Undercurrents

by Pamela Beason

  The daylight was almost gone, but she glimpsed the shiny trail of a tear as it slid down his face.

  She had nothing left to lose. “You know, don’t you?”

  For a second, their eyes met. His expression was stunned, as if she’d slapped him. Then he quickly looked away. “Know?” he asked.

  “You know how Dan died.” He only swallowed in response. “You took him back to Buoy 3942.”

  Eduardo refused to look at her.

  “They shipped his body home in his wetsuit. In a pocket in that wetsuit was an identification tag from a lost fishing gaff that we saw there.”

  He scratched the horse between its ears.

  “Authorities might be able to trace that tag back to a specific boat. Maybe a poacher’s boat? Maybe your cousin’s boat?”

  Eduardo met her gaze for a few seconds. His eyes beseeched her to stop.

  “Dan’s wife has that tag, Eduardo.”

  He folded his hands in front of his chest and stared at the ground.

  “I have a photo of that tag, a photo I took that day Daniel and I went diving at Buoy 3942.”

  The horse butted Eduardo’s back, wanting more scratching, and Eduardo stumbled forward a step.

  “I believed Abigail when she said you were with the tourists, but Abigail could never keep names straight, could she? The ‘nice young man’ she referred to was actually Maxim, wasn’t it? You might have dropped the tour group off on Isabela, but then you took Daniel back to the buoy. He wouldn’t have asked anyone but you.”

  He closed his eyes and made the sign of the cross.

  “Did you murder Dan?”

  “No! He was my friend!” Eduardo opened his eyes, which now brimmed with tears. “He was a good man. He would not want . . .” His words trailed off without ending the sentence.

  “Did you deliver him to a killer? Did you watch someone else murder him?”

  He flinched. “No.”

  She waited for the rest.

  He looked away as he said, “It was an accident.”

  “An accident?” She’d seen the cut regulator hose, the slash on Dan’s face and neck.

  “I . . .” He choked for a second, then swallowed and began again. “I take Dan to the buoy, like you say.”

  “I knew it.”

  “He says he will be quick. He only wants to get something there. He says the current is too strong for you.”

  Oh God. That’s why he’d gone diving alone; he thought she wasn’t up to it. Dan had been trying to protect her.

  “When he is diving, I see my cousin’s boat coming. He should not be here.”

  “Was he fishing illegally?” she asked. “Was he meeting another boat there?”

  Eduardo sagged, his face reflecting all of his sixty years. “I do not know. I do not ask. I only know that he should not be here when I and Daniel are here; it is peligroso for all. I untie the panga, I go out to tell him to leave. I am only gone for a minute. Then I turn and go quickly back to the buoy.”

  Sam suddenly felt sick as she guessed what was coming.

  Eduardo wiped away a tear from his cheek, and he swallowed hard before continuing. “I am driving the boat very fast to hurry. I am almost there.”

  “And then . . .” she prompted.

  “And then . . .” He looked at the ground. “And then I feel a . . . a bang. I have hit something. I stop the motor. I see bubbles. And then I see blood.”

  Eduardo looked so miserable that for a second she felt sorry for him. Then she remembered that she was sitting in a jail cell while he stood outside.

  He put his face in his hands and sobbed. “I run over my friend!” He stood clutching his head for a long moment, and then he seemed to pull himself together. Wiping his hands on the front of his shirt, he continued. “I tie up the panga. I dive. My cousin comes, too. But we have no masks. And the current is too strong.”

  Sweet Jesus, she could see it all now. Dan surfacing, Eduardo racing over him with the panga, hitting him with the propeller. The impact must have knocked Dan out and pushed him below the surface, where the current took him. With his regulator hose cut, Dan had probably breathed in water and drowned before he ever became fully conscious again. She hoped he never knew he was going to die.

  Her chest hurt. She could barely speak for the lump in her throat. “Your cousin told Carlos Santos, didn’t he?” Santos had obviously been friendly toward Eduardo that day at the restaurant.

  “I guess so.”

  “So now you’re a hero among the fishermen.”

  Eduardo shook his head in horror. “Never.”

