Recreational dive training preached against solo diving. Most vacation divers don’t have the experience or currency to be self-reliant—best to dive in pairs or groups to help each other in case of an emergency.
A cruise ship had docked for the day, and the downtown streets swelled with people. On cruise ship days, many of the local merchants set up booths on the sidewalks and the one-block concrete mall, snagging additional sales from folks coming off the boat. One of the restaurants cooked chicken on an outside grill. The flame sparkled, and the meat sizzled, the smoke and aroma floating down the street before being pushed out over the sea. My mouth watered from two blocks away.
Locals and tourists comprised the crowd, neither one significantly outnumbering the other. Bonaire’s population is a little over 18,000 but can swell above 20,000 based on the season and the number of tourists on-island. In town, the locals always had a purpose in mind. They weren’t in a hurry and did what they needed to do. Relaxed and orderly, they took their time.
Tourists were a different story. They always appeared in a hurry, dashing from spot to spot in a blind pursuit to go somewhere—anywhere—and be the first one there.
Arabella swore she could smell the cruise boat people, or “cruisers” as she had termed them, from two kilometers away. “They smell like suntan lotion and sparkly T-shirts,” she’d said. Doubtful I could smell a sparkly T-shirt, let alone from two kilometers away, but I was perfectly capable of identifying the cruisers in a crowd.
Vinny’s was half full, a cruiser couple sitting on the far side of the bar, colorful drinks in front of them and a nearby stool overflowing with plastic souvenir-shop bags. Lobster-red skin, their floppy hats offering little protection from the afternoon sun.
Jan sat on a stool at the far end of the bar, flipping through TV channels at a rapid pace. He turned my way as I limped past the Heineken sign above the front entrance and down the wooden stairs onto the plank floor. By the time I plopped onto Ole Blue along the seaside of the bar, Jan had a cold Bright waiting for me.
The wooden barstools were an assortment of colors. Scratches and dark grooves hinted to their years of service. I preferred a light blue one, the most tattered, its seat grooved perfectly for my butt cheeks. For some reason, Jan had named it Ole Blue.
“How is Arabella?” he asked.
Jan is Ruth’s husband, so I wasn’t surprised he knew about Arabella’s accident.
“She’s doing fine and sleeping right now.” I took a hit of the beer and watched the TV, not noticing, or caring, what was on.
He shook his head. “I am glad.”
“Me, too.”
Jan flipped through more channels, stopping on a fishing show. He pointed at the screen with the remote. “We have not been fishing in a long time.” He put his hands on the bar and leaned closer to me, eyebrows raised. “When do you want to go?”
“Sounds great … let me see.” With my elbow on the bar, I drummed my fingers along my chin. “Hmm.”
“We always have a good time. It has been too long.” He imitated casting a fishing line out over the tables, hooking a big one, and reeling it in. “Besides, you are retired. Is that not what retirement is all about?”
I finished off the Bright and set the empty bottle on the bar. “Funny, I don’t feel retired right now.”
Jan opened another beer and placed it on the damp coaster in front of me. I looked out at the street, between the two six-foot-tall potted palm trees along the sidewalk, as Arabella’s sometimes-partner, James Saragoza, passed through town in his patrol truck. He glanced my way but didn’t return my wave. I made a mental note to call and update him on Arabella’s condition.
“You okay?” Jan asked.
I threw back a swig of Bright and watched the TV again for a moment. I told Jan about the Rybergs, the ad, the weapon, and my mugging. Knowing the information would go straight to Ruth, I didn’t dare mention the possible sabotage to my Wrangler. Arabella should know first, and I wanted to be the one to tell her.
Jan straightened and shook his head. “We should go fishing.” We both laughed, and he walked to the other side of the bar where two newly arrived customers had saddled up to a couple of yellow stools.
Vinny’s had a vaulted ceiling. Oscillating fans mounted on the edge of the rafters near the point where the pitched roof met the wall, pushed air down at the patrons. If it hadn’t been for the green and yellow ribbons tied to the front of the fan guards, I wouldn’t have known the fans were working. Above the central table area, suspended below the rafters on a long, thin rod mounted at the top peak of the ceiling, an eight-foot-diameter fan made slow revolutions.
