Caribbean Rim

by Randy Wayne White

  “Middlebrook . . . that’s who was—”

  “No. The two guys I left in the mangroves—one of them, that’s who we heard.” A warning hand discouraged questions. “You don’t want to know what happened to him. Probably the other one, too. Shit.” The biologist clubbed a fist against his thigh.

  “You’re not blaming yourself?”

  “Not as the cause, but for the results. If I hadn’t tried to teach them a lesson, they wouldn’t have been on foot, unarmed, when he ambushed them. Yeah, one’s dead. The other, I can’t just go off and leave until I’m sure, so while I search you’ll stay in the car. The rest can wait until we’re on the plane.”

  Tamara wanted to fly out with him but didn’t want to appear too anxious. “Like I said, you don’t owe me anything, and I have a business to run.”

  “It’s the slowest time of year for tourists,” the biologist reminded her, “so why not? I’m meeting a friend in a couple of days on Cat Island—Tomlinson, the guy I said wrote a best seller? You’ll like him.”

  13

  Tomlinson caught the Lady D out of Nassau, a fourteen-hour mailboat fest to a casino resort near Spanish Wells. He appreciated art. The pool was resplendent with sculpted silicone breasts, but rich husbands gave him the willies.

  Time to move on.

  Governor’s Harbour. He attended a drum circle at Bamboo Point. Feral cattle abandoned by conquistadors grazed with indifference as Rum Cay locals led him into a cave adorned with Lucayan petroglyphs a thousand years old.

  No one had seen a short, bald American traveling with a woman who might be using the name Lydia Johnson.

  Several stops and two days later, he was on the docks north of Arthur’s Town, Cat Island, when a familiar seaplane flew over. Wings wagged hello. The amphib banked east toward Little San Salvador, a speck on the horizon twelve miles away.

  “That there’s the deacon coming to collect,” said a man cleaning fish. His words were a melody of percussive notes: Dat dare’s dah dee-CON cummin’ tah CO-lect.

  “The pilot?” Tomlinson replied. “Uh-uh, he’s a pal of mine. To get him in church, there’d have to be an aquarium behind the pulpit. Or a commie. Back to what I was saying—Dr. Nickelby’s kind of a small, uptight dude. Bald. Probably wears—”

  “No,” the man interrupted. “Out yonder . . . That there’s the deacons I mean. See ’em?”

  The cleaning table was built over a creek that pushed a stream of indigo through shoals of copper and jade. An outgoing tide flushed seaward where water blackened hundreds of feet deep. A shadow appeared. It resembled a torpedo, snaking up from the depths. Several shadows followed—a slow, serpentine parade.

  “Holy Begeezus,” Tomlinson said. “Sharks. I was swimming here not an hour ago. Had to wash my hair.”

  “Looks nice, too,” the man replied. “I like the bandana. Red’s okay. Me? I’d select green if you regular in your bathing habits. The deacons come calling, they less likely to eat a man who resembles a bush.”

  He was cleaning snapper and one big bull dolphin—mahi mahi—that lay glistening in the sunlight. The knife freed skin from vertebrae, the head was severed. He flung the carcass, a cloud of gulls trailing it down as it smacked the water.

  Shadows turned. The surface erupted. A scythe tail stirred a sustained explosion while the shadows tumbled in a glassine gel. The gel’s clarity showed sharks large enough to snap off a man’s leg. Beyond the shoals, a semicircle of fins sprouted. Fins converged beneath seabirds that hovered and dived for tidbits, quarrelsome as hyenas, while the water boiled.

  “Deacon, he collect tithes for the gods of deep salty,” the man explained. “As the Book says, Every man give a tenth of his wealth and blessed he shall be. I wouldn’t expect a modern person such as yourself to understand.”

  Tomlinson replied, “Here’s another one: Each according to his heart give ye not grudgingly for God loveth a cheerful giver. That’s Corinthians 9:7 . . . Shit-oh-dear, look—I’ve never seen so many big goddamn sharks this close to shore.”

  “You know Scripture!” The man’s eyes were rheumy as peeled grapes when he smiled. “That there’s a rare quality in modern folk. Proud to meet a Bible-reading brothah, sir, yes I am.”

