by DS Whitaker
After a pause, and a few ‘uh huhs’, Mark said, “Look, it probably fell out of his pocket into the ocean. I’d say it’s gone forever. You really didn’t have a backup?... Oh, that was the backup. Well, that sucks. Anything else you want from me?”
Another pause, Mark nodded. “Carib Bank. Good find. I’ll need some cash for the manager.”
More ‘uh huh’s’. “Great. I’ll check it out.” Mark put his phone in his pocket, got into the SUV and sped away.
Johnnie walked to his bike. He strapped the plastic bag with the spear against the side. Only now, he had a decision to make. Go fishing and enjoy the day? Fishing always calmed him down. It would clear his mind and let him think. Or he could try to find some encryption expert to crack the thumb drive.
But where does one even find a computer security geek? He could ask Robin, but she would talk him out of his pursuit and force him to return the thumb drive to the bank. No, he needed to do this on the down-low. And the only person with the resources to help him and keep it quiet was Cud. And Cud was off on some other mystery errand.
He chose fishing.
Heading back to Calabash, along North Shore Road, he got stuck behind a slow, massive truck. Johnnie thought about zipping around the truck, but passing on the island, with the curves and hills, was like playing hot potato with a hand grenade. After five minutes, the vehicle, with its large knobby tires, pulled off toward the Annaberg area. He considered this odd because the area was well within the National Park. Large vehicles, other than Park Service, rarely visited this spot. As it turned, the words on the side of the truck became visible: Island Engineering Land Surveyors. After the hurricane, Kemper said some shorelines had moved. Perhaps they were re-surveying the beach.
He crested the next hill. A band of storm clouds to the south were moving fast in his direction. Was this a sign to turn around and hunt down Cud? Surely, the gods or fate wanted him to figure out this mystery.
The voices in his head debated back and forth about how to spend his day. One wanting to fish, the other wanted to find Cud, and a third admonished them both for not calling Dr. Phillips.
Something hit the top of his helmet. Around him, rice-sized shards of ice bounced off the pavement. Hail.
It almost never hailed in the Virgin Islands. Maybe once every thirty years. Was the universe trying to tell him something? He pulled his scooter off the side of the road under a tree. The hail grew larger and came down in a torrent, ping-ponging off the pavement violently. A car coming the other way braked, then skidded, nearly running off the road, and down the hillside. Other cars came to a stop. Drivers took pictures through their front windshields. Johnnie ducked further under the branches for protection. The air cooled. The frigid breeze formed gooseflesh on his arms. It seemed like Armageddon.
His phone rang. It was Robin. He hit accept, shielding the phone. “Hey.”
“Are you seeing this?”
“Yeah, I was on my bike.”
“Are you okay? People are losing their minds in town.”
A loud crash of metal boomed.
“Shit. I have to go.” Johnnie ran out from tree to discern the source. A stake truck rear-ended a stopped blue sedan. The sedan, now sideways in the road, was dented, its rear wheel at an inoperable angle. Its bumper, cracked and in pieces, laid on the ground. The truck driver got out and appeared uninjured, but quickly realized his mistake and dove back into this cab for cover. The driver of the sedan, a tan surfer-type dude with long blonde hair, did not venture out. A wise choice considering the chaos. Was it Fabio? Johnnie squinted trying to see if the Goddess was in the vehicle. But no, Fabio was alone. If it was in fact, the Fabio. He had no way of knowing.
After another minute, the hail stopped and heavy rain followed, with the intensity of a car wash. He wanted to get home, get out of his soaked uniform, put on dry clothes and read in bed. If he felt up to it later, he’d call his therapist. The thin rain poncho he stored under the seat of his scooter did little to help as he took King Hill Road to avoid the more well-traveled Centerline Road. Sideways rain plastered him in the face, messing up his glasses. He encountered more vehicles stopped in the road and wove around them. Drivers gave him looks of incredulity. One driver, Mr. Bravos from the local market, rolled down his window, shouting an offer of a ride home. Johnnie waved him off and kept going. In his mind, he berated himself for not installing the replacement headlight. Was he even visible to oncoming vehicles?
