Titan Trilogy 3.5-Black Soul

by T. J. Brearton

  He glanced at the meter, coming up on twenty dollars. Still headed east, the tan car just two vehicles ahead of them now. They were entering Los Fuertes, the first area they’d encountered any sort of residential section. Then French Harbor, where Rene had stayed for three days at the Clarion Inn.

  The road veered from oceanic views deeper into the jungle. Despite everything, William felt his eyelids growing heavy. He struggled to stay awake but the cool air and drive were lulling him. He was so tired. He’d been awake more than twenty-four hours . . .

  “You want me to keep following?”

  William’s heart skipped and he sat up straighter. The meter was over fifty dollars. How far had they gone? Then he saw the taillights flash on the tan car as it turned down a dirt road.

  “Okay,” William said, getting excited. “Yes, keep going . . .”

  The dirt road wound through thick ferns and almond trees. William warned the taxi driver to stay back a little ways, but not lose sight of them. Dirt and rocks beat at the underside of the cab.

  Their eyes connected in the rear view, the driver’s expression seeming to ask, Who are you?

  Surely he’d seen plenty of weirder shit driving a cab in a place like Roatán, William thought.

  The tan car slowed in front of a house.

  “Keep going.”

  The driver, Hosea, did as he was told, and they watched the tan car pull into the driveway as they drove past. There had been no place to stop — if they’d stopped they would’ve been too obvious.

  William watched out the rear window. The woman got out, the one from the eatery — she wasn’t looking at them. Then the dirt road curved and the woman and her passengers fell out of sight.

  William let the driver continue on for a few more seconds.

  “Alright, stop.”

  “Yes, mon.”

  They pulled over, snug against the jungle. William took his wallet from a concealed compartment in his bag and fished out four twenties.

  “Stay here, okay? This covers what I owe, plus a few more minutes. I’ll be back.”

  Hosea took the money and counted it. William put the bag over his shoulder and slid out of the car, stepping onto the dirt road. He walked back toward the house. As it came into view, he pushed through the ferns and into the jungle. Moving quietly, he positioned himself just beyond the lawn and out of sight.

  The sun had slipped below the horizon. The sky was violet, and dimming. The house wasn’t large, maybe three bedrooms. Open-beam ceilings and plenty of windows so William was able to see inside. No one in view, yet.

  William wondered if Rene was in there.

  Only the young man had stayed in the car. Just to be sure who it was, William withdrew the picture from his bag again and looked at it. Even in the failing light there was no mistaking the dark curls, the young man’s mustache and goatee. It was him. He’d been with Rene.

  Someone passed by a window. They came back and stopped, looking down. Maybe at the sink, William figured. A white man, in his fifties or sixties. Then the man disappeared.

  There was nothing else in the vicinity — the house was surrounded by forest, no neighbors. The mosquitos were out, biting at him.

  The door to the house opened and the woman from the café came back out. William thought he heard her humming a tune. The younger woman with the backpack was no longer with her.

  She got into the tan car and backed down the driveway, the scuba kid still riding with her.

  “Shit.”

  William stayed where he was. He was too far from the cab to run back there in time to follow them. He watched, helpless, as the tan car turned back in the direction it had come and the red taillights faded out of sight.

  There went his chance to talk to the kid from the picture.

  His phone, buzzing in his pocket, brought him out of the funk.

  He checked the display and recognized Hanna’s number, the pay-as-you-go phone Cohen had provided them. She’d probably gotten back to the resort and was wondering where he was. It was after eight at night. He’d have to call her back from the taxi.

  He kept his eyes on the house a little bit longer, hoping to see the young woman.

  The feelings were back — here he was in the tropics, but it felt no different from Russia. He’d been rash there, and it had nearly devastated everything they were trying to do. He needed to play it cooler. Just have a look. Besides, he didn’t know anything yet.

  He left the cover of the woods and stepped out onto the coarse grass. Keeping along the edge of the jungle, he swiped at the mosquito cloud around his head and circled the house.

  He could see inside through the many windows. The interior was luxurious, with ceramic floor tiles wall-to-wall, mahogany cabinetry.

  Around back of the house were gardens, fenced in lattice with an arbor entryway. A covered terrace overlooked the gardens, and he edged closer to the glass doors. Through them was a dimly lit room.

  The white man stepped out of a walk-in closet in what was a large bedroom. He wore a silk robe that hung open, exposing his naked body.

  William’s heart rate sped up as he moved away from the doors. He rounded the corner and got a better angle on the room. He could see the bed now, satin-covered, and the young woman in the center. Her hands tied to the posts. Her clothes removed.

  William dropped out of sight. He closed his eyes for a moment, crouched there beside the building.

  This was it. Happening all over again. The woman from the café had brought the girl here and she was about to be raped by the older white man. This was probably a rental property. The man was here for vacation, who knew, and had ordered up a young woman. An American, by the looks of her, just like Rene Sterling. Of course, that was how it all looked, but he didn’t have any firm evidence. He could walk around to the front door, burst into the house and yank the man out by his robe. He could physically subdue him and take him to the police in Coxen Hole. Or, better yet, drag him out into the jungle and personally interrogate him. Find out if he knew about Rene.