  “Doesn’t mean I understand it. You’ve got to love a book where the hero dies in the middle but just keeps trucking on toward the Apocalypse. The Four Horsemen . . . Geezus”—his attention returned to the sharks—“that big bastard could swallow a saddle. How many people they eat annually?”

  The smile broadened. “You’re the first I met, sir, righteous enough to put cleanliness above losing a leg. As it’s written, Ye shall laugh at violence and famine, and will not be afraid of wild beasts. Book of Job. Got any more? I love hearing Scripture while I work.”

  “I don’t remember many laughs in Job. Cain and Abel were the Marx Brothers compared to that poor mullock.”

  “Oh, true, true. There’s nothing funny about an ash heap with bugs crawling on your face, that much I can say from experience. Ever do any preaching?” Another carcass spiraled into the water’s cauldron of froth.

  “Not on purpose.”

  “Shoulda. The light of the Lord is in your eyes, sir.”

  “Fake it until you make it, I guess. I sent off fifty bucks for a divinity degree, so most of what I learned was out of guilt. Look at that sonuvabitch—a tiger shark, you think? It’s hard to tell when they get a certain size.”

  “You ordained in a legal manner as well. That’s smart.”

  “Sure, paid for with thirty pieces of silver.”

  “Thought you said fifty? Got my reverendship in a similar manner, but it weren’t so expensive.” The man leaned in to squint at a small gold Masonic ring on Tomlinson’s finger. “Oh my,” he said, and put down the knife.

  “What’s wrong, preacher?”

  “The light of your ring is blinding to these old eyes. May I ask you something?” His question, a benign reference to travel, was, in fact, a Masonic test.

  Tomlinson said, “Preacher, this is too cool,” and provided the correct response.

  After two more questions, the old man asked, “From whence do you hail, sir?”

  Tomlinson repositioned his feet and referenced a compass. Then said, “Tropical Lodge 56 in Florida, and Logia Soles de Martí, Havana. What about you?”

  The old man, grinning, shook his hand in a peculiar way. “We Masonic brothahs in blood and the Gospel as well. This sure ’nuff is my lucky day. I am Josiah Bodden at your service, Brothah Tomlinson.”

  They talked about that for a while, Masonic lodges throughout the Caribbean, where, since the late 1700s, men of all colors and social standing had met in secret but on common ground. Finally, the old man returned to his fish and the subject of preaching.

  “What matters is the fire you feel. Had my own church for a while, too. Out there”—the knife became a pointer—“on a little island, deep water all around. Like a plate the way it drops off, so that’s how it’s known. The sharks you see here ain’t nothing compared to what feeds in them shoals on Deacons. You get seasick?”

  Tomlinson, shaking his head, asked, “Why’d you give up your church?”

  “Not because of the Marl people, that’s for true. They ain’t bad, just different, that’s all. I can’t abide a person who thinks that way. It’s against our Masonic teachings. You got anything against thems that’s different?”

  “Padre, are you kidding? Look at how I’m dressed. I’m crazy about the Marls and I’ve never even heard of them. Different is what I’m about.”

  “What about naked womens?”

  “Whoa! . . . Is this a trick question?”

  “Amen, tricky is what they can be. But can you resist temptation when your eyes behold a feast?”

  “Oh, I get it. Whosoever looketh upon a woman with lust hath committed adultery in his heart. Book of M
atthew. Is that what you’re after?”

  “Just looking at womens ain’t my problem, sir. Can’t take you along if naked bothers you.”

  “Where? I might be willing to give it a try.”

  Again the knife became a pointer. “What I’ve been talking about. Some say a rich man bought the place, and his wife’s always strutting around—or so they tell foreigners.”

  “Bought your church?”

  “The island, brothah, is what some claim,” the man said, “but now I deliver fish, not sermons. Come, avert your eyes if you want—that’s up to you. She is one Jezebel-looking blonde. We can talk Scripture on the way.”

  * * *

  —

  The woman wasn’t naked, but might’ve been stoned, when she stepped from behind a shed and beckoned in a secretive way. “You don’t belong here,” she whispered. “Do you work for the creep who’s supposedly my husband?”

