Found at Sea

by Anne Marie Duquette

  Neptune’s Bride will never sail again.

  “You can have the guest bedroom,” she said. “I’ll sleep in Tanya’s room. I’ll get some clothes for both of us from the master bedroom. You and Gerald are close enough in size. Sorry about your suitcase going down with the ship.”

  “It’s all right, Aurora,” Jordan said, trying to reassure her.

  Aurora didn’t respond. “I’m going to check Dorian’s messages. Make yourself at home. The guest room has a bathroom. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen.”

  “You want anything?” Jordan asked.

  “A citrus drink—lime would be good,” she replied before heading down the hall. “Anything to wash away the taste of smoke.” Her voice broke and she disappeared into the master bedroom.

  “Aurora...” No answer. Jordan pulled out a lime citrus drink. He opened the freezer, found a frozen apple pie and, after studying the microwave controls, managed the defrost setting. Making coffee was next on his list. By the time Aurora rejoined him in the kitchen, pie, drinks and the appropriate silverware were waiting on the small breakfast table.

  “Hope you don’t mind,” Jordan said, pulling out a chair for her. “You said make yourself at home.”

  “Even if we hadn’t had dinner, I don’t think I could eat a thing,” Aurora said.

  Jordan opened her bottle and passed it to her. “You missed out on dessert.” He pointed at the pie. “Want some?”

  “No, but go ahead.”

  Jordan cut himself a generous portion of pie. “Sure you don’t want the sugar boost?”

  Aurora ran her fingers through smoky-smelling hair. “I’ve never understood how people can eat when they’re upset.”

  Jordan picked up his fork and started in. “When the hurricane sank our fleet, I was in the water for two days before I was rescued. The worst part was not knowing if my family was alive. The next was the terrible thirst and the hunger. I thought myself the most coldhearted man alive, to be yearning for food and water when there was a good chance some of my family had drowned.”

  He took a second bite. “Turns out they were all dead. Later on, the hospital counselor told me those thoughts of food and water and shelter were signs of my determination to live. That I shouldn’t feel guilty about them. I don’t anymore.”

  “I do,” Aurora said quietly. “I think of them all in jail, and it seems wrong to find pleasure in food. Apple pie is Dorian’s favorite.”

  Jordan took a hearty swallow of coffee, then picked up his fork again. “Mine, too. There’s nothing like New England apples in the fall and hot homemade pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top. My family would never begrudge me a piece—I doubt yours would, either. Life is too short.”

  Tears started in her eyes, but Aurora brushed them aside. “Cut me a piece of the stupid pie,” she said. “I’ll get the ice cream. You missed that.”

  Moments later, both were eating pie à la mode and sipping coffee. By the time only crusts were left on their plates, Jordan felt secure enough in her composure to say, “I’m sorry about your ship.”

  “Thanks. What really bothers me is that whoever’s after us would risk an innocent party’s life.”

  “Your neighbor was lucky.”

  “Keith drank too much and didn’t run a tight ship, but he never smoked when he was on board. I ought to know. We’ve been slip neighbors for years.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I can believe that he passed out from too much beer. If a cigarette did start that fire—he didn’t light it. Someone wanted to make it look like damage to my boat was accidental, but I doubt it was. Keith didn’t deserve what he got. He was dragged into this because of me. He could have been killed.” Aurora swallowed hard. “I set some of Gerald’s things on your bed. He’s a baseball fan, so his T-shirts all have Padres logos. His jeans are probably a bit big, but I found you a belt.”

  “Clothes are the least of our worries,” Jordan said bluntly.

  “I know.” She sighed. “I’ll bet anything the harbor police discover tonight wasn’t an accident.”

  “After what you’ve told me, I agree. It’s too convenient. If he wasn’t smoking, there would have to be some kind of incendiary device or chemical, since his boat wasn’t a woody. You need to call Donna and have her check it out. Or I will.”

  Aurora nodded. “I already did. She’s going down to the harbor tomorrow to do her own investigation. Then she’ll check with the police and the fire marshal and compare notes. If anything suspicious turns up, she’ll let us know.”