  “If it was an accident, Eduardo, why didn’t you tell?”

  He took a shaky breath. “It is trouble for so many, Sam. Capitán Quiroga could lose his job; he does not have a permit for a dive boat. If Mr. Sanders lose his tour permit for Papagayo, then also the crew lose their jobs. Maxim maybe lose his job because I, a park guide, make this deal with Dan. The director. My family. My pension . . .” He shook his head and made a gesture as if throwing everything into the air. She was reminded of a mother saying to a toddler, Poof. All gone.

  She got it; the list of collateral damage was long. But she was angry. “So you took my dive knife and you framed me!”

  He held up his hands. “No! That is not me.”

  “The captain?”

  Eduardo shook his head.

  “The police?”

  “No.”

  She knew then who it had to have been. The diver who had gone with the search parties. “Tony.”

  Eduardo sighed. “Papagayo must continue; the park cannot give the permit to another boat. The captain must continue. Tony must keep his job. He have a son with—how you say?” Eduardo used his index finger to draw a line from a nostril to his upper lip.

  What? “A cleft palate?” she guessed. This was all so irrelevant.

  Eduardo nodded. “And he have two more babies coming—twins.”

  Yeah, it was a sad story. A real tear jerker. But she was the one in jail. “So it’s okay to sacrifice one tourist? Is that what you call justice in Ecuador? It’s all right with everyone if I spend the rest of my life rotting in prison?” She gripped the wire mesh between them with her fingers.

  Eduardo wiped his eyes. “This will not happen.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  He shrugged. “You have many friend in the world. You are on the Internet. Somehow it will get fix.”

  “The same way it ‘got fix’ so I wouldn’t be arrested? And what about that poor tourist who was shot—Bergit? Those were real bullets, Eduardo. Who tried to kill her?”

  Discomfort, or maybe embarrassment, flitted across his weathered face. “Yes, real bullets, but a warning for Zing, not for that woman.” He shook his head. “Young boys. They have too little to do here; they want jobs but there are none. So they get into trouble. The boat bounces; they didn’t mean to hit her. They have no”—he searched for a word, came up with—“wisdom.” He swallowed. “Their parents will punish them.”

  “And you think that’s enough?” she yelped, outraged. What would those parents do? She pictured the lecture: You shot an innocent woman, son: no video games for a week.

  The yellow night light abruptly flicked on, illuminating the exterior of the building. Eduardo nervously glanced at it, and then turned back to her. “I must go now. Do not worry. I am always your friend.” He slipped away down the side of the building out of her sight.

  “Eduardo! You can’t leave me here!” The horse lifted its nose in her direction, its ears laid back against its neck. Shit. Obviously Eduardo could leave her here.

  Obviously everyone in the Galápagos was fine with leaving her here.

  She slid down onto her bunk and stared at the wall beyond her feet. One of the geckos had positioned itself at the same level as her face. Its eyes swiveled backward in her direction and they matched stares for a moment before the spotted lizard’s eyes pivoted away to search for insects. The other gecko was still on the ceiling, m
iraculously able to cling upside down, nearly invisible against the camouflage of mildew patches there.

  “Move outside, guys,” she told them. “There are plenty of cockroaches out there.”

  26

  The next morning, when the exterior door opened, Aguirre came into the building with the same two women from yesterday. Sam pressed herself against the bars at the front of her cell to watch. To her disappointment, none of them carried food or drink. She heard a brief incomprehensible conversation in Spanish, and then the two men in the adjoining cell were released. One of them carried a rumpled, stained paper sack under his arm, and when he noticed her clinging to the bars of her cell, he walked over and handed her the sack before exiting with the others, leaving her alone in the building.

  Inside the sack was a bun slathered with margarine, and a handful of raisins. She eagerly crammed the bun into her mouth. She followed the bun with a chaser of lukewarm water from the toilet faucet, and then savored the raisins one by one. If this wasn’t pitiful. How quickly she’d been reduced to being oh so grateful that a stranger gave her the remains of his dinner.

  If she didn’t die of starvation, she’d die of boredom. She made herself do fifty push-ups, then fifty sit-ups, then a few yoga stretches. That took less than an hour.