  William crept around to the front of the house. Something squeaked and ruffled in the undergrowth nearby, then scurried away.

  He came upon a graveled area, a series of flat stones forming a walkway to the house. Beyond that, a Nissan Pathfinder was parked. It had been out of view from the other side of the house.

  He quietly took out his phone. There was just enough light to take a picture of the license plate with no flash. He took two shots, stuck the phone away and kept going.

  A horn blared, out on the road.

  William stopped again, his temples throbbing with his pulse. A shape blurred past the window.

  William hurried back to the side of the house. He risked a look in the bedroom window.

  The man was gone. The girl was still on the bed, tied up, presumably unaware of the man’s departure. William stared at her. Hard to tell — she was gazing up at the ceiling — but she looked out of it.

  The horn blared again, reverberating through the trees.

  Goddammit. It was Hosea. The damn taxi driver was beeping the horn, impatient.

  William heard the front door open. Pressing himself against the hard, cool clay, he hid from sight.

  The man had done up his robe and walked down the driveway to the dirt road. He looked more agitated than worried. Maybe he wasn’t accustomed to worrying. Maybe it was why he left the curtains open on a house with many windows as he prepared have sex with drugged young women. William could fly out of the dark right now and tackle him. Smash his face into the gravel. Get some answers that way. At the very least, free the girl, get her out of there. But he stuck where he was. He waited. He heard the roar of an engine, and then the spit of dirt beneath tires.

  Headlights swept the jungle as the taxi came racing back up the road. The driver jammed on the brakes and stopped out in front. The man stopped too, holding his position just a few feet from the road.

  Hosea got out of the cab. He had definitely lost his patie
nce, but he halted when he saw the man standing there.

  “Where he go? I’m gonna leave that man.”

  “What are you talking about? What man?”

  Hosea looked like he wanted to say more, but maybe he realized something wasn’t quite right. He sank out of sight, back into the cab.

  The man in the robe wasn’t having it. He jogged over and slapped the taxi’s hood with the flat of his hand. The sound was loud, silencing the chirping insects.

  “Hey! What are you doing here? Who are you talking about?”

  William didn’t waste another second. He ran back to the gardens and jumped the small fence. If the terrace doors were locked, he’d burst through. But they swung open. The girl was just a few feet away on the bed. He could hear the man, still shouting, but then the taxi engine roared again.

  Don’t leave, William prayed. Don’t leave.

  As he undid the scarves binding the girl’s wrists, he heard Hosea yelling. Shouting about his cab, how if the man did any damage, he was going to pay for it. They continued to argue as William lifted her up. Her face was glazed with sweat, her pupils dilated. Carrying her like a bride, he kicked the terrace door open and left.

  “I’m going to get my gun,” the white man shouted.

  William moved to the front of the house. He came into full view of the front door now, as the white man slipped inside. He never saw William.

  Hosea was still there with the taxi. His eyes got wide as William hustled over with the naked, semi-conscious girl in his arms.

  “The back,” William ordered in a harsh whisper.

  Hosea understood, threw the door open and William laid the girl down on the seats. He closed the door and the two men hopped in front.

  Hosea didn’t bother asking any questions. He threw it in drive and stomped the gas as the man in the bathrobe appeared on the road behind them.

  There was a flash of light and a loud blast. Bits of shot punched into the rear of the cab and cracked the back window. The guy had a pump-action shotgun. Hosea ducked, buried the accelerator and they raced up the road as another gun blast exploded in the night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  After a forty-minute drive back to Coxen Hole, they hustled the girl out of the taxi. She’d fallen in and out of consciousness and had been moaning beneath the blanket Hosea had provided.

  They passed through the sliding glass doors and into the emergency room. An empty gurney was snugged against the wall and they eased the girl onto it, fixed the blanket, and William turned to the nurse who was approaching.

  “She’s been sedated, some combination of hypnotic and anxiolytic. She may also have been raped.”

  The nurse bent over the girl, checking her pulse, listening to her breathing. Then she stepped back and regarded William and Hosea with suspicious eyes. William considered how it looked — him a white tourist with a messed-up face, Hosea’s cab, sitting outside, shot to shit.

  Maybe she was wondering why the police weren’t here, why two civilians had brought the girl themselves, as if they had something to hide, or were in some way responsible. It wouldn’t do any good to invoke the religious missionary cover which would only drag Samaritan’s Purse into a scandal. There was nothing he could say.

  “We’ll take care of her,” the nurse said.

  She walked away to the nurse’s station, grabbed a clipboard and spoke to another nurse sitting there, who nodded. The first nurse took the girl on the gurney, still unconscious, and wheeled her away.

  “There’s a waiting room just over there,” the second nurse said.

  William and Hosea traded looks; neither man wanted to stick around in the waiting room. They went back outside.

  The air was still muggy, not quite cooled off yet. It felt like a weight on his chest compared to the frigid hospital.

  William and Hosea circled the cab, examining it. The trunk and rear bumper had holes in it from the shotgun blasts. William bent and ran his finger over the punctures. The shooter had been about twenty yards away. When buckshot was fired, pellets dispersed, commonly coarse lead.