Twenty minutes later, Johnnie was home. Soaked like a drowned rat, but relieved. The rain had let up except for a few stray drops and the clouds to the south had dissipated with pockets of blue sky and beams of sunshine searing through.
Gertie watched him through her screen door, shaking her head. “Johnnie, do you need some towels?”
He focused his gaze toward the back of the house. His two bath towels, the ones he and Cud used this morning, were still hanging on the clothes line, evidently soaked. No one had expected it to rain. Still, one more dumb move.
Johnnie stowed his helmet in the under-seat compartment of his scooter and walked up to her door. “I would sure appreciate that.”
She cupped her hand under his chin, “Let’s look at you. Hmm, mmm. Wet as a newborn.” She released him. “Come in. Stay by the door.” She disappeared into her bedroom.
Before he entered, he took off his yellow poncho and flicked the rain drops off. He wrung out his T-shirt and ran his hands over his hair, easing the water out. He stepped inside. A puddle formed on the floor around his sneakers. The house smelled like warm bread.
“Are you baking today, Gertie?”
She came back with two fluffy yellow terry-cloth towels and handed them to him. “I’m making lemon squares for the Church bake sale tomorrow. Would you like one?”
“No, thanks. Save them for a better cause. I’ll wash the towels and bring them back tomorrow.”
Gertie, wearing a floral blouse and white cropped jeans, beamed at him. “I didn’t see you leave this morning. Is Cudlow staying over again? I find him charming.”
“I think he’s staying…at his own place tonight.” Did Gertie know Cud was homeless and living on the beach? It wasn’t his place to say.
“Well, tell him he’s always welcome. Do you have his phone number?”
Johnnie unfolded a towel and wiped his face. “He doesn’t own a phone.” An accurate statement.
“No phone?” She rested her hand across her cheek and shook her head. “How does one reach him? I want to invite him to church tomorrow. Remember how he talked about God’s creation at dinner the other night? I bet he would love Pastor Lillian.”
Johnnie had no recollection of a discussion about god or religion, but he had been preoccupied and worried about their bank scheme. Maybe he had spaced out. Or maybe it was the delicious mashed potatoes consuming his attention. “If I see him, I’ll give him your number.”
She rested her hand on his arm. “Yes, would you? Thank you, dear.”
He nodded, looking at the puddle on the rust-colored tile floor. “Sorry for the mess.” In a circle around him, sprinkles of water penetrated the grout lines.
She waved him off. “It’s fine. Go get dry.”
Johnnie went to his garage apartment. Gertie’s shutters—the ones she had painted kelly green—rested in a stack against the outside wall, reminding him he needed to hang them soon. He closed his door, turned on the overhead light, stripped off his wet uniform, and wrapped himself in the towels.
“Alexa, playlist three.” List three was for his sullen moods. Not that he was sad. But he wanted something different from classical. The Bruce Springsteen song, Atlantic City, played softly, and he sang quietly along.
The thumb drive had to be super important. It was still inside his bedside drawer. But perhaps that wasn’t secure enough. He scanned the room for a hiding spot. The thumb drive was ruggedized according to what Cud told him, meaning it could withstand nearly anything. As in, he could bury it in the back yard and it wou
ld be fine. But with his faulty memory, that wouldn’t be a good plan.
He remembered how thoroughly that detective tossed his apartment in Miami after they arrested him for aggravated vehicular assault. Nearly every surface touched, every cushion torn open, every cereal box emptied.
But what good was having the thumb drive if he didn’t know the password?
He knew nothing about Bob. Then it occurred to him. The one thing they had in common.
Could it be that simple?
He brought his laptop to his bed and propped up two pillows behind his back. He stuck the drive into his laptop. Accessing the drive, a window popped up asking for the password.
Trying several catch phrases, like ‘Looney Tunes’ and “Rabbit Season’, he typed the correct password on the tenth try. A directory appeared, listing only one file, an excel spreadsheet file titled ‘registration numbers’.