  Her countenance was Surf City, not Portuguese. Even so, the song “The Girl from Ipanema” was suddenly so loud in his head that answering became a challenge. “Uhh . . . no. But I could, sure. I mean, I will work for the creep if you want me to apply. Just—”

  “I’ve seen you somewhere. What’s your name?”

  “It’s, uhh . . .” That took a while, too.

  “Tomlinson . . . ?” Her expression brightened. “Your first name, it’s unusual. Sea-GARD . . . ?”

  “Pronounced SAYG-ert, but the spelling’s Norse, so don’t even try.”

  “Hmm. That’s familiar, too. Films maybe? I know I’ve seen the name somewhere, but it doesn’t matter. Not as long as you have a boat and—” She paused. A slow-dawning look of recognition came over her. “Wait . . . can’t be. You’re not the writer, the Zen guy who was, like, a druggie genius way, way back and wrote—”

  “That was so long ago, I don’t even remember writing the damn thing,” Tomlinson said, “but, yeah, okay. Now you can tell me why you’re afraid of your husband the creep, or whatever he is. And why you’re afraid of something else, too. I can’t quite nail it to the wall. Is there a place we can talk?”

  “Oh my god, this is so weird.”

  “I tell myself that umpteen times a day. Like now, this sort of shit—I couldn’t dream up if I tried.”

  “Then it’s true.”

  “Depends on the definition. What’s your name?”

  “Oh wow. I sort of remember the picture on the dust jacket—” She stepped back for a full-length view. “My god, you look enough alike him, even if you’re not. The title was . . . It’ll come to me in a minute . . . That book saved my life when I was in rehab.”

  “I should probably read it again,” Tomlinson replied.

  “Seriously. And for you to show up here, it’s just too freaky to be a coincidence, you know? Uh-oh, quiet.” The woman watched the old preacher hiking up the hill, her eyes smoky green like a cat in moonlight.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We can’t be seen together. Wait until Josiah goes in the house to do whatever it is he does. Through those trees there’s a little cabana. I’ll meet you there. Hurry.”

  The song trailed her toward the watery wedge of the sand—Tall and tan and young and lovely—a beach girl Amazon in a sarong and white bikini top that darkened her skin. Hips swaying, a tangle of cobalt hair swept the small of her back. The pleasure it caused was like a knife in the ribs, and Tomlinson sighed. “Holy moly.”

  “I got a Bible verse for you, too,” Josiah called from the pathway. “Goes, Get thee behind me, Satan. I’d settle for your ass behind me once you fetch that other box of fish. Cover ’em good with ice, hear?”

  Tomlinson did it, and caught up. “Who owns this place?”

  “The man who’s gonna cut your pecker off, you mess with that girl,” the old preacher replied. “You think I’m lying? Some say he’s done it. I told you to avert your damn eyes. What’d she say to you?”

  “Baloney. That’s what the owner wants you to believe. Basic fear tactics, man. What’s his name?”

  “Because it’s true,” Josiah countered, “ask around. No . . . wait ’til I show you what we come to see before they run our asses out of here. That building up yonder? Some claim the man’s got pieces of people in jars and shit. Ain’t been in there lately myself and don’t wanna. Man owns that place, he’s not a person to cross—that much, sir, is true. She invited you to her cabana, I suppose.”

  “What a prick,” Tomlinson responded, looking up at the villa, which was coral pink with a red tile roof. On the bluff above was a block structure, slabs of concrete or rock with two small windows deep-set like the eyes of a pit bull. “I’d bet you the owner spreads those rumors to keep the locals in their place. His taste in architecture sucks, too. Does he own a string of Internet media companies? That would make sense.”

  “What you talking about?” Josiah said, offended. “That house been there forever.”

  “I mean the bunker up there on the bluff, the one with the pickled body parts. Like it was designed by twenty punch-drunk Nazis, and the owner probably treats his wife the same way. That girl’s afraid of something, Rev. She needs help.”

  “Brothah Tomlinson, that there building is what used to be my church. You never been through a hurricane? Built it with my own hands.”

  “Oh . . . and a beautiful job you did, preacher,” Tomlinson amended. “Closer to Heaven is a step closer to God, like the Book says.”