  He asked Hosea to pop the trunk, found a pellet inside and rolled it around between his thumb and finger. 00-buck was the most popular buckshot, which had a nominal diameter of .33 caliber. Aside from that, there was little chance of getting further ballistic evidence. Just a busted-up cab and a driver staring at him.

  “Why don’t you park it for now,” William said, pointing to the small lot. “Not going to get anymore fares tonight with a cracked rear windshield.”

  Hosea agreed, closed the trunk, and William watched him pull into a space not far away.

  William looked up at the stars. The hospital lights obscured some of the view, but the constellations were still bright.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket. He hadn’t called Hanna from the car. He didn’t even know what he was going to say. “Hello.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at the hospital.”

  “What?” She sounded worried. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” He looked at the buckshot pellet in his palm, then threw it away.

  “What happened?”

  “I’ll tell you when I get back.”

  “You’re on your way?”

  “Yeah.” He saw Hosea spark something in the darkness, like a cigarette. “I’ll be back soon. How was the dive?”

  “Oh,” she thrilled, “It was amazing. I’ve never done anything like that. I mean, you and I did some swimming in the Maldives, and we saw all those fish, but this was just incredible. I want to scuba dive.”

  “Any insights?”

  “Jodi talked a lot about Rene. He was really impressed with her. The more he talked, the more he seemed to remember. Very independent, he said, and very genuine. He called her kind.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Hosea was puffing away, plumes rising into the air. The smell of marijuana drifted over. Apparently the cabbie needed a little time out. William glanced around, wondering if anyone was watching. Vehicles were cruising by on the road, primped and perfumed tourists out for a night of fun, but the hospital was relatively subdued, the small parking lot not even filled to capacity.

  “You have to try it,” Hanna said.

  “Tauchsport,” he said, affecting the German accent. “How did Penninger seem?”

  “He was fine. Not a lot of talking, just about diving.” She laughed. “Yeah. Tauchsport.” Her voice changed. “You okay?”

  “I need you to look up a property for me in First Bight. On Seaway Road. Didn’t have a street number, but the road only had a few properties. It might be residential, could be a rental.”

  “Okay.” She paused, writing it down. “Got it.”

  “Also, I know you’re not the DMV, but I’m going to send you a picture of a license plate for a white Nissan Pathfinder. Maybe we can at least find out who rents Pathfinders on the island, or how cars may get here from the mainland.”

  “Sure. Cohen will know that. He’s—”

  “Don’t tell Cohen just yet. In fact, do me one last favor?”

  “Sure.”

  He had to flip through his notes to remember the name. “Cabaňas Laru Beya. It’s another resort, I think. Located on the three little islands between here and the mainland. Mateo said that Cohen owns it. Can you just confirm that for me? Without saying anything to Cohen?”

  “Okay.”

  His request was partly doing due diligence on Cohen, partly hunch that the grouping of small islands could have something to do with Rene, like maybe where she’d been for the unaccounted days. “Did you have dinner with Cohen and Sterling?”

  “Not exactly. Sterling canceled. Cohen and I ate together in his restaurant, but he was distracted by some other guests, and then had to leave for some resort business.”

  “Huh . . .” The guy who was calling the police every day, who had flown down here and got Cohen involved in the search for his daughter, hadn’t shown up for the dinner with the two hired in
vestigators. “Must’ve been pressing, whatever kept Sterling.”

  “Yeah . . .” She seemed like she wanted to say more, but was reluctant. He’d already told her they’d talk in person, so maybe she was just waiting.

  “Alright. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  They said goodbye.

  He wandered over to Hosea, who held out the joint he was smoking.

  William passed on it. “I’m sorry about this — do you have insurance? The cab company must.”

  “Don’t know what I’m gonna tell them. If we want to file a claim, have to go to the police.” He looked at William.

  “Do you trust the police here?”

  Hosea shrugged. “It depends where you go. Some you can trust, others you can’t. But, in this case, my boss is gonna want the insurance. I don’t think our policy covers gun shots anyway.”

  “I’ll pay,” William said. He was making a promise with someone else’s money — Sterling’s, maybe Cohen’s — but he was fairly certain he could get it, and Cohen wouldn’t have to know for what, either. “Is there a body shop on the island?”

  “In Turtle Bay.”

  “Okay. You take it there, get it fixed. You think you can do that without your boss knowing?” As he spoke, he pulled two hundred-dollar bills from his pocket. He handed them to Hosea. “Will that cover typical fares you’d get for the rest of the night?”

  “Alright.”

  “Can I ask you one question?”

  Hosea dragged deep and exhaled a cottony boll of smoke. William took it as a yes. “The woman driving the tan car tonight. I’ve seen her with some guys. Guys like you.”

  “Handsome?”

  William smiled. “Jamaican.”

  “How did you know they were Jamaican?”

  “Well, I guess I don’t. But they had dreadlocks, one wore a hat with black, gold, red and green on it. Like Rastafarians.”

  “Ah,” Hosea said, tilting back his head and blowing more smoke into the air. “Rastafarianism is a religion, mon.”