask. Is he the father of your child?”

  This was an insult that also struck her as funny. “Sandman?” She took a sip of her beer as if to wash the image out of her head. “You sure don’t think much of me to say such a thing. Of course, you didn’t have to meet Hubert to steal his GPS or you’d know better.”

  Ford focused in a way that to her was better than an apology. “I figured he was the reason you didn’t want us to be seen together. Or your husband. That’s why I said to invite him if—”

  “I wish you’d drop that subject,” she said, oddly terse. “I already told you how the sip-sip gossip spreads here. Go off with a tourist this late at night? That’s something a lady wouldn’t do. Besides, one of the fellas at the domino table, he’s minister at our church. But Sandman? My god.” Her frown faded and she laughed.

  “Tell me about Purcell.”

  “He’s an idiot. What else you want to know?”

  “Details. You’ll understand, if you give me a chance. The nickname—why Sandman?”

  “Most everybody on the island is called something from childhood.”

  “How’d he get it?”

  “Depends who you ask. What he claims is, one punch, he’s put a lot of fellas to sleep. Big and fat as he is, tourists believe him. But the truth is, he got the name ’cause he’s so blessed dumb. Makes your ears tired when he’s talkative, you know? And the biggest crybaby around as a boy, scared to death of the dark. That could be another reason.”

  “Scared kids grow up to be bullies,” Ford reasoned. “Does he get into a lot of fights?”

  “Yes, probably . . . Well, no. Doesn’t need to, a man his size, but there’s been plenty of close calls. Hubert’s nasty side comes out when he’s drinking. And he’s jealous of any tourist he sees with local women, especially since the night I turned him down. But catch him sober—good luck on that, by the way—he can be sorta sweet. Either way, my god, he doesn’t have the brains of a child. Like today, I doubt it crossed his mind he could’ve killed us.”

  “Dumb, as in mentally challenged, or—”

  “Not like he got dropped on his head as a child. Just slow, you know? But acts fast without stopping to think.”

  “If Nickelby wanted to sell some Spanish coins, how would Purcell react?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “That’s a strange thing to ask. Selling salvaged coins would be illegal,” Tamara said, but was thinking about the possibility.

  “Is he smart enough to work out a deal with a buyer? I’m still trying to figure out why they traveled seventy miles to—”

  “You mean coins they found diving here? Rest your mind on that. Hubert woulda kept everything for himself.”

  “The ones I’m talking about were stolen from my treasure hunter friend. I didn’t find out until tonight. Nickelby didn’t mention anything about coin dealers when he rented equipment from you?”

  “He should’ve, rather than trust that big fool. You asking if Hubert’s a thief? Sure, if he thought he could get away with it. He’s too simpleminded to plan anything tricky, but he runs with some bad folks. Not from this island. They Haitians. To be honest, Haitians never been welcome in the Bahamas—men who’d cut your throat if the price was right. How much these coins worth?”

  “More than I can afford,” Ford said as if amused. “There are two eight-ounce silver reales, very good condition, and a third coin I don’t know much about.”

  “Are you saying you’re not rich or you don’t trust me? Either way, it’s not what a girl wants to hear.”

  “You’re better off not knowing all the details.”

  The woman seemed to accept that and concentrated on photos from the GPS. “Where a lot of rich folks live is here”—her finger indicated Staniel Cay—“which would’ve been an easy stop on the way to Cat Island. Do you know for a fact they—”

  Tamara went silent when Ford’s attention shifted to the trees. She watched him open his bag and take out a small scope. The lens cast a greenish light as he put it to his eye. “What in the world you doing?” She swung around to see. There was Hubert Purcell, the man’s girth unmistakable in the darkness against the white sand beach. “Uh-oh, you best skedaddle. No violence—you promised.”

  Ford remained seated and cleared the laptop screen. “Don’t stand up, just listen. Wait for an opening and bring up the subject of computers. Tell him I’m an expert. Yours is broken and I’m showing you how to do a reboot. It’s possible he’ll ask for my help.”

  The woman’s half laugh was not intended to reassure. “What’s possible is, you’d better swim toward Africa. The only computer around is ten miles down the road. Pointe Lodge, the bonefish camp.”

  She hadn’t exaggerated the man’s size. Purcell stopped, recognized Tamara, bellowed something about his boat, and lumbered toward them.

  “He’s bad drunk. I can tell by the way he’s walking. What if he knows you stole his GPS?”

  Ford was using the green lens again, focusing on a different area. “Someone’s following him . . . hiding back there in the trees. Looks like he’s carrying a . . . machete?” The biologist got up as if to pursue but changed his mind. “Guy ran off. I wonder if—”

  “Don’t be a fool,” she hollered to Purcell, who was close enough they could hear his wheezing. Then asked Ford, “What else you got in that bag?” He had opened a rear zipper like he was reaching for a weapon.

  Ford said, “Come up with another reason we’re here, then let me do the talking.”

  “Like what?”

  “Be creative.” He didn’t add, Or you’re not going to like how this goes.

  * * *

  —

  It didn’t go well until Ford took a stab at diplomacy, his hand close enough to pull the 9mm Sig from his bag. “Me and a client of yours have mutual friends,” he said. “That’s what Tamara and I were discussing. Remember Leonard Nickelby?”

  The change that came over Purcell was remarkable. “You know the professor?”

  “Enough to charter your boat if you stop threatening to kick my ass.”

  The man appeared to visibly shrink. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “I was scared. Why else?”

  “Really?”

  “Who wouldn’t be?”

  Purcell was flattered. “There you go, shows you got intelligence. Wish the professor had as much sense—he’s the meanest little man I ever met. Look here what he done to my face.”

  “We can’t see in all this darkness, you fool,” Tamara said. “Stop spinning ’round like a ballerina. That
don’t help, plus we don’t want to look at your face. Just say what you got to say and scoot.”

  In Velcro, next to the pistol, was a flashlight. Ford handed it to Purcell, who was six-six and weighed over three hundred pounds. “I wouldn’t mind having a look.”

  Purcell’s sweaty shadow loomed over the table until the light came on. Ford cleaned his glasses and put them on again. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same Dr. Nickelby?”

  “Yeah, the professor,” the man said, and posed, offering a side view of his melon-sized head. One purple eye was swollen shut, a bandage under it, and his lower lip was crusted with blood. Injuries from a fight.

  Tamara’s laughter started softly and got louder. “That little fella did that? No one’s gonna believe you.”

  “It ain’t funny. My dogtooth, I think it’s loose. No amount of beer I drink helps my headache neither. And it was even worse when it happened four, five days ago.”

  “Oh Lord, Sandman, get used to it. Did he have to climb on a stool to reach you?”

  “Don’t you be running your mouth about Professor Leo, that’s my advice. Man’s got a temper. What happened is, he hit me when I wasn’t looking—with his damn fist, due to a little misunderstanding. And him being a doctor, as you say.”

  “Leo?” Ford asked.

  “That’s what his girlfriend calls him. Her name’s Lidee, something like that. Or she calls him the professor, too.” Purcell touched a careful finger to his jaw. “I’m starting to worry. Think the bone might be broke?”

  “That’s not what worries you,” Tamara said. “I expect the man’s in hospital now. Or dead by the time you got done wiping the ground with him. Is that why you come here with your drunk talk, making threats before the constable hauls you off?”

  Purcell staggered a little as he placed the flashlight on the table. “Never touched the professor after he attacked me. I couldn’t.”

  “’Cause he’s so small? I don’t believe that neither.”