Coastal Fury Boxset (1-3)

by Matt Lincoln

  Emily entered behind Esme and Luci, and her heart jumped as they made their way to the kitchen. Cardboard boxes and shelves full of yellowed paper and books filled the front room. Some of the boxes were dated decades ago, some more recent. The dining room table had neatly stacked piles of records and letters, from what Emily could tell. She couldn’t wait to ask Esme about the collection after their meal.

  The kitchen showed no evidence of Esme’s archives. From the floor tiles to walls to cabinets, the kitchen was full of vibrant colors, herbs hanging to dry, and climbing ivy that spread from a handful of pots on hand-carved shelves through the space. Each seat at the table was white and painted with flowers, frogs, and butterflies.

  “It’s beautiful,” Emily gasped. “This is the kitchen my mother always wanted.”

  Esme flashed her smile. “Great minds, they say. Everyone, have a seat. Nobody leaves my house hungry.”

  Esme certainly had expected them because the table was laden with food, and better still, everything looked amazing.

  “I may be from Jamaica, but this is my home,” Esme said as she introduced the meal. “The national dish of Barbados is flying fish and cou cou. You may find this in the cities, but nobody makes it better than me. I know some of you Americans don’t like fried foods, so I offer you flying fish fried, and flying fish steamed.” She pointed at the rest of the table’s contents. “You will eat your vegetables and fruits. They are delicious! When you’ve eaten your dinner, you get conkies.”

  The fried fish had a breaded coating with specks of pepper and other seasonings Emily couldn’t make out. She smelled chiles and smiled. Her mother had lived for chili peppers. The steamed dish had plump cherry tomatoes, chopped onion, and a sprinkling of what she suspected was the same seasoning. The cou cou, well, Emily’s mother used to make a version of it, gravy and all though Esme’s was more generous with the okra. And the gravy.

  The conkies were wrapped in banana leaves. Esme opened one to show them the patty made from cornmeal, raisins, and “a few secret ingredients.” Besides the baked goods, Esme provided bananas, mangoes, and starfruit all from her garden.

  “Wow.” Lamarr found a seat at the far end of the table and folded his long legs beneath. “This is magnificent, Ms. Esme.”

  Luci sat between Esme and Emily, and Sylvia sat on the same side as Lamarr. They ate and enjoyed each others’ company. Luci didn’t speak much, but Emily saw the fear melt from her tensed muscles. It might not last, but each moment spent like this had to be a balm.

  After the dishes were washed, they met around the cleared table.

  “Emily, you didn’t come just to visit.” Esme chuckled at Emily’s protest. “It is fine, and I am happy to share with you. What are you looking to find?”

  “I have a friend who is looking for a pirate ship.”

  Esme burst into laughter. “Who is not? These ships are all over the place. Is there a name to this ship?”

  “The Dragon’s Rogue.” Emily bit her lip for a second. “It belonged to his ancestor before Mad Dog Grendel stole it.”

  Esme pursed her lips and tapped them with a forefinger. That was so much like her gramma that she felt out of place for the blink of a moment.

  “The ship name I don’t know, but Mad Dog Grendel, that name, I t’ink I know.” Esme stood. “You folks, make yourself at home. There are ripe fruits and vegetables in the garden if you want to choose some. The neighbors never take enough. Emily, come with me.”

  Esme led her to a room in the back corner of the house. Unlike the rest of the house, there was an air conditioner, and the shelf and box labels showed a progression of order from… Emily’s eyes widened… the late sixteenth century onward. There weren’t many items from the earliest years, but even those few records and documents were priceless in her historian's eyes.

  Esme adjusted the air unit from Arctic to less Arctic.

  “The dehumidifier broke last week.” Esme’s frown looked out of place on her otherwise jolly aunt. “It is the best I can do.”

  Emily gaped at the rest of the room. “This is better care than most artifacts receive before they get into our hands.” She hugged her aunt. “What you are doing here is remarkable.”

  “Who says I am an amateur?” Esme arched a brow. “Young lady, I am a retired professional. These documents? I saved them. The archive was shut down, and nobody wanted all this history.”

