Caribbean Rim

by Randy Wayne White

  “It’s not paranoia when there’s a reason—wanted for sexual assault in his case,” Ford said.

  “That wasn’t what worried him. You’d know what I mean, I guess, if you really are a cop.”

  “Does it have something to do with a guy named Jimmy Jones?” Ford asked. “Or about how rich you’d be if you kept your mouth shut?” It was a small gamble that paid off. Yes, she knew—a little bit anyway. It was in her expression and quick denial.

  “When I get back, I’d like to hear what else Efren warned you about,” he said, and went out carrying his bag.

  If Tomlinson was meditating, it wasn’t nearby. He circled the hotel, peeked in at Carrie, and walked to the water. Night vision showed a mile of empty beach, palms shadowed by starlight, a wading bird. Far to the north, a white four-second flasher marked the entrance to Smith Bay Harbour.

  What was the depth of the channel? Josiah had said Donner’s yacht was a rental out of Nassau, black hull, probably drew five feet. Island Time—one of thousands of boats with the same name. Estimated distance to Smith Bay: two miles, much of it rugged bush and limestone. Tough to negotiate on foot.

  Where the hell was Tomlinson?

  Ford walked south past the cottages toward a shoal inlet, Fernandez Creek, and the rocky point where windows of their rental house glimmered among palms. It was the same stretch where Carrie had seen someone. Or something. Or was she so stoned that this was all a waste of time?

  Once again, he put the NV monoc to his eye. A meteorite streaked toward a silent woof of lightning . . . cloud shadows on a silent, iridescent sea . . . then, to the east, hillocks along the road bristled with manufactured light. Random beams of white among the low trees that suggested not one flashlight but several carried by a ragtag line of people.

  Ford understood when he was close enough to identify a tall scarecrow shape among a group of locals. They carried lights and burlap sacks. Tomlinson, an observer, watched his colleagues beat among the bushes with sticks.

  Ford laughed, wanted to join the fun, but . . .

  Oh well.

  At the hotel, Carrie had lit another joint and was pacing behind a door that was locked and barricaded with a chair.

  Whatever the woman had seen was real.

  * * *

  —

  Probably a man hunting giant land crabs” was not the explanation a woman, stoned and afraid, was equipped to deal with. “Oh my god, are they dangerous?”

  “Depends on the man,” Ford said, trying to be lighthearted. Make her laugh at the situation, was his objective.

  The humor was lost on Carrie. “Fucking giant crabs, man. That’s the sort of crap Efren would lay on me. Like the sharks. And a bloodsucking—I forget the name, this savage dude who would track me down if I tried to leave the island.” Near meltdown, she asked, “Why are you doing this to me?”

  Ford said, “Sorry. Geezus, I’m an idiot. All I meant was . . . you’re safe, do you hear me? Nothing to worry about.”

  “Then why tell that stupid goddamn lie about giant crabs?”

  “I was talking about edible crabs, that’s all. The locals hunt them at night. Have a seat. It’s sort of interesting, really.” He extended his hand. “Please?”

  On the couch, her crying jag was a mix of fury and chagrined relief. Tea was refused. Beer over ice provided a mild sedative. The transition from anger to embarrassment is often circular. The needle has to spin itself to a stop.

  It took a while.

  When she was calmer, he said, “I found Tomlinson. He’s hunting crabs with some locals. Giant land crabs—that really is what they’re called.” He spread his fingers wide. “A little bigger than this, some of them. The crabs migrate at night during the rainy season. And they’re a favorite food. Locals pen them up, feed them until the market’s good, then sell them to make a little extra cash. Understand? All I meant was, the person you saw was probably hunting crabs, not you.”

  Carrie grimaced and wiped her eyes. “Bullshit. Are you sure?”

  Ford decided she was strong enough to hear the truth. “Nope. It could’ve been Donner. Tell me about him. He scares you, that’s obvious. How did you meet? I assume you didn’t show up in the Bahamas blind after answering a classified ad.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic,” she said. “I need to pee and freshen up.”