  “You don’t want to go down there, too, and talk to the harbor police?”

  “I heard—and saw—enough. Donna can handle that end of it. We need to start from scratch. I have some of my spare gear stored here in the garage, but not nearly enough to start a full-blown salvage operation. I’m without a ship, and yours is tied up. I’ll have to track down another.” Her fork tapped against the pie plate in the first nervous gesture he’d seen her make.

  Jordan reached for her hand, to stop the tapping and to offer reassurance. “I’ll get the ship and the gear.”

  “But—”

  “You’ve done enough. Now it’s my turn. We’ll be salvaging within the week or my name’s not Jordan Castillo.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Tijuana Women’s Jail

  Week’s end, daytime

  TANYA HELD HER BREATH as she carried the vile-smelling bedpan across the jail’s sick ward, hurrying across the faded linoleum to the dumping station on the opposite side of the room. One of the ambulatory patients along her path pointed and laughed, making droll comments about Tanya’s job.

  She spoke in Spanish, but Tanya understood every word. She approached the woman, bedpan aloft, intending to share her wealth.

  “Tanya...” Tanya stopped in her tracks at her mother’s call. Dorian’s voice was faint, pleading.

  “In a minute, Mom.” Tanya glared at the woman, then headed for the bathroom to empty the bedpan, washed it, then her hands. You’d think they’d at least give me gloves. This ancient brush here needs a longer stick on it. And I need more than one apron a day. If Mom weren’t so sick, I’d never have volunteered for this poop brigade.

  Tanya returned the empty bedpan to its owner and hurried to Dorian’s side.

  “You need something, Mom? A drink? Some more crackers?”

  Dorian shook her head at the mention of food. “I couldn’t eat. This bug that’s going around is awful. I—I’m sorry, honey, but I’m going to be sick again.”

  Tanya grabbed the metal basin and held it for her mother as Dorian’s thin body was racked with heaves. Tending her mother brought on none of the revulsion she felt tending other patients. When Dorian’s spasms were over, Tanya wet a cloth and wiped her face and lips.

  “You’re a good daughter.” Dorian sighed.

  Tanya bit her lip. No, I’m not, Mom. But this isn’t the time to argue with you. You’ve got to get well. Dorian’s state of mind and her inability to eat had made her particularly susceptible to the stomach flu going around and its secondary infections.

  “Are you feeling any better than yesterday?” Tanya asked, brushing her mother’s hair and pointedly ignoring another patient calling out that her bedpan was full.

  “No. The cramps are worse, and I can’t keep anything down.”

  “That’s because there isn’t anything worth keeping down in this place,” Tanya said. “Except the crackers. Mom, you have to eat more.”

  “I’m working on it.” Dorian exhaled a long sigh. “I’m so proud of you, helping out here in the clinic. I wish your dad could see you.”

  Mom, are you insane? I look awful, and so do you. You’re stuck in some foreign jail—thanks to me. You’re half-dead—and it’s my fault for lying. I only volunteered to work here because I’m worried about you. And I’m glad I did, because I think I’ve found a way out for both of us.

  Tanya straightened her mother’s covers, gave her a tiny spoonful of ice
and checked on the fluid level in the IV bag keeping Dorian hydrated. “I have to empty this, Mom.” She picked up the basin. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

  Tanya headed back to the dumping station, collecting two more bedpans and one more basin as she went. Patients and guards alike backed away from her, and Tanya, who smelled more and more like a full bedpan herself by the end of the day, didn’t mind.

  That smell is going to get Mom and me out of here. Soon...

  “Hey, goat dung, you’ve got a visitor,” one of the crankier guards called out in Spanish. “Follow me.”

  “But not too close,” ordered the woman she’d nearly dumped a bedpan on. She and the guard both laughed. Tanya flipped her an obscene finger gesture and followed.

  She was shown back to her cell block and locked in her individual cell by the more pleasant Olivia. Some guards didn’t care about inmates; the few who did made Tanya feel better.

