by Philip Cox
He got up, and wandered into the lounge. Craig was lying on the sofa, dressed in a pair of shorts, eating a bag of crisps. He looked up. ‘Thought I’d seen the last of you till morning.’
Ben sat down on one of the chairs. ‘I just dozed off. Think I’ll fix myself something to eat. Lucky your brother stocked up the fridge. Did you reply to the text?’
Craig replied without even looking up. ‘Just texted back saying to read my certificate. That says the date I’ll be back.’
‘Nice one,’ said Ben. ‘Now, the fridge.’
As Ben walked into the kitchen, Craig’s phone rang. Craig answered, then quickly called Ben back and put the phone on loudspeaker so Ben could hear.
‘Hello, is that Craig?’ The voice had an accent.
‘Yes, who’s that?’
‘This is Luis.’
‘Luis?’
‘Yes, Luis, you gave me this number the other day.’
‘I did?’
‘Yes, at the diner.’
‘Yes, yes, sorry. You’re the waiter.’
‘Yes sir, I am.’
‘What can I do for you, Luis?’
‘I need to meet you, sir.’
Craig looked up at Ben. ‘You do?’
‘Yes, I have some information for you.’
‘You do? What sort of information?’
‘About your brother, sir. I have seen him.’
Craig jerked forward; Ben sat back down again. Both men had their eyes firmly fixed on the phone.
‘Where was this, and when?’
‘Definitely, sir. I saw him at the diner.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
BEN AND CRAIG both looked up at each other, wide eyed. Still staring at Ben, Craig asked, ‘Luis, when was this?’
‘About a week ago, at the diner.’
‘Look, are you at work tomorrow? We’ll come up and talk.’
‘No, sorry, can’t meet you here. Not allowed.’
‘Anywhere else we could meet?’
‘I am not working tomorrow until two-thirty. Meet me tomorrow morning at the Ponce Inlet nature trail.’
‘Ponce Inlet? Where’s that?’ Craig asked, pulling a bewildered face at Ben.
‘Head towards Daytona Beach. Just before you get to the beach you will see direction signs for the Ponce Inlet Lighthouse. Head towards the lighthouse. There is plenty car parking at the lighthouse. There are some benches along the Peninsula Drive. Wait for me there. I will see you about eleven.’
‘Okay,’ Craig replied, ‘we’ll see you at eleven tomorrow -’
Luis had hung up.
Ben reached over to the table and picked up their Florida map. ‘Jesus,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘Another early start. Another night with bugger all sleep.’
‘Sleep?’ Craig grinned up at Ben as he got up. ‘What’s that?’
*****
After nowhere near enough sleep, at nine the following morning, Ben and Craig were back on the I-4, driving north east towards Daytona Beach. Craig was driving, with Ben map reading.
‘Wonder why he didn’t want to meet us at the diner?’ Asked Craig, looking over his shoulder as he overtook a truck.
‘Who knows? Maybe he’s not allowed visitors at work. Maybe he lives this way. Maybe he likes the sea air. You can ask him.’
‘He said he was working this afternoon, so we could have gone to the diner then. Strange.’
‘Strange also that he’s called now. Why not say something when we were there? Or at least called us before. Why wait till now? Look, there’s the sign for the lighthouse.’
As they passed over the intersection with the northbound I-95, they saw the direction sign for South Daytona Beach and Port Orange. There was also a pictogram for a lighthouse. Leaving the Interstate, they turned on to Highway 40, which led them right into what seemed a typical Florida beach town. In between the proliferation of cheap motels and amusement arcades, there were rows of shops selling airbrushed tee shirts and other tacky souvenirs; occasionally they could see a Starbucks or other coffee shop, the tables outside full of customers reading newspapers. Even at this relatively early hour, the sun was quite hot and Ben and Craig passed numerous teens and twenty-somethings wandering along the streets taking in the sun and sea air.
