Caribbean Rim

by Randy Wayne White

  His voice answered through the bathroom door. “I’ll let you know after I untie those two. I gave them a choice, now it’s up to them.”

  They were in the van when she learned the biologist had left the men in the mangroves after saying, “Think about it.”

  * * *

  —

  What kind of man tied up thugs rather than go to the police?

  Tamara fretted while she waited in the van. Was it smarter to get out and run rather than involve herself in bad business like this?

  It was after ten—late on an island where people matched their waking hours to the sun. And much too late to be alone here, parked far from the main road, which wasn’t much of a road to begin with. Ford had left her with the doors locked, and waded into the scrub. On a headband he wore the scope he’d used earlier, the one that glowed and allowed him to see at night.

  Fifteen minutes listening to screaming frogs had seemed like an hour.

  On the drive, he’d explained that the men had been hired by someone—he didn’t know who—to find Dr. Nickelby and the young woman he was traveling with.

  “They’re mall cops with some training, but they don’t know when to stop. Jamie Middlebrook, the guy we were supposed to have drinks with tonight? They broke into his cottage and waterboarded him, I think. They swear they didn’t, but . . . Anyway, it’s an interrogation technique, if done right. Done wrong, it’s murder. I have no idea where he is, and you and I were next on their list. They admitted that much.”

  “That they killed him?”

  “They claim he was gone when they got there, but they damn near killed me. I’d just left his place and they tried to run me over. Somehow, I got lucky. They left the keys in the ignition when they came looking for me—I’d crawled into the brush to hide. The door was open, so I climbed in and found a gun in the console. The rest you’re better off not knowing.”

  What Tamara knew was the biologist had lied just as convincingly about his lack of water skills.

  “You shot them,” she’d said, her tone flat to suggest that, either way, she wouldn’t judge.

  No. He told her he’d left them in the mangroves near where his plane was anchored. Dilly Creek, the area was called, a place where old-timers claimed you could swing a pint jar and catch a gallon of mosquitoes.

  “I don’t know which is worse,” she’d replied, “a bullet or an hour tied up in that swamp. What I’m wondering is, why a man who studies sharks and coral disease wouldn’t call the police right off? And other stuff—waterboarding—how do you know about such things? I don’t expect an answer, but if you were a teacher, it’s not biology I think you’d be teaching.”

  “You might be onto something” was not the reply she expected. He had parked the van and looked at her in a thoughtful way. “A lesson, I guess that is what I’m trying to do. Like Purcell, there are other ways to turn people around. I promise you this, though, if those punks killed Middlebrook, we’ll call the police as soon as—”

  Tamara had cut him off, saying, “It wasn’t no teenager that came after me with a cattle prod, or whatever you called it—”

  “Half my age is close enough. So why not give them a chance and maybe get something in return? Like adults tell kids sure, games are fun, until someone gets hurt. That’s the lesson for today. I’m not being nice. I want to use what I find out as leverage to make them leave you the hell alone.”

  Earlier, the men had been too cocky to answer questions—even at gunpoint.

  “They knew you wouldn’t shoot,” Tamara had suggested.

  Hearing that, the biologist had cleared his throat. “They got more talkative when I used duct tape from their own bag. I suspect they took a course or two in security, now they’re so-called private contractors. They probably see it in their heads like a movie. Big screen, fake blood. Violence isn’t real until it happens to them, which is when the director is supposed to call cut. That’s not the way it works. And they’ll keep playing the role until they do something really stupid—even stupider than threatening you. Middlebrook, I’m still not sure what happened to him, so I gave them a choice.”

  Like before, Tamara didn’t expect an answer but got an idea of what the choice was when the biologist reappeared from the darkness carrying a flashlight. He motioned for her to lower the window and used the light to herd the men onto the road.