I watched the cruisers on the other side of the bar. They ordered another round of tall, foamy blue concoctions, complete with random pieces of tropical fruit floating on top. Jan catered to the tourists only so far and refused to litter his drinks with bamboo umbrellas or fancy wood fish carvings.
The woman held her drink with her right hand. The man, his left. When it came time to settle the tab, the man signed the credit card receipt right-handed.
Not sure what any of this proved. Maybe it meant the position of the coffee cup at the Rybergs’ was insignificant. Could’ve been set there by a right-or left-handed person.
I leaned back on the stool, placed my feet on the rail near the bottom of the bar, and admired the ceiling. For years, a loyal clan of customers, or Vinny’s Vagrants as they called themselves, brought old U.S. license plates to the island and gave them to Jan. Most of these were vanity plates and from all over the country. Jan mounted them on the wood rafters.
A plate from Texas said BST HUGS. A Florida plate said DUVALL STRT and one from Wisconsin read EVR COOL. The Wisconsin people I knew weren’t all that cool. Unless EVR COOL meant something about the weather, in which case, it might be true.
My favorite plate was an Illinois plate that read ME N RC. I had no idea if RC referred to the soda or a person. Since I had the same initials, I liked the idea of it being a person. Jan had mounted all the plates parallel to the top edge of the rafter. Except for the ME N RC plate. It was angled slightly, out of line with the others. Also, the Illinois plate didn’t lay flat against the rafters as the rest did. It had a bent corner, which stuck straight out, almost as if it were waving at me, inviting me over. I liked having a beer sitting on Ole Blue, under the Illinois plate, as the mysterious RC person looked down, watching over me.
I dialed James’s number on my cell. When he answered, I said, “Just wanted to let you know Arabella is doing fine. The doctor said that if she feels okay tomorrow, she can go back to limited duty.”
“Good. She hates to sit around.”
“Do me a favor, though. If she goes in tomorrow, make sure she doesn’t overdo it for a couple of days. You know how she can be. She’ll try to be back to full speed right away.”
“No problem. I will keep an eye on her. Thanks for the call.”
“One last thing—” James disconnected before I could ask about my Wrangler, whether they had inspected the damage, and if so, what they had found. Before I could dial him back, my phone rang. I recognized the number—Richter’s Garage.
“R, the police are finished with your Wrangler,” Kevin said. “They gave us the go-ahead to make the repairs.”
“When can you do it?”
“Not today, but we should have the lines replaced by noon tomorrow.”
“Will it be drivable, with the fender damage?”
“The body shop will need to repair that, but we can bend the fender out a bit, so it doesn’t rub. You should be able to drive it.”
“One more thing. Did the police say anything about what they found?”
He paused a minute, and I could hear him exhale what I guessed was cigarette smoke. “Not to me. They were not here long, maybe thirty minutes at most.”
“Thanks, Kevin. See you tomorrow.”
That sounded too quick. A thorough examination should’ve taken longer. Unless they found somethin
g right away. Like battery acid on the brake lines.
I took a piece of paper and a pen from behind the bar. I drew a vertical line down the middle and began making two lists—one for things I knew about the recent events, the other for things I didn’t know. After a few minutes, the didn’t know side was much longer than the did know. I studied both lists and tried to think of anything additional to add to either column. So as not to waste too much time thinking, I drank some more beer.
Downtown Kralendijk bristled with activity, folks piling into the restaurants and bars after a day in the sun and sea. Spontaneous laughter erupted from all directions and horns blared as vehicles passed on the one-way street. Jan asked if I wanted another beer. I hesitated but found the strength to decline.
I left plenty of money on the bar to pay my bill, gave Jan a quick wave, and stepped out of Vinny’s, onto Kaya C.E.B. Hellmund. I stopped on the sidewalk and noticed a street cam perched atop one of the light poles. After a brutal attack on a cruise ship employee several years ago in downtown Kralendijk, the police department had installed street cams along the significant tourist thoroughfares. No idea whether someone continuously monitored the cams, but I liked waving at them. Don’t know why, I just did. Probably had to do with my defiance of Big Brother watching.