Highway 40 came to an end at the intersection with Highway A1A, North Atlantic Avenue. Craig made a right here, past the Polynesian-style Ormond Beach Art Gallery and the Birthplace of Speed Museum, and headed south. Just past the museum, a direction sign indicated Port Orange and Ponce Inlet Lighthouse. Driving south here, there were even more sun seekers: some alone, running or rollerblading, others as couples strolling arm in arm drinking coffee or holding hands. On the beach side of the road many of the older locals were out walking their dogs.
As they pulled up at a red light on Plaza Boulevard, a heavily tanned girl with bleached blonde hair wearing a pink vest and white pants roller skated over to them from the car in front. She was handing out leaflets. Craig wound down the window.
‘Hey guys,’ she said showing perfect white teeth, rolling over to them. ‘Welcome to Daytona Beach. Have a nice day.’
‘You too,’ said Craig, taking a leaflet from her and passing it to Ben as the light turned green. ‘What’s it about?’
Ben browsed through the leaflet. ‘Nothing much. Just about the beach. Apparently it’s the location of the annual Daytona 500 stock-car meeting, and Bike Week, when thousands of leather clad motorcyclists converge here for races. It says here.’
‘Fascinating.’ Craig said.
‘Also,’ Ben carried on reading, ‘before the bikers and students arrived, people such as Henry Ford and Louis Chevrolet came here in the early 1900s to race their vehicles on the beach. And in 1935, the British speedster Malcolm Campbell reached 276 miles per hour over on that beach.’
‘Very interesting,’ Craig said sarcastically. ‘Any sign of the lighthouse?’
‘Not far,’ said Ben, pointing at a direction sign. ‘Look, welcome to Port Orange. Ponce Inlet 2 miles.’
North Atlantic Avenue became South Atlantic Avenue and shortly they could see the lighthouse in the distance. On reaching the intersection with South Peninsular Drive, Craig turned left and headed for the ample but lightly used parking lot. Once Craig had switched off the engine the car interior became very hot and clammy, so Ben immediately opened the door and got out. He slipped on his sunglasses and wandered over to the pathway on the cliff edge and looked out over the ocean.
‘Enjoying the view?’ asked Craig as he joined him.
Ben nodded, taking in a refreshing gust of sea air. ‘It’s great, isn’t it?’
They both stood there quietly gazing over the cliff top, admiring the view. Apart from the wake of three small boats, the Atlantic Ocean was calm, and was glistening in the light of the strong morning sun. The tall beachside condos they passed in South Daytona Beach had given way to large sand dunes and single storey wooden beach homes. The view was dominated by the Ponce Inlet Lighthouse, a 175 foot tall red structure on the edge of the rocks below. Not used as a working lighthouse since 1970, it was now a popular tourist attraction, and they could hear the excited screams of a party of school children at the top of the tower.
‘Ten thirty,’ said Ben. ‘Plenty of time to spare.’
They wandered down the pathway to the lighthouse. Pausing at the main road to let the 17B bus pass, they stopped outside a seafood restaurant. Called Lighthouse Landing, it seemed to specialize in locally caught produce. Too early for lunch, it was nevertheless open for business. They sat at one of the tables outside and ordered a black coffee each.
‘I needed that,’ said Ben taking a mouthful of coffee.
Craig drank his too. ‘Same here. I wish to God we could have met him later in the day. Think he’s here already?’
Ben looked around. ‘Can’t see him. I think I could recognize him. Just hope he shows up.’
Craig took out his phone and glanced at it. ‘Quarter to. Still a bit
of time.’ He took another mouthful of coffee.
They finished their coffees in ten minutes and walked towards some wooden seats which were facing out to sea. One was occupied by an elderly couple with two white poodles. They sat on the other bench and looked around. The ranger station by the side of the path was closed: a sign on the door said Open 12 noon till Dusk. From the ranger station there was a path scratched through the scrub covered dunes, down the cliff side to the beach. Ben peered down the path to the beach: apart from two figures playing with a large inflatable ball, the beach was deserted.
Just as he turned to walk back to the bench, his attention was drawn by the sound of coughing coming from further down the path; then he could hear the slight scraping sound of footsteps coming up the sandy pathway. A couple of seconds later, a figure emerged. Ben was right earlier: he did recognize Luis.