  “I never knew.” Emily regretted not learning more about Esme sooner. She could have written after her mother died. “I should’ve kept in touch, Aunt Esme. I’m sorry.”

  Esme reached up to pat her shoulder. “Your father sent cards. Don’t you worry yourself about it.”

  Esme went over to the shelves and looked into the year range Ethan had given Emily. She pulled out a box marked 1600-1699, moved it to a felt-lined tabletop, and then removed the lid. Inside were archival folders, each with a document preserved in an acid-free polyester sleeve. Esme fetched a three-ring binder that had documents cross-referenced by year and subject.

  “I’ve heard that I am disorganized,” Esme said with a wink, but then she sighed. “Maybe I will get the rest of the records sorted someday. The archiving materials, they are not cheap, especially on this island.”

  “How long have you been doing this?”

  Esme consulted the sheet and looked through the box to find what she sought. She pulled out a folder and sat it before Emily.

  “They forced me out eight years ago, but I already had much of my collection. You should see the upstairs. I used to have three bedrooms!”

  Emily opened the folder and examined the document. It looked like a diary entry, but the ink was faded, and the left margin was jagged from where it had been torn from a book.

  “May I take pictures of this?” Emily asked with her phone halfway out.

  “You may have it. Give it to the friend who is looking for the ship.”

  Emily looked up from the precious artifact. “You don’t have to do that,” she protested. “It’s valuable, and you’ve worked hard for all these records.”

  Esme shook her head with a chuckle. “Why preserve memories if there is only one person to remember them? I want to find homes for all of these memories, but the first step is preserving them.”

  A quiet knock sounded at the room’s thin door. Esme opened it to allow Luci in. The younger woman walked around with awe, and when Emily showed her the diary page, she lit up.

  “Your home is full of treasure,” she exclaimed. “Do you do this all on your own?”

  “Everyone else is too busy living their lives.” Esme closed the box of seventeenth-century documents and returned it to the shelf. “I am retired. All I have are my gardening and archives. Sometimes I cook and visit friends, but most of my time is here, under the dust.”

  Esme pulled a cleaning rag out of her pocket and wiggled it.

  “Sylvia said it is time to go,” Luci had a thoughtful, yet content look. “We have to return to the hotel before dinner. To be safe.”

  “Come back anytime.” Esme held out her arms. “You are all welcome to visit my home.”

  Luci gave Esme a quick squeeze and left. Emily watched after her. It’d been less than a week since they’d found her in that shipping container. She still bore bruises from her trauma, and they were beginning to show through the makeup Emily had worked on that morning. The pain couldn’t have gone away entirely, yet Luci did not allow it to slow her for long.

  “That girl, she will do great things,” Esme predicted. “She will heal from those evil marks, and nothing will stop her from fulfilling her destiny.”

  “What do you think her destiny is?” Emily asked.

  Esme’s magical smile warmed Emily’s heart. “Nobody knows another’s destiny, only that great ones exist.” She took Emily back out to the others, where they waited in front of the house. “You, my niece, have your own destiny, and I can’t wait to see it happen.”

  Although it was specifically nonspecific, Esme’s wo
rds made sense. She did feel something of greatness about Luci, and not solely from the power of survival. Though she’d only seen glimmers, there was raw intellect and courage behind that temporary veil of trauma.

  Everyone piled back into the car, but Sylvia insisted on driving this time. Poor Lamarr had to sit behind Luci. Even with Luci’s seat most of the way forward, Lamarr’s frame was comically giant in his seat.

  “Sylvia, did Lamarr do or say something while I was inside with Aunt Esme?” Emily gestured at the tall man. “This doesn’t seem fair.”

  Sylvia shot him a sour look and made an indecipherable sound. Luci looked back at Emily and shrugged. Lamarr said not a word, not even as they returned to Bridgetown and drew closer to the hotel. The ride was quiet until Luci gasped.

  “Stop,” she called out. “I know this place.”

  There was little to make the building stand out from its neighbors. It sported siding the color of turmeric and a small sign with a tiger shark logo. Pedestrians passed by without giving the place a glance.