  It was pitiful the way they stumbled along, their skin and clothes caked in mud. The cockiness had been drained out of them. Probably a few pints of blood, too. Mosquitoes hovered like steam as one of the men looked at her without making eye contact and mumbled, “Sorry. We won’t bother you again,” then asked Ford in a surly-accented way, “Ess daht goood enuf?”

  “As long as the rest checks out,” he replied. “I’ll leave your vehicle where you can find it. Sound fair? I don’t expect to see you two again.”

  “Like we have a choice. What about our phones and equipment? We have much money invested.”

  “Enjoy your walk” was the reply.

  That was it.

  On the way back, he said, “They’re from the Netherlands. Security guards, until they paid an agency to book them as ex–military contractors. No background check, obviously. The dumbasses don’t even know who hired them, but their fake bios must have been impressive—a decent chunk of expense money was waiting when they arrived in Nassau. Sloppy work all around. Ever hear of White Torch Limited? That’s the company that cut their first check.”

  “What about that man, Mr. Middlebrook?” Tamara asked. Abducting thugs was bad enough. Murder, she’d have nothing to do with. Then said, “Thank you,” as they turned down a lane where Middlebrook’s cottage looked black in the headlights, sea and sky blacker in the distance.

  The biologist parked. Rolled down the window, sniffed the air, and said, “His rental car’s gone. No police. That’s a good sign, I guess.” He opened his bag and got out, wearing gloves, a flashlight in his left hand and something concealed in his right. “I won’t be long. Keep the doors locked.”

  Tamara got out, too, saying, “Waiting gives me the spooks. Besides, I want to see for myself.” She trailed him up the steps, careful not to touch anything because he warned it might be used as evidence. The cottage had a Halloween feel, the creaky darkness of it. Room to room they went, guided by the flashlight.

  “Someone cleaned up—Middlebrook, I hope. His things are gone, even the sort of stuff most burglars would leave behind—shaving kit, like that. Let’s check the bathroom again.”

  They were in the van when Ford opened up a little. “If I was sure he was dead, we’d be in my plane, headed for an airport with lights, and those two would still be tied up, waiting for the police. I think either Middlebrook left in a hurry or a fourth party is involved.”

  “I never saw him before he showed up this morning,” Tamara said.

  “Middlebrook?”

  “None of those men.”

  The biologist was silent for a while. “The Cuban-looking guy you mentioned—do you remember anything else? Some Cubans have a lot of Indian blood.”

  “Same with most of us islanders. We didn’t talk for long. There was something, a coldness in the way he acted. It’s hard to describe.”

  “I was thinking more like an Aztec Indian. A guy who might be called that because of his looks.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Or could be there are five or six or ten wannabe badasses all looking for the same thing. If it’s not safe here, I’d like to take you along. Ever flown in a seaplane?”

  She replied, “Being second cousins doesn’t mean you owe me anything—even if it’s true.”

  The man’s glasses glinted in the lights of the dashboard. He was smiling. “Oh?”

  “Not to me. There’re a lot of Gatrells in the Bahamas.”

  “I’m beginning to believe it. The one I knew was a
con artist. People liked him anyway.” Ford talked about that, how the behavior of people sometimes confused him—no, mystified him, is the way he put it—adding, “Especially women. They loved the old crook. It still doesn’t make any sense.”

  “The acorn,” she murmured. That reference, and the scrub along the road, brought to mind the question he’d posed about White Torch: “It’s the name of some of those trees along the road.”

  “What is?”

  “The company you asked about. White Torch. There’s black torch trees, too. I can’t tell the difference. That’s what they were used for back in the day: torches. And there’s a shoal bridge off Little San Salvador called that—bits of land that poke up out of the sea—but I’ve never heard of the company. Isn’t there an island in Florida named Torch Key?”

  “Probably because of the same tree. What’s it like?”

  “Never set foot there.”

  “I mean the islands off Little San Sal, not Florida.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. White Torch is a long stretch of shoals with only one island that’s big enough to chart. It’s private. Boats wouldn’t stop—not local boats anyway—because the people there don’t like outsiders. And they’re . . . different.”