Luis recognized them, and waved slightly. Looking around, he sat down on the bench with Craig. Ben joined them.
‘Thought you weren’t coming,’ Ben said cheerfully.
Luis didn’t share Ben’s demeanor. ‘No sir, I have been here a little while.’
‘Were you waiting for us down there?’ asked Craig.
Luis nodded.
‘How long have you been here?’
Luis shrugged his shoulders. ‘Twenty, thirty minutes. Not sure. Ever since my bus got here.’
‘Were you on that number 17 bus?’ Ben enquired.
‘17B sir,’ came the reply. ‘17A only comes as far as Port Orange.’
‘Why were you waiting down there then?’ Ben pointed over to the pathway. ‘We thought you weren’t coming.’
‘Wanted to make sure nobody saw me waiting.’
Ben looked around. ‘Who would be watching?’
Luis said nothing.
Craig decided to get the conversation back on track. ‘You said on the phone you had seen my brother. At the diner.’
Luis nodded his head eagerly. ‘Yessir. I did. At the diner.’
‘When was this?’
‘It was about a week ago. Perhaps eight, nine days now.’
‘Why didn’t you say this earlier? When we were at the diner?’
‘After you left, I had another look at the picture you left. Then he seemed familiar. I thought a bit, then I remembered.’
‘Tell me about when you saw him,’ said Craig.
Luis paused a moment. ‘It was in the evening. About seven. Very busy, dinner menus just started. There was a group of young men and women.’
‘How many?’ asked Craig.
‘Five or six, maybe a bit more. They ordered some food and a soda each. Then left.’
‘What was my brother doing? Was he one of this group?’
‘Yessir, he was one of the group. But he seemed…’ Luis paused.
‘Seemed what?’
‘Although he was at the same table as the others, he seemed more interested in one of the girls in the group.’
Craig interrupted again. ‘Slim, dark hair, down to her shoulders. About this tall, wearing leather jacket and trousers?’
Luis looked at Craig astonished. ‘Yessir! But how, how you know?’
‘Educated guess,’ said Craig, looking directly at Ben who was slowly nodding. ‘Carry on.’
Luis seemed fazed by Craig’s interruption. ‘Er, er – that is about all, sir. They eat their food – burgers I think – and all left.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Ah, I remember exactly what time that was. It was five minutes before eight o’clock.’
‘Why do you remember exactly?’ Ben asked. ‘Did something happen?’
Luis chuckled slightly. ‘Yessir, I remember because one of them had a little accident outside. They were all on bikes, and just as the last one was leaving a truck was turning into the parking lot. The bike...’ Luis made a sideways movement.
‘Swerved?’ suggested Ben.
‘Yes, that’s right sir. The bike swerved, and both passengers – not your brother sir, two others – fell off. I remember as I looked up at the clock as the truck driver came in.’
‘Were they hurt?’ Craig asked.
‘No no no, sir. They just got up and rode off. Nobody hurt.’
‘And that was it?’
‘Yessir. That was it.’
‘Thanks Luis. Thanks very much,’ said Craig as he passed a fifty dollar bill to Luis. ‘But one more question.’
‘Yessir,’ said Luis, quickly slipping the fifty into a back pocket.
‘Why did you want to meet us here? Why not at the diner?’
‘Raoul not like me talking to visitors much. Say it stops me serving customers. Say he will fire me if I do it.’
‘Why here, though?’
‘My wife works as a cleaner at one of the beach houses. I came in with her, and caught the bus up here. I will go back on the 17B and meet her at twelve thirty when she will have finished work.’
‘Right. I see,’ laughed Craig. ‘Well, thanks again, Luis.’
Luis touched his forelock briefly and stepped away.
‘Sorry, Luis, just one more question,’ Ben called out.
Luis turned round. ‘Yessir?’ He looked as surprised as Craig.
‘Just wanted to know: did the police go up to the diner to talk to you?’
Luis went pale. ‘The police? No sir.’
‘So you haven’t told them anything?’
‘No sir. Nothing. My wife says I mustn’t talk to the police.’
‘Your wife?’