  “We came during the day,” Luci said. “They taught us how to dance with men so they would… so they would hire us.” She jumped out of the car before anyone could stop her. “At least I think it was here.”

  Lamarr tried to exit the car to stop her, but he got wedged in the cramped car door by his shoulder, hip, and knee. Emily got out and ran around to Luci, even as Sylvia yelled at them both to get back in the car.

  “It’s not safe to be in the open,” Emily hissed in Luci’s ear. “We have to go in case the Trader’s people are here.”

  Luci’s wide eyes found Emily’s, and it was like a switch turned on. She looked around but shook her head.

  “Only a minute,” she pleaded as she ran up to a darkened window and pulled her sunglasses down to look in. “I have to know if it’s the right one.”

  Emily’s heart raced as she joined Luci at the side of the building.

  “What are you doing? Sylvia’s gonna kill us.”

  “This is the place, Em.” Luci backed away from the window and pushed her sunglasses up. “We can go now.”

  She hoofed it back to the car, Emily in tow, as the first shot rang out. Emily heard something whiz past less than a blink later. She tackled Luci around the middle and shoved her into the front passenger door. Another crack of a gunshot shattered the rear passenger window and was followed by a mighty grunt from Lamarr.

  “Climb in back,” Emily ordered Luci.

  “The shooter is ahead of us,” Sylvia informed them. “We can’t turn around, so pray for the best.”

  Bullets pinged into the car as Luci climbed over the console and Emily tried to shove Lamarr back into his seat. Blood oozed from his arm. He tried to pull himself back in but was wedged too tightly. The door was stuck open, leaving him exposed for more.

  Emily dove into the car as more shots rang out, and Sylvia floored it.

  32

  Though I was a whiskey man, through and through, Mango Fest Rum Distillery went a long way toward opening my mind. Not changing, mind you, but I definitely learned to appreciate a well-made sugar-cane rum. Some had mango hints, and it wasn’t half bad.

  I almost felt guilty about leading the owners on. Hell, I would buy their rum if I were opening my own place. As it was, Holm and I had to move on, and we told the owners we’d be in touch with them, but then I hesitated. I sent Holm on out to the Land Rover to get the air going.

  I went back to their gift “shop,” which was little more than a walk-in closet with shirts, shot glasses, and other chintzy stuff. When we passed it earlier, however, I noticed a selection of fabric hibiscus on long stems that could be bent any which way. I chose a coral color and took it to the register.

  “Ah, you will enjoy this,” the owner told me. “My mother, bless her soul, made these until she left us a few months ago. This was one of her favorites, and she always said it wouldn’t go until the right person chose it.”

  “It’s going to a special person,” I assured him. “Thank you.”

  I paid for the flower and met Holm out at the car.

  “You drive, brother,” Holm suggested from the passenger seat. “I may have swallowed a few of those samples.”

  “I always drive,” I reminded him. “That’s why I was a little more careful than you.”

  “That’s why we get along so well,” Holm said with a laugh. “Sometimes, I feel like you really get me.”

  We’d spent more time than I expected with the rum choices. The owners at Mango Fest were generous, kind folks. Hell, I’d have to tell Mike about them. Can’t have a tropical tango hut without some authentic Bajan rum.

  “So, are we going back to Zest or staying in tonight?” Holm wondered.

  “Would a pair of businessmen such as ourselves stay in?” I feigned incredulity. “I don’t know about going back to Zest, though. If the owner is the Trader or the observer, she’ll know that we rescue damsels in distress and discreetly remove ourselves from the scene. Or run from the police. Make of that what you will.”

  “Sorry for the spectacle,” Holm said with a shrug. “I didn’t want to put them in the hospital. Too many questions.”

  “I don’t know that I would’ve done better,” I told him. “Tell you what. We’ll meet the others at the hotel for dinner on their floor. If Sealy hasn’t called by then, you’ll call him.”

  Holm belched rum fumes. “Why should I call?”

  “Because you made me call Forde.”

  Holm laughed. “Fair enough.”

  I started to chuckle, but the cars ahead of me slowed to a halt. Emergency lights whirled a ways down the road in front of an orange-yellow building. There was no way to get around, and our Land Rover was blocked in within moments of stopping.