  Hoping for a visitor, she checked the vacant lot outside her window. Even the horse was ignoring her now. She pulled out the laptop. The power readout was down to 35 percent, and she watched it dwindle to 31 percent as the computer searched for a network. Finally it determined that Casa de García would work again, and Sam searched for news on the shootout in Arizona. The only new addition was that one of the injured had died in the hospital, upping the death count. Had that been Chase? She had no tears left; the cold numbness of sorrow was already setting in.

  She opened Out There’s home page. Her story was the main feature. Intrepid Reporter Jailed in Galápagos. She quickly scanned the comments. There was a bit of outrage, but most readers wanted to know if Wilderness Westin had really murdered Dan. Others wanted to know why Zing had dropped off the face of the earth.

  The wireless connection dropped out and she lost the Internet connection. The computer reported 25 percent battery power, and it was down to 22 percent when it found a usable connection, this time with Hotel Milagro.

  Returning to the Out There site, she posted a message from Wilderness—Release me! I am innocent! She thought about posting one from Zing, saying, I am in jail, too. But the discovery of her subterfuge might cause more outrage from the locals. She decided not to risk it.

  There were messages from Blake, sent yesterday—What’s happening down there?—and Maya—WTF? R u OK? Later, the girl had added, Jail’s not so hard, hang in, reminding her that the teen had spent time behind bars. But Maya’s cell had central heating and meals delivered three times a day, not to mention a likelihood of release in the near future. Sam didn’t respond—what could she tell them?

  There were no messages from Chase or Nicole or Adam or anyone at Key or Out There.

  “Puta americana!” a male voice yelled from outside. “Dónde está Zing?” Two thuds hit the side of the building a short distance from her window. A small clod of dirt sailed through the wire grid. Two more voices joined in, chanting, “Zing es un cobarde. Cobarde! Cobarde!”

  She heard Zing’s name, but understood nothing else except for the hostility of their tone, which was unmistakable. How many were out there? Did they know which cell she was in? It sounded like they were on the street to the side of the building, not in the vacant lot, but she was afraid to look out the window. After a few more shouts in Spanish, an authoritative voice interrupted the hecklers and everything went quiet again.

  Nineteen percent power. She navigated to the website for Adam’s television station. Yes, her story had been repeated there yesterday; that was a good thing. But there was no mention of any negotiations with Ecuador or plans to rescue her.

  Had the locals discovered she was Zing? If the fiscalia called her employers at Key or tried to track down this Zing character, they’d figure it out. Sam was terrified the hecklers’ next tactic might be a Molotov cocktail through her window.

  The little power icon was almost empty. Ten percent. She sent an email to her father. Just wanted you to know that I love you. Reverend Mark Westin wasn’t even back in the country yet. He wouldn’t read her message for a while, but if she suddenly disappeared, at least he’d know his daughter had thought of him. He was the only blood relative she had left.

  The screen flashed, WARNING! Low battery! Shutting down . . .

  Then the laptop shut itself off.

  For years, she’d wished she could get away from computers. Now she felt like she’d lost a friend. She stood up on the bed and looked out the window. The horse had company now. A speckled dog sprawled in the grass, basking in the sun. Could she get more pathetic than envying a dog’s life?

  Thoreau had said that most people led lives of quiet desperation. That phrase definitely described the atmosphere in her cell; she felt like screaming, but the silence of her cell was deafening. She lay down and closed her eyes and tried to envision her tranquil home life and a happy future with Chase. She was supposed to meet him tomorrow. Would he be at that ski resort expecting her to show up? Was he still alive?

  Her mind kept taking her down dark roads that ended with trials and bloodshed. She heard voices on the street outside, but no more angry shouts. C’mon, J.J., Adam, Wyatt—anyone! Surely they were trying to spring her, weren’t they? Before his admission, she would have added Eduardo to the list, but now it seemed like he’d simply wait for whatever came next.

  A few minutes after sunset, she heard someone enter the building and then a greasy paper sack was thrust through the bars of her cell. She was surprised to see that the hand holding it belonged to Schwartz. He stared at her as if trying to come to a decision, and then turned on his heel and left without saying a word. She wondered if the chicken sandwich and cookie came from him or his wife, or some other benefactor in town.