  “How so?”

  “I see them on the mailboat. It’s partly the way they look. Not big, but great big hands and spiky hair—red hair sometimes. They’re nice enough, unless you try to set foot on their island. What some say happens I don’t believe because I’m a Christian.”

  “Really?” He asked a few more questions, before saying, “Maybe they spread the rumors to scare people off.”

  “Doubt it. They scary-looking, too. Families there only have two or three last names between them. The Marl people, is what they’re called. Been that way for hundreds of years, I was told. Ever hear of ’em?”

  Ford asked more questions before saying, “Maybe . . . in a way.”

  There was a sociological term, castaway microcultures. He wondered if it applied. In a previous century, he wasn’t certain how far back—pirate times, most likely—survivors of shipwrecks had settled on the same remote islands that had saved them. After generations of isolation, living off the land and sea, inhabitants had bonded in unique subcultures, tribes with their own customs and religions. The Maroons of Jamaica were an example. The blueeyed, copper-haired progeny of the Pinder family on Spanish Wells, Eleuthera, was another.

  He said, “I suppose Marl is the most common family name.”

  “I doubt if that’s the reason. You know that gray color of clay? Might be why they’re called that. Inbred, is what some say, came here in back times from Scotland. A boat carrying witches that Scotland wanted to hang or burn is another rumor. Oh, there’re all kinds of stories about White Torch.”

  “I never noticed it on a chart.”

  Tamara replied, “Most don’t show a name. It’s Marl Landing to lobstermen—that’s all those people do, fish and catch lobster. No tourists. No beach neither, ’cause it’s all rock and drops off like a mountain. Others, the old folks—I don’t know why—they call the northern point of the island Deacons. The rest of the shoals, what bits of land that’re high enough, must be named for the torch trees.”

  The biologist was interested. “Stay at my place again tonight. I’ve got stuff for sandwiches, and you can show me on the chart.”

  * * *

  —

  Tamara was dealing with those feelings again, in bed alone, in a space so tiny she could feel Ford’s presence through the wall, when a distant scream took it all away. A second scream followed, the extended howl of an animal in pain.

  “Lock up,” he hollered from the other room. “Turn out the lights and stay away from windows until I get back.”

  She got a glimpse of the biologist going out the door: shorts, no shirt, boots untied, a gun in his hand. It was a little after midnight. His reading light was still on and he had yet to put the chart away. What she heard next was so chilling that closing a simple dead bolt became a complex task. A voice, a man’s voice, far away. It shrieked fragmented notes of pain from somewhere inland. Then a single, distinct word—“Mama?”—and went silent.

  After that, no more. Fear the man might scream again tainted the possibility. On the counter was a knife, a folding knife, black carbon. The biologist had left it for her as protection. Despite what she’d been told, Tamara carried it from window to window, peering out after re-checking each lock, then to the bedroom, which had no lock. After twenty minutes, she remembered the constable at Fresh Creek.

  The landline didn’t work. There was no cell reception inside the cottage because of the tin roof. She would have to turn the lights bright and walk outside to make a call.

  This time, Tamara decided, I’ll get dressed first.

  * * *

  —

  One of the security guards from the Netherlands was dead. A segment of his body hung from a tree near the van where Ford had left it, doors unlocked, key in the ignition. As a tether, the killer (or killers) had used a shark hook crimped to a long wire leader.

  It was tackle commonly found on the island.

  This man hadn’t had time to scream.

  Ford had grabbed only his pistol and a flashlight before running out to do a loop around the cottage. The van’s dome light had lured him several hundred yards farther down the road. Too far to leave Tamara unguarded but too close not to look inside. It didn’t take long to conclude the second man had been the source of the screams. Not here, somewhere nearby, and the abrupt silence suggested he was already dead.