  “I’m going to see what’s happening,” I said. “Keep the car cold.”

  Holm nodded. He sat straighter as he tried to get a better view.

  Other drivers had the same idea as I and were crowded around a cordoned-off scene. I was used to waltzing in with a flash of my MBLIS ID, but that wasn’t an option. Like every other white tourist, I craned and looked over people’s heads while listening to the buzz around me.

  “Wha’ happen, mah?”

  “Deys shooting at girls. Wha’s next, bang, dat kid gon’?”

  “What girls?” I asked.

  The men gave me scalding looks and walked away. Another white tourist woman in Bermuda shorts and a floral print sidled her way over. In her shadow was a slightly taller woman, though plumper and gaudier.

  “Oh, it’s just terrible,” the first woman cried. “Those poor women got shot at, and their friend got stuck trying to get out of the car. Their little friend got them away from the club, but they couldn’t close the door on that man.”

  “Don’t forget, Anita, that car stopped because the first girl jumped out.” The second woman had a nasal voice that scratched at my nerves. She nodded. “Yep, that’s what she did.”

  “Not ‘girls,’ Doris, ‘women.’ Honestly, don’t you learn?”

  “Sorry, Ellen.”

  I cleared my throat to get them to refocus on me.

  “What did they look like?” I had a bad feeling about how they’d answer.

  “Well, the first girl who got out had short black hair and brown skin,” Anita recalled. “I think she was Hispanic.”

  “Latina,” Doris corrected. “Spaniards are Hispanic, too, because they speak Spanish.”

  I interrupted them before the discussion turned into an argument. “What about the other woman?”

  “Oh, really pretty,” Doris said with a hand flourish. “Medium-black, like she’s biracial, and lots of pretty braids.”

  Oh no…

  “Down to her butt!” Anita blushed. “I mean, her bottom. Very long and pretty.”

  “Did they say where they were going?” I asked as I gritted my teeth.

  “Oh my, no,” Doris answered with an emphatic head shake. “They jumped in the car and took off.” Her
mouth made a little circle. “Oh. Are you trying to find them? I can ask the officer over there! Hey, officer!”

  “No, no, ma’am.” I headed her off and forced a laugh. “I’m just curious is all. You hear about things happening and all that.”

  Anita scrunched her brows and pursed her lips. She grabbed Doris by the hand and then marched off toward the scene. I ran back to the car.

  “Robbie, we have trouble coming our way,” I said as I got in. “We need to get out of here if we don’t want to be questioned.”

  He sputtered, but I didn’t have time to elaborate. I backed up as far as I could, cranked the wheel, and inched forward. The ladies appeared ahead with a patrol officer in tow. He was scowling and had a radio up to his mouth.

  “Shit. Holm, call Muñoz. Put her on speaker.”

  He sat up ramrod straight, eyes wide. “What the hell’s going on?”

  I put the car in reverse and hit the car behind me. The crunch didn’t bother me as much as Anita’s satisfied smirk. I ignored her, changed to first gear, and gunned it.

  The driver in the car behind me opened their door as I peeled out. He was lucky because I narrowly missed them as I shifted through the low gears. In the rearview mirror, the cop ran out into the street while waving and jumping.

  “Got her,” Holm told me. “Gotta switch to speaker…”

  “Marston, we were shot at,” Muñoz yelled. “Birn is hit, but he says it’s not deep. We can’t get his door shut, and we’re trying to find a place to ditch the car. I’m on Waterford Road, and I’m running out of options.”

  “We’re running with you,” I shouted back. “Just pissed off a local cop. Going to bail. Run inland. Do what you can. I’ll call Forde for help.”

  Holm didn’t need for me to tell him what to do. He ended the call and dialed Forde to update him with both locations.

  “The channels are all buzzing about you,” Forde informed us. “You have to get out of those cars fast.”

  “No shit, Sherlock,” I griped. “Where?”

  “You go to Three Waves Beach,” he instructed. “It’s not busy during the day. Leave the car in the back of the lot and walk away. There’s a bus line. Go south to the next stop. I will call your friends. Maybe Director Ramsey will sort out the registrations later?”