  On a folding valet was her suitcase. When the bathroom door closed, Ford went through her things while her voice echoed off the tiles. “I’m not naïve. I knew what was expected in return for my airfare and a month on ‘his’ island—or thought I did. Mostly, I was alone, but the first three nights, my God, the dress-up games. Truly sickening. My role was to act like his . . . Just a minute.”

  The toilet flushed, a sound sanitized by water in the sink, before she continued. “My role was to play his virginal wife. I mean, like really his wife, and he had a thing for horror flicks—George Romero. You ever see Night of the Living Dead? Efren claimed he could get me a part in the zombie series. He’s an authority on substance abuse counseling, too, which was part of his sales pitch. That’s true. Check the Internet—Efren Donner, the movie star shrink. See, I’m not stupid. Just too damn trusting.”

  A cabinet opened, a toothbrush tapped the sink, the water stopped. Ford was seated when she exited. Watched her plop down on the bed, not playing a role, just being herself and tired. “I must look like hell. Sorry.”

  Her cobalt hair was pulled back, eyes puffy in a hollow, angular face that a camera might love but did not interest Ford, who pretended otherwise. “Why are beautiful women always so tough on themselves?”

  “That’s sweet,” she said, and looked at him differently, maybe seeing him for the first time. “Seagard said you’re a good guy and all. And funny, because you’re so straight. Sorry I asked if you were a cop.”

  “She might take it as a compliment. Carrie, you had to have read about the sexual assault charges. So Donner’s offer, the thing about making you rich, must’ve—”

  “Efren said it was all fake news bullshit. And seriously, who believes anything anymore? That’s not why he’s worried about cops. The reason is, he carries a special goodie bag and he’s not licensed in the Bahamas. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

  “Pharmaceuticals,” Ford said.

  “Drugs,” she said. “Grass. Glass and mollies—that’s speed.”

  “Isn’t glass a type of—”

  “Meth,” she said, impatiently. “Psychotropic candy. He knew I had a history, but alone on an island, in that stinking old house? Things really got freaky, so I was glad when he split after a few nights. I was the virginal wife who had a psycho stalker or I was a tough biker chick out for revenge—Efren’s directing me the whole time, understand. Like there’s actually a camera. Him in this weird wooden mask. Or wearing—”

  “What kind of mask?” Ford was thinking of the church, what he’d seen inside. Artifacts that predated a shipwreck, in 1784, and survivors who had intermingled with Indios and slaves three hundred years ago.

  “I don’t know, scary, with teeth, and straw for hair. He brought all kinds of masks, props—we’re talking Broadway-quality. I went along with it until he really freaked out. That was on the third night. He told me to wait inside for twenty minutes, then cross a little bridge and try to find him. Like hide-and-seek, you know? When he screamed, I thought it was part of the act. But he kept screaming, and ran right past me to the house. And, guess what? The asshole locked me out. There was blood on the door—real blood, not the red syrup he liked to use. Then he got in his boat and split, not a word, and left me there alone on that fucking island, day after day until I thought I had gone . . .” She stopped, a moment of revelation that caused her to sag. A familiar wave of panic flooded in. “Oh my god. I didn’t realize how sick this all was until now telling you. Could I have . . . Tell me the truth. Do you think I imagined it all? Or that
I’m . . . that I’ve gone insane?”

  Of all the emotions Ford had witnessed in life, fear expressed by a hapless victim touched him on a level he could not dismiss intellectually or dismiss with a calming lie.

  “I think you need sleep, Carrie,” he said. “Come on. You’re staying with Tomlinson and me tonight.”

  * * *

  —

  The plane’s emergency kit included mosquito netting and a coil of quarter-inch nylon. Their rental house fronted a tidal creek, on a rocky point with a breeze, where a hammock was strung beneath a glowering of palms.

  Ford rigged mosquito netting on a nylon bar while Tomlinson talked about the fun he’d had hunting crabs. The elders had carried torches, not flashlights, and their tickle sticks were hand-carved, dating back to the days of hunting whales under sail with harpoons.

  “The passage of time here, man, is in slo-mo. Every day is as new as that sunrise three hundred years ago.”