  * * * * *

  Sam was awakened the next morning by a tickle on her forehead. Ugh! Damn cockroach! She swept her hand over her brow. Something light fluttered away. She scooted to the edge of the mattress and inspected the floor, then retrieved the curly scrap of paper she saw there. Someone had rolled it up and pushed it through the window screen during the night. Handwritten in blue ink, the note read:

  Sandman meet u @ Villamil Airpt today

  She laughed bitterly. Right. As though she could walk out of here whenever she wanted. And even if she could, Puerto Villamil, the stronghold of the fishermen, was the last place on earth she would head. What kind of new threat was this?

  If she strolled into Puerto Villamil, she’d be like that poor finless shark she’d filmed, surrounded by others of her species ready to rip her to shreds. Who the hell was this Sandman who kept invading her email and now her jail cell? This note indicated he might be local. Could Sandman be Carlos Santos?

  She lowered herself to the floor and did push-ups, toying with two-syllable words in her head instead of counting one-two. Sand-man. San-dos. San-tos. Sand-y. Sand beach. Sand-storm. Sand-ers.

  She stopped and sat up. Sanders! Jonathan Sanders owned Papagayo and other ships. Dan’s death and her current notoriety had to be awkward for business. He’d love it if she simply vanished from the country, wouldn’t he? And he had the means to make it happen. He could easily have a personal jet waiting on the tarmac at the Villamil airport. Maybe Sandman was an ally, not an enemy. Sanders might be arranging her release right now. The note had to have been stuffed through her window by someone local, someone allied with Sandman. Eduardo? A girl could hope.

  She did twenty more push-ups, fifty sit-ups, and twenty jumping jacks, then decided it was time for a break. She lay on her back for twenty minutes, listening to her stomach growl. God, this was boring. No computer, no books, no television, not even the conversation of other prisoners to listen to. She
had a sudden unwelcome vision of withering to a skeleton all alone on this bunk. Mothers would drag in their juvie kids, point to her bones, and say, “That’s what will happen to you if you don’t straighten out.”

  She rummaged through her duffel bag, extracted a hairclip, and tried to pick the door lock with the metal end. The metal was too soft and merely twisted in the lock. She twisted it back into position and pulled it out. If only she had her dive knife, or any sort of real tool. It didn’t seem likely she’d be able to chisel her way out of here with a pen.

  She pulled a notebook from her duffel and wrote notes. I am innocent; help me—Summer Westin. I am being framed; help me—Summer Westin. I am hungry, feed me—Summer Westin. She toyed with the idea of writing, I am bored; entertain me, but that seemed frivolous. Maybe later. She folded each note in half and pushed them through the window grid. The horse came over to investigate the paper fluttering to the ground. He lipped a note, spat it out, and then sneezed green specks over the others.

  Sam lay down on her bunk again, closed her eyes, and thought about whether lifers welcomed death just to alleviate the tedium of imprisonment. Maybe she could tear her clothes into strips, weave them together into a long rope, wind it through the bars of the door like a pulley and yank out the wire grid in the window. Maybe she could use the concrete walls to sharpen her pen into a blade and attack the next officer who came in. Or slice her own wrists and get this over with. There was a word for that sort of weapon: A shiv? A shank?

  Yeesh. This was only her second day in jail and she was already thinking like an inmate. She worked on various other suicide scenarios—swallowing buttons, hanging herself with her homemade rope or the handles of her duffel bag. Jail’s not so hard, Maya? You try solitary with no food for a few days and you’ll change that song.

  Only two days had passed, she reminded herself. Blake, Wyatt, Adam, J.J., and Eduardo knew where she was. Sandman’s note gave her some hope of rescue today. She eagerly awaited one of Jon Sanders’s minions. She hoped he’d bring food with him.

  Instead, at mid-afternoon, the exterior door opened to admit Sergeant Schwartz and the female officer, Montero. The woman stood outside Sam’s cell while Sergeant Schwartz unlocked the door. Their expressions were unreadable.