‘He looked around again. ‘In case they find out we are - illegal people. Don’t want to be deported.’
‘I see. Sorry to alarm you. Thanks again.’ Ben waved at Luis, who hurried down the path.
‘That explains it,’ said Ben. ‘You know, why he wanted to meet us here. What’s he in a hurry for?’
‘Looks like he’s running for his bus,’ said Craig, pointing over to the other side of the parking lot. A 17B bus was turning a corner.
They watched Luis walk quickly through the parking lot to the bus stop on South Peninsular Drive. What occurred next took place in a fraction of a second, but to Ben and Craig it was if it was in slow motion. There was a loud screech of car wheels and a black vehicle reversed out of a space incredibly fast. It drove straight into Luis, knocking him in the air so he landed about twelve feet away. It continued reversing, then the driver steered it to the right. It stopped momentarily while the driver selected forward gear. Ben and Craig could see Luis push himself slowly off the ground, but he was too late: another scream of wheels and the vehicle leapt forward, hitting Luis again, but this time driving over him, then screeching out onto the South Atlantic Avenue. Ben and Craig ran down the pathway to the parking lot. By the time they reached the lot the black vehicle had gone, and the only sound they heard was of a young boy clutching his father’s hand, screaming.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
BY THE TIME Ben and Craig reached the parking lot a small group had gathered around Luis’s motionless body. He was lying on his front, arms and legs stretched out, but his left arm and left leg were each lying at an unnatural angle. His head was lying in a dark pool. One of the bystanders was crouching down, holding Luis’s wrist, feeling for a pulse. Another man was on his cell phone, calling 911. The man with the child had picked his son up, and was carrying him back to the car. The child was still screaming.
‘I’ve called 911,’ the man with the phone announced to anybody who was paying attention. ‘They say they’ll be here in five or six minutes.’
‘Did you see what happened?’ a woman with a Lighthouse Souvenirs carrier bag asked the group, although looking at Ben and Craig.
‘Some of it,’ Ben answered. ‘We heard the noise of the brakes. That caught our attention, and we just saw the car hit him.’
‘It hit him twice,’ the woman said. ‘First it reversed over him, and then it drove over him while he was still lying down. Poor soul…..’ She pulled out a handkerchief and started weeping.
<
br /> The man who was feeling Luis’s pulse stood up. ‘He’s dead all right,’ he announced. ‘Poor devil didn’t have a chance. Anybody get the bastard’s license plate number?’
Everyone, Ben and Craig included, shook their heads. Craig turned to Ben and spoke quietly. ‘I didn’t get the plate number, but I sure as hell recognized the car. Did you?’
‘Yeah. It was that Ford,’ Ben muttered in reply. ‘Had to be. What are the odds against it being a coincidence?’
‘No way was that a coincidence, mate. That bastard was waiting there.’
Ben looked over the parked cars as they heard a police siren in the distance, getting louder. ‘I would suggest we only tell the police here the bare minimum. Maybe when we get back to Davenport, we should go and see Sanchez. You, know, putting the whole thing in context.’
A black and white car marked Daytona Beach Police Department pulled into the parking lot, siren still sounding, red and blue lights still flashing. Two black shirted police officers climbed out, immediately putting on their sunglasses. There was another siren in the distance now: as Ben looked up the South Peninsular Drive an ambulance turned the corner. With its siren sounding, it pulled up alongside the police car.
The two police officers at first ignored the small crowd and went straight to Luis. They checked his pulse too, as did the two paramedics who joined them. One of the police officers went back to their car, opened the trunk, and got out four freestanding poles. He placed the poles around Luis’s body, forming a square about ten feet by ten feet. He then fastened strips of blue and white tape, marked Police Line Do Not Cross between the poles. While he did this the other officer quietly ushered the bystanders further away, while the paramedics put a small screen up, shielding Luis’s body from the crowd.
‘Would you all please remain here,’ one of the officers called out. ‘There are a few questions we need to check with you. We won’t keep you longer than necessary.’
The two officers then split up and began speaking with the others individually. Ben and Craig waited silently, and after only three or four minutes one of the officers walked over to them.