  He was referencing what they’d seen inside the church, not Cat Island, although the mismatched simile might have applied.

  Ford was preoccupied and a tad pissed off. He chose to listen rather than inquire about a shipwreck and symbols his pal had yet to discuss.

  Back to crab hunting. The technique hadn’t varied much over the centuries. Giant white or black land crabs, which were actually bluish gray, dug burrows deep in the coppice, an island term for low wooded bush areas. Tickle sticks were used to breach their holes, and, by god, watch out for those big-assed pincers. And the small ones were even worse. They were sharp enough to snip buttonwood and coco plum—carrion morsels, too—which is why the locals penned the crabs and fattened them with rice, grits, and coconut for a few weeks before eating.

  “It’s more of a psychological thing,” Tomlinson, a vegetarian, reasoned, “which I totally get. They told me the best time is August, three days before the full moon, because the females have to—”

  “It’s part of the cycle,” Ford interrupted. “Land crustaceans migrate to saltwater to lay eggs. You think I don’t know this? The females molt while their eggs become part of the plankton chain. A high mortality rate for all involved, particularly because of fish. And car traffic. And people like you.” He knotted the mosquito net securely over the hammock. “Can you guess what I’d rather talk about?”

  Tomlinson cleared his throat and looked toward the house, where Carrie’s bedroom light was on. “Sorry, man, I shouldn’t have left her alone. But I figured with you so close by . . . And where the hell is there a place safer than this?” Arms spread, he included all of Fernandez Bay.

  “I wouldn’t sleep out here if I didn’t have my doubts,” Ford said.

  “You’re pissed.”

  “Darn right—well, not mad, just irritated. She’s your responsibility, but Josiah is what I meant. And the church. A lot of your supposed secrets are as common as the back of a dollar bill. So why wouldn’t he talk about the shipwreck of 1784? Or you, for that matter?”

  “Fair question,” Tomlinson said softly. “Guess it does seem a little silly. Secret handshakes, passwords—kid stuff, in a way. But remember, the Brotherhood dates back to a time when the Church, and other sects as well, ruled the known world, monarchies included. Popes and bishops and ministers and preachers decided what people could think, what they could say and do. Back then, science was considered the Devil’s craft. Craft, man, is the key word. How about this, Doc—tell me what you know and we’ll go from there.”

  What Ford had seen in the church was a sad little makeshift shrine created by survivors of a shipwreck. Some of the men, presumably, had been Freemasons. It was possible that castaway societies viewed the random luck that had saved them as God’s work, so divine importance was assigned to items that had washed ashore after the wreck.

  It was a theory, nothing more, based on what he’d seen.

  The church’s eastern wall was a shrine of seafaring detritus: a ship’s bell, a captain’s chest wormy with age. In the chest, a tankard still used for sipping Communion wine. Marlinspikes, remnants of clothing, and a collection of swords with one missing—a saber gifted to Leonard Nickelby.

  Josiah had refused to provide a reason for giving it to an outsider, or why it was held in higher esteem than the other swords. Ford was working on a theory about that, too.

  Centered forward of the shrine was a brace of wooden chairs, a podium, and, on it, a dusty old gilt-edged Bible. Each was emblazoned with a pyramid and the omniscient eye of God, similar to images on the dollar bill.

  Masonic symbols all. They decorated the church walls like points of a compass. They had been chiseled into rock and wood. But side by side with them, sometimes intertwined, were carved totems—a jaguar, an owl and a frog, motifs that were familiar to a biologist who’d traveled Mesoamerica. These were indigenous symbols created by a lost race. On a slab of rock near the altar were petroglyphs that could still be found in Guatemala’s Maya Mountains and the jungle ruins of Tikal.

  Ford said, “An interesting combination, but it doesn’t explain all the secrecy. Something else might.” He referenced a tattered flag, frail as tissue paper, that had been stored—or hidden—out of sight. Impossible to hide was a carving on a lintel above the church pulpit.

  “Since when is the skull and crossbones a Masonic symbol?” he asked.