The spreadsheet had three columns of ten-character long, alpha-numeric numbers. No headings, descriptions, notes, or formulas. It made no sense.
How could this be so important?
Johnnie unplugged the thumb drive and taped it behind his wall calendar. The one item undisturbed during the Miami shake-down.
He didn’t know what the numbers meant, but he hoped that Cud would know.
***
Dear Diary,
I started reading a new book this afternoon and forgot to call Dr. Phillips. Robin called tonight and said she won’t help me the next time I get in trouble if I don’t call by Monday.
So, I have to do it.
Hail fell from the sky today. Which made me wonder if the world is ending. Robin said it’s just weather. She’s probably right.
Gertie seems infatuated with Cud. Except I worry, what if it doesn’t work out between them? My marriage didn’t survive. And my parents got divorced. And Robin’s divorced also.
Maybe people aren’t meant to stay together. Although if I met the Goddess in person, I would try to win her heart. She takes my breath away. But I don’t deserve someone as perfect as her.
Anyway, tomorrow I’m going to find Cud in the morning and tell him about Gertie’s invite to church. And maybe he’ll know what the numbers mean. It might be some kind of spy code. Cud said he used to be good at numbers. Since the accident, adding fractions messes me up. But that’s another story.
Wish me luck with the doc tomorrow. And remind me to buy extra towels and install the new headlight.
Goodnight Diary -Johnnie.
Chapter 9
Cud woke with the sunrise. Hues of pink and pale blue lit up the sky, and birds chattered about everything and nothing. He eased up from the boogie board he called a bed and the stack of palm leaves he wove into a pillow. The wind whipped his hair across his eyes. Stretching his legs and arms upward, he heard his vertebrae pop.
He dusted ants and sand off his hairy legs and from between his knobby toes. Parched, he drank a bottled water he purchased with his fruit sales yesterday. His sales were high yesterday, hauling in twenty-one dollars. A strong sign that holiday travelers had arrived.
Cud brushed his teeth and rinsed out his mouth with bottled water. He hadn’t been to a dentist in five years, and he paid close attention for any toothaches or gum bleeds. Arranging his last visit to the dentist was difficult, requiring Jackson’s intervention. It was embarrassing and he never wanted another root canal. Plus, being homeless was one thing, but being homeless with rotten teeth was another. He still had his dignity.
He ambled down to the shoreline for his ablutions, wearing only his new boxers, carrying a ‘found’ beach towel and his new shampoo. Trunk Bay, less than a mile to the east, had public showers, but he wasn’t a fan and the beach was often more crowded. One time he stepped on a piece of glass at the public shower, which also soured the experience. Bathing in the sea held more appeal.
Stumpy ran towards him, staging himself in Cud’s path.
“Good morning, Stumps old friend.”
The iguana gazed up, moving his head side to side, mouth gaping. He reached out with one clawed foot into the air.
“Come see me after. I need to wash.” Cud pointed to the water and side-stepped to continue his trek.
Stumpy hunkered down in place, his stare glued on Cud.
Cud called back, “Good boy.”
He dipped a toe in the surf. The water was cool, or perhaps it was the unusually windy weather that made it seem so. Cud squeezed a small dollop of the shampoo into his palm, which was reef-friendly and sulfate free. He left the bottle next to his towel and entered the water. He dunked his head backward, scrubbing his scalp. Even a tiny amount of shampoo made a noticeable difference in his hair.
Cud waded in further, relaxing into a floating position, facing the sky. His now silky locks floating around his face. Closing his eyes—his ears just below the surface—he drifted with the tide and gave thanks to the universe for another day to experience all Earth’s goodness.
A few moments later, splashing and yelling disturbed his reverie. He righted himself in the shallow water and looked at the beach. Three young men in their 20s were throwing a football in the surf, only a few feet away, as if they hadn’t noticed him there.
But another voice caught his attention. Johnnie was calling out, “Cud! Cud!”
Being Sunday, Johnnie wasn’t here for work, evidenced by his casual attire. What could he want? Cud hitched up his wet boxers and pressed his feet against the sand, exiting the ocean.