  “How is your mother?” Olivia asked, with no comments on Tanya’s bedraggled appearance or smell.

  “Bad,” Tanya said in Spanish. “She’s still pretty sick. I hope my aunt brought some more food—maybe some canned broth. Is she here?” Tanya took off the filthy apron and smoothed back her hair. “I’m ready to see her,” she said.

  Olivia escorted in a young man. Who’s this? Where’s Rory? This guy is definitely Mexican. Not bad-looking. A little thin, but that seems to be the norm around here.

  “You are the niece of Señorita Aurora?” he asked.

  “Yes, señor. May I ask your name?” The polite Spanish words practically made her gag, but Tanya was learning that she had little else to recommend her. Polite subservience couldn’t hurt and would only help. At least until I get out of here.

  Roberto introduced himself, then said in Spanish, “Your aunt is not able to see you today.”

  Tanya felt prickles on the back of her neck. “Why? What’s wrong?” she asked, so upset she lapsed into English.

  “She asked me to relay you a message. There has been...a setback to her diving operation. Her ship is gone. Burned.”

  Tanya clenched the bars as Roberto related the story. Burned? Neptune’s Bride is gone? I’m really on my own here?

  She forced herself to speak Spanish calmly and with respect, as Mexicans always spoke to those of the opposite sex. “Do you know when she will be back?”

  “Your aunt says she does not know. She must concentrate on replacing that which has been destroyed. Señor Castillo is helping her. For now, you and your mother are without her company. Or her gifts of food. She said to tell you she was sorry.”

  Tanya’s hands slipped down the bars to her sides. I will not let this stranger see me cry. “My mother needs the food. Without it—”

  “What did you expect, running drugs?” His voice was contemptuous.

  Tanya bit back her retort. “Perhaps you could help my mother, señor?”

  “I cannot. I provide for my own family. How could you do this to yours?”

  Tanya’s head snapped up. “I have enough smarts to break us both out of this place,” she hissed in English. “With or without Rory’s money.”

  Roberto blinked, then moved closer to the bars and spoke in hushed English, as well. Olivia studied them as they changed to a language she couldn’t understand, but after a moment relaxed again.

  “Idiot,” Roberto whispered. “It’s easy to get out of the building. It is not so easy to get across the border.”

  Tanya’s eyes narrowed. “My mother needs to go home, and my aunt just lost her business. I’m getting out of here, and I’m taking Mom with me, even if I have to carry her every step of the way.”

  Roberto protested so much that Olivia approached them and asked what was wrong. Tanya switched back to Spanish.

  “My boyfriend here was upset to learn that my mother’s still ill. And he thinks I disrespect him by meeting him like this, so dirty and smelly. I tried to tell him I’m working in the clinic, but he doesn’t believe me. Maybe he’ll believe you.”

  Tanya watched the exchange between the other two people—Olivia convinced by her lies, Roberto shocked at them. What were a few more lies when she’d already fallen so far? However, she told the truth about one thing. She was getting out of here with her mother...and soon.

  * * *

  ROBERTO LEFT the jail building with a heavy heart. Outside in the parking lot, he ignored the niños, some with their patched football begging him to play, others asking for a spare peso or two.

  That crazy gringa means what she says. He’d seen that look of desperation too many times in his young life not to take Tanya seriously. His father had worn it when Roberto’s grandfather had died in the fields. Roberto’s mother and sister had worn it when his own father died in the fields. Now Roberto recognized it in himself—and in Tanya.

  What am I going to do? he wondered, walking through the littered parking lot to begin the long, hot seven-mile walk home. I can call the señorita, but she could do nothing. I could talk to Tanya’s father, but he could do nothing himself. I could let the crazy gringa make her escape, but her mother would not survive the trek to the border—if the gringa even knew which way to go. What am I supposed to do?

  One by one, the younger male children fell away, until only one small boy about age five remained, determinedly tugging on the edge of Roberto’s shirt.

  “Go home to your mother,” Roberto ordered harshly. “I have just enough to feed my own women today. I have a little left for myself and none for you.”

  The little boy began to cry, softly, noiselessly, tears running down his cheeks.