  They were making a second trip as he asked, “Don’t suppose you still have a key?”

  * * *

  —

  On the rare days Josiah delivered fish, he also enjoyed a leisurely lunch with the cook. Tomlinson suspected romance was involved when the man warned, “A quiet, prayerful sorta lunch, so don’t bother me. Be on the footbridge in thirty minutes, then we go.”

  “Why not the dock?”

  “Never you mind, you’ll find the bridge. And don’t leave your pecker where it don’t belong. I offer that as brotherly advice.”

  This gave Tomlinson permission to roam before angling back to the cabana. The island was a geology of pancaked rock, layer upon layer stacked high above the sea. Descending ledges were like steps for a race of giants. A tangle of yellow hibiscus framed a voyeur’s view of the beach. He stopped and lingered to confirm she was alone—a rationalization. But what wasn’t?

  The cabana was thatch-roofed, opened-walled, with curtains that caught the breeze. The woman, a staged presence within. She stood, lit a cigarette . . . no, a joint—the savoring mechanics were unmistakable—then turned in profile to fan smoke from her face. Her blue sarong was worn low on the hips. Outside, her white bikini top lay abandoned on a towel.

  Whew! A vision to behold on an island that was more like a fortress out of Dante. Limestone peaks and blowholes like the inside of a cavern. Stone stairs that led to the bridge Josiah had referenced. And a lagoon with no dockage or beach but with a few old pangas pulled ashore.

  Along the way were shadow people, yes, the color of marl, with wild hair. They worked from their haunches until approached, then skulked away or pretended not to hear Tomlinson’s cheery greeting, “Hey, man, got a minute?”

  None did except for her, the stunning female below. But the vibe was no longer hypnotic. It was troubling. She knew she was being watched. He sensed it, a telepathic awareness. The woman—a girl in her twenties, really—was in trouble: broken or afraid or desperate. The energy patterns were similar. So why not zigzag down the hill and lighten the mood?

  He did, sidled close enough to say, “Does your husband really cut off body parts and put them in jars?”

  “What took you so long?” she said, spinning around. “Josiah believes those crazy stories for the same reason I’m supposed to pretend I’m married. Come on, I’ll have to get dressed if we stand out there.” She parted the curtain just enough to allow him to slip past, then offere
d the joint. “You wouldn’t like that, would you?”

  Her wearing clothes, is what she meant, but he took a hit and exhaled, saying, “Depends on the quality of the weed. There’s no shame in marrying an asshole. My ex did it twice, and the first one was me.”

  “Don’t say such things. I’m glad you’re here . . . We don’t have much time.” Then she came into his arms a little too eagerly, but the trembling was real. “Are you really the writer? I don’t need any more proof that I’m an idiot who makes shitty decisions. Two weeks I’ve spent on this shithole of a rock and I don’t want to die here because of another lie.”

  Tomlinson held her at arm’s length. “I don’t accept payment for doing what’s right. Just talk to me—your name, for starters.”

  “Not until you swear it’s true. What I told you, I said I was in rehab when I read your book, but it wasn’t rehab, it was a sort of hospital. If you are the writer, us meeting is no coincidence. You must know that if—” Her expression changed and she stepped back. “What’s . . . Why are you doing that?”

  Two wise blue eyes, unblinking, probed her forehead, then her face.

  “Stop staring. I’m not trying to buy sympathy—just your help.”

  “I know.”

  “Then quit it. We’re here, we’re alone, and you’re the first man—the first one he doesn’t own anyway—so why not enjoy . . . Oh, I get it.” She began to back away. “You think I’m crazy. Well, I’m not. And I’m not dumb enough to believe you’re anything but—”

  “The shock treatments,” Tomlinson said gently. “For me, that wasn’t the worst part. It was the humiliation. Like a lab rat in a cage. Do they still use saline gel and a piece of rubber so you don’t swallow your tongue?”

  The woman gulped, weakening, then was suddenly suspicious. “How do you know that?”

  “You asked for proof.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything. Go—” She slapped the curtain open. “I’ve changed my mind. For all I know, this is one of his freaky games. I want you to leave.”