  Tomlinson responded, “Dude, I told Josiah you’d ask. Since the thirteen hundreds, but not in a Jolly Roger kinda way. Although, you’ve got to wonder. The Brotherhood had to survive somehow. And the churches of England and Spain weren’t exactly shy about burning heretics at the stake.”

  “A pirate ship.” Ford nodded.

  “Privateers, more likely. I’m guessing, same as you.”

  “Okay. But why keep it secret for three hundred years unless they’re hiding something else?”

  “Don’t forget the witches,” Tomlinson said like that meant something. “Freemason Scots and Jews had a thing for robbing their enemies and rescuing heretics.”

  “What about rescuing kidnapped children? You might’ve promised Josiah not to call in the cavalry, but I didn’t. An antique sword is one thing, but go after a little boy to protect some . . . whatever it is the old guy’s protecting . . . that’s bullshit and you know it.”

  “Cavalry, as in cops? Well . . . never thought I’d see the day, but you’re right, man. We’ve got to pull out the stops on this one. Let me powwow with Brother Bodden and I’ll explain to him how you’re—”

  He let his friend talk. Tomorrow, Tomlinson and the girl would be on a plane home, or sequestered in a hotel with Tamara, because that’s the way it had to be.

  Ford had his secrets, too.

  19

  Lydia recognized the seaplane that passed low as if interested—white fuselage, blue trim, with big torpedo floats. The same plane that had buzzed the mailboat.

  “Don’t even think about waving,” Efren said, standing at the helm of his rented yacht. “I told you what would happen if you do something stupid.”

  There was a list of what would happen should she try to summon help. The boy, who was comatose, would not be put ashore at a place where someone might call an ambulance. And Leonard, now that he was conscious, would remain padlocked in the engine hold. The temperature in that tiny space rivaled an oven.

  Right. Like she believed a coked-up Hollywood has-been who planned to kill them anyway once he got what he wanted. He’d almost done it yesterday, and would have, had she not soothed him like a spooked horse, using flattery and promises to talk that goddamn club out of his hand. Later, she did the same thing when he’d reappeared with a small pistol. A revolver, maybe a .38, he now carried in his pocket as a constant threat.

  The plane was circling back.

  “If the pilot sees we’re aground,” Lydia said as if equally concerned, “I’m afraid he might hail the Coast Guard. The smart thing to do—it’s up to y
ou, of course—is go out on the deck and give him a thumbs-up. Or I can. But it’s better if he sees a man, don’t you think?”

  “This piece-of-shit chart plotter,” Donner said, and smacked the screen for allowing them to bulldoze onto a sandy shoal that Lydia had tried to warn him about. “This is your fault for second-guessing every goddamn thing I do. Hands off the controls ’til I get back.”

  The moment the cabin door slammed, she tried the VHF radio. Morse code squawks, S-O-S, with the mic key. Donner had cut the antenna cables and disabled all satellite EPIRB devices, but it was possible a static message might get out.

  Stainless fixtures in the cabin vibrated as the plane roared low overhead, then banked north toward a mangrove archipelago of coral flats.

  Squawk-squawk-squawk . . . Squawk-squawk-squawk . . . S-O-S . . . S-O-S . . .

  No response.

  Lydia gave it up as hopeless. Switched off the radio and was re-cradling the mic when, at the edge of visibility, the aircraft appeared to dip its wings, a quick port and starboard. Subtle, all but imperceptible to a limo rat like Efren Donner.

  Was that possible? No . . . the pilot had no way of knowing her situation. He would have confirmed reception by circling at least once. And why bother after getting a thumbs-up from Efren, who looked distinguished in leisure attire, not insane like last night when he’d come to her bed still bloody and wearing a freakish wooden mask?

  Replaying it made her want to vomit. Not that he’d touched her, which would have been even worse. His intent was to humiliate. Lydia was the homely, helpless loser—a role she had endured before. Donner was less convincing as the movie god who was her only hope.

  The man’s behavior swung from nasty to insane.

  In a leather bag was an array of drugs, including coke, meth, and syringes. In college, Lydia had peddled both enough to know. The seesaw highs and spiraling indecision of an addict were all a form of rage that could be gently redirected but never confronted head-on.