“Good morning,” he sang out. “A truly wonderful one.”
Johnnie wore a frown and stared at the sand. “Jesus, Cud.”
“What’s wrong?” He walked toward his towel.
“Look at yourself.”
Cud’s soaked white boxers were nearly translucent, leaving nothing to the imagination. While nudity on St. John beaches was prohibited, he wasn’t technically naked. “Ha! The old twig and berries. There they are! Oh, my, you should see your face.”
Johnnie sighed and scratched his collarbone. “Put on your towel. I can’t talk to you like this.”
Cud heard some laughing. The men with the football snickered in their direction.
“Fine, but God made us all perfect.” He wiped his face with the towel and then wrapped it around his waist.
“That’s why I’m here. Gertie wants to know if you’d like to go to church with her today. The service is at 9:30 and then after, she’s manning a table at the bake sale.”
“Is there a dress code?” Cud began walking back to his nest. Stumpy shot out of a nearby bush to follow him.
Johnnie also followed. “I don’t know. But probably shirt and shoes required.”
Cud laughed and shimmied. “And pants!”
“Do you want to go? I can take you to my place to clean up more. Then you can drive with her to the church.”
“Jolly good. Let’s get cracking!” Cud smiled, then winced. He was doing it again with the British accent. “Sorry. It comes and goes.”
“You know what? You talk however you want. I was just in a bad mood before.”
“Thank you for that.” Cud combed his wet hair, put on his day clothes and flip flops, a green and a blue one, and grabbed his satchel. He selected a banana fig from his bag, cut it into quarters and threw it to Stumpy. “Okay, let’s go.” Cudlow walked a few steps and stopped. “No. Wait. I have a gift for Gertie.” He rifled through a handful of colorful stones next to his cooler and picked out a pale pink one, the size of silver dollar “Sea glass. For her garden.”
Johnnie smiled. “I think she’ll like it.”
They walked toward the parking lot.
Johnnie said, “Hey, I figured out the password for the stick thing last night.”
Cud said, “What? That’s fantastic. What did you find?”
“A spreadsheet with a bunch of numbers and letters. Could you look at them before you go out with Gertie?”
“Oh, I’d be honored to.”
“I wrote one down.” Johnnie fished into hi
s back pocket and pulled out a folded wad of paper. “Here.”
Cud inspected the long key code. He instantly knew what it was. At least, he was ninety-eight percent certain. “Were all the numbers the same length?”
“Nah, seemed to be three different lengths. The file name was registration something.”
This confirmed his suspicion. These were the sort of numbers that spelled big trouble. Trouble that Johnnie had no concept of.
When they arrived at the scooter, Cud lied. “Looks like license codes for software. Maybe someone kept their software registration info on the drive. Ordinary stuff.”
Johnnie hung his head. “Dang. But what if it’s a secret code that reveals a message? Like when you substitute one’s for the letter A? Something that explains why Bob was killed?”
“Sorry, man. If it is a secret message, it would take a thousand years to crack, because there are so many digits.” This part was mostly true.
“Okay, I had to ask. Let’s go.”
“How did you figure out the password?”
Johnnie laughed. “The key-chain. I figured if Bob was a Bugs Bunny fan, he might use something from the show as his password.”
Cud needed to see the contents of the thumb drive. Because if his instincts were accurate, someone might come looking for this drive. And they would have inordinate reasons not to give up searching.
“What was it? The password?”
“Ha! What Daffy always called Bugs.”
“Sorry, I don’t believe they showed that cartoon where I grew up.”
Johnnie stopped when he got to the scooter. He smiled, which was rare. “Turned out the password was one of my favorite words as a kid.”
“Just tell me.” Cud grabbed Johnnie’s shoulder. “Spit it out, man!”
Johnnie handed his extra helmet to Cud and took a seat on the Pig. He grinned. “You’ll see.”
***
When they arrived at Johnnie’s, Cud examined the file with the numbers on Johnnie’s laptop. It was what he assumed. He scratched his stubbled chin to think. But he had little time before heading to church with Gertie.