I waved at the cam and started walking back to the YellowRock. After a few steps, I stopped, turned, and waved again. I smiled and turned toward home, satisfied with my show of insolence. Within the first block, a vehicle honked, and Lester pulled alongside me in his truck.
From the driver’s side, he leaned across the passenger seat to the window. “Have you seen Tiff? I can’t find her.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“I’m getting worried. She said she’d be back by now.”
I shrugged. “She said something about buying some shirts. Or maybe she stopped to pick up some grub for tonight,” I said.
He shook his head. “No, no. She said we were to eat with you tonight.”
“Well, maybe she’s still out shopping and lost track of time.”
“There are bags from several shops in the room.” He leaned back and banged his head on the headrest several times, putting both hands on his face. “She shopped before she went diving.”
“Diving?” My throat went dry. “What are you talking about?”
“She said she was going diving, that she talked it over with you.”
My pulse quickened, and my gut did a summersault. I looked north, in the direction of Karpata.
“Please, we have to go find her,” Lester said. “I’m worried. I would go myself, but I’m not sure where this Karpata place is.”
I hoped Arabella’s on-again-off-again car dying explained Tiffany’s tardiness. Maybe she was walking back to the resort or sitting at a local bar killing time. She might be on the beach, somewhere, waiting for sunset, enjoying some alone time. Based on what I’d seen of Lester, she needed it. But Tiffany wasn’t the type to make folks worry, and I had never known her to need a lot of alone time.
Only a sliver of orange shone above the horizon, casting a glow across the sea and the patchy, late afternoon clouds. Not much daylight remaining. I had no choice.
“Alright, but let me drive. I know where I’m going.” Lester scooted over to the passenger seat as I jumped behind the wheel. “Why’d you wait so long to look for her?”
“Mandy borrowed my truck.”
“Borrowed your truck?” What was it with Mandy and Lester? I shook my head and lowered my voice, getting control of myself and the situation. “Tiffany told me you and Mandy went out to Spelonk,” I said.
Lester averted his eyes and looked out the window of the passenger-side door. “We did go to Spelonk, and then Mandy borrowed the truck. That’s what happened.”
“Okay, it doesn’t matter.” The sequence of events wasn’t important, at least not right now. We needed to find Tiffany.
We made a quick stop at the YellowRock to check if Tiffany had returned, but she hadn’t. Rib pain notwithstanding, I flew up the stairs to my apartment, grabbed a flashlight, and peeked into the bedroom to check on Arabella. She was still asleep, and I saw no reason to wake her.
We drove out of the parking lot and turned onto Kaya Grandi, the road that went north, toward Karpata. The engine revved nearly as fast as my heart.
My mind went back several hours.
“Yes, I promise,” Tiffany had said.
CHAPTER 22
THE KARPATA DIVE site was at the northernmost end of the coastal road and had always been one of my favorites on the island. We sped north, passing small cacti dotting the roadside. To our left, the ground dropped off into the sea and to our right soared towering cliffs, ridged and grooved by the pounding of the sea millions of years ago.
The road was one lane, well maintained, and in excellent repair, but, as narrow as it was, handled two-way traffic. It wound back and forth, following the contours of the water’s edge, many of the curves being blind to oncoming traffic. I sped along faster than usual, increasing the chance of a head-on collision. No choice.
I stepped on the gas after we passed the 1000-Steps dive site. Beyond there, the road became one way, lessening our chances of a head-on. Lester leaned forward and stared out the windshield. His left foot beat out a constant nervous rhythm, and his fingers dug into the dashboard. I had both hands on the steering wheel, focused on taking the curves as fast as possible. Several times, the right-side tires went onto the dirt shoulder, and the truck heaved sideways as I yanked left, forcing it back on the pavement. Neither of us spoke. Our bodies swayed in unison as the