  With the flashlight, Ford searched from the bushes to the tree. What he saw was a ceremonial tableau. Body parts had been posed around a rib cage pendulum. Centered beneath were conch shells—also common on the island. They encircled a mound of viscera that cradled a human heart. Bark from one side of the tree had been slashed—out of rage or as the killer’s territorial mark. Ford would have moved closer, but the area had been swept smooth with a palmetto frond that now lay at the edge of the road.

  Instead, the flashlight probed incremental pools of sand. A triangular wedge of shell was within reach. He held it for inspection—a shark’s tooth, not a shell. The angle and serrated edge suggested the genus Carcharhinus but were not conclusive. There were sixty species of requiem sharks and many genera.

  Ford pocketed the tooth. The surest way to protect Tamara was to intercept the killer. He had to move fast. Sand and limestone were poor archivists when it came to footprints, so he searched for a blood trail.

  If one existed, it, too, had been swept away.

  He returned to the cottage at a run. A siren haze of mosquitoes kept pace. Lights were on, and the front door was wide open. He called her name, going up the porch stairs. Inside, no sign of a struggle. The backdoor handle came off in his hand because it was locked. Carrying the night vision lens, he went out the front and ran to the beach.

  “Tamara?”

  Over and over, he called her name.

  A sea wind rustled the palms. Waves thundered over a distant reef of iron rock. Focusing the monocular was no different than adjusting a camera lens. Close focus showed mushy sand along the tide line. Shoes larger than Ford’s size 13s had exited the water and cleaved a path that trailed north and vanished in the drier sand of a dune ridge.

  A twist of an optic ring brought a mile of lucent-green beach into focus. Staring back from the distance was a man. Tall, big shoulders, too far away for details except for the sheen of his raincoat. No . . . possibly a biohazard suit that blood would not stain. And something else: a device the man wore on a headband. It emitted infrared light—invisible to the human eye. But not fourth-generation night optics.

  A cyclops, one single glowing eye, was the impression—a thermal lens, possibly a camera. In the man’s hand was a long-bladed knife. He lofted it overhead, yelled something, and charged
. Ford walked toward him at a steady pace, the pistol concealed but ready. It was a strategic error. Killers expect victims to flee, not engage. The man slowed, hesitated, and finally stopped to reconsider.

  Damn it.

  Ford noted the hundred yards that separated them. Risk a footrace or try to lure the guy within range? He turned and went the other way to invite pursuit—which is when he finally heard Tamara calling from the water. Indistinguishable, her words, but she was in distress, possibly hurt. It took another focus adjustment to locate her head bobbing midway between the beach and the reef.

  “I’m coming,” he yelled. Maybe the killer heard this as a threat. Ford watched him escape inland and abandoned any hope of pursuit. He holstered the pistol and waded out. Tamara was fully dressed, shivering but okay. “Wait until we’re inside,” he told her.

  She was sitting with a cup of hot tea, a blanket around her, while the biologist alternately checked windows and listened. Tamara had left the porch to call the constable and had surprised the man as he crossed the yard toward the road.

  “I don’t think he was looking for me—it was the way he reacted—but I was so scared I ran. Get to the water, like this morning with those other two. That’s all I could think about. Good thing because when I looked back, he was on the beach, wading in after me. He had a knife, a sword we call them. So I kept swimming. Even after he was gone I stayed out there, waiting for you. Who is he?”

  “Did you get a close look?”

  “It was dark, and I was so scared. I knew it wasn’t you. I hadn’t dialed the constable yet.”

  Ford said, “I think someone’s killing off the competition. Hang on a sec.”

  What did that mean?

  He went out and returned a few minutes later, saying, “We’re good. Whoever the guy is, pathology’s involved. Or religion—it’s hard to hang a tag on manic behavior. Middlebrook warned me that anyone looking for Nickelby is in danger. I should have listened. Now we have no choice. We have to get the police involved.”