  Roberto hunkered down until his face was level with the child’s. “Where is your family?” he asked, making his voice softer.

  “Gone.”

  “All of them?”

  “Gone,” the boy repeated. “Will you be my papa?”

  “I have no wife.”

  “But you feed women, yes? Would you feed me?” Roberto closed his eyes as the boy reached for his shirttail again, too fearful to touch the larger hand with his small dirty fingers. “Just one tortilla? Or a huevo? Just a small one from a small hen?”

  “I live many kilometers from here. You could never walk it.”

  The boy scrambled to his feet. Roberto started for home at a brisk pace. The child managed to keep up for the first five minutes, then his weakened body could go no farther. Roberto hardened his heart, as only those who live on the edge of starvation can do.

  “I must care for my own family, niño. Walk or go hungry.”

  The boy tried to get up, but fell again. Roberto tried to leave, but couldn’t. He retreated, lifted the boy in his arms and once again set out for home. With every step he took carrying the boy, his resolve grew harsher. His own youthful reserves weren’t infinite. He felt much older than his seventeen years...and had for some time.

  I will help the gringa and her mother. Her family—and mine—will live across the border. My family will never beg like this little one. I swear upon my father’s life, my grandfather’s life, that we will leave this place.

  The boy stopped crying and placed thin arms around Roberto’s neck.

  “What’s your name, boy?” Roberto asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “How could you forget your own name?”

  “Mama said niños who die don’t need names. Then she died.”

  “What shall I call you?”

  “I don’t know.” The boy stared at him with dull, brown eyes and said, “I’m sorry, Papa.”

  “Don’t call me Papa. I am Roberto.”

  Have mercy on us. Don’t let us all end up like this boy—with no family to use his name. I hope that unwashed gringa’s aunt calls me soon. She is our only hope.

  Roberto hefted the child to his back and shoulders and kept walking.

  Dorian’s home

  Same evening

  ALONE INSIDE THE HOUSE, Aurora carefully went through her sister’s closet and dresser drawers, picking out only the oldes
t, most worn clothes to use as her own. She’d already done the same with Gerald’s things for Jordan. Next, she’d head for the attic and dig out some old dishes Dorian had set aside for the church rummage sale.

  I guess I qualify as a charity case this week, Aurora thought grimly. I think she has some old coats up there, too, that I could use on the boat. If I ever get a boat...

  That was Jordan’s job. Donna and the Harbor Patrol had filed their investigation findings with the insurance company. Gasoline had been discovered as the start of the blaze, gas that had been lit while Keith, who would quickly recover, was passed out from drinking. Arson was indeed suspected, which meant the insurance company had to do their own investigation before paying out any claims to Keith or Aurora.

  “Actually, they want to make sure you didn’t set the fire yourself,” Donna had told her earlier in the week.

  “Me? I’d never burn my own boat,” Aurora protested, “let alone burn someone else’s and endanger a man’s life.”

  “I know that, but the insurance company doesn’t. You need money for lawyers and your sister’s company, your cash flow is decreasing, and all of a sudden—poof! Your heavily insured boat goes up in flames.”

  “But I didn’t do it.”

  Donna had patted Aurora’s shoulder. “Of course you didn’t, and eventually the insurance company will realize that. But it may take a while—especially since the phone number given by your John Doe is now disconnected. I’m still working with the phone company on leads, but for now, you’ll have to bite the bullet.”

  Everyone had been kind—even her parents had offered to fly in from Arizona and stay at Dorian’s house with her and Jordan. Aurora had firmly told them to stay put. The last thing she needed was having to worry about her parents’ safety. After what had happened to Jordan and Keith, after the fire, anything was possible.

  Surprisingly, Jordan had been the most help. He didn’t pat her shoulder and murmur comforting words like some people did, nor did he offer to lend her money as others had. Instead, he was practical and matter-of-fact, his sympathy expressed in actions more than words. For instance, he’d established a local line of credit. Already Dorian’s garage held supplies and new dive gear, all chosen and purchased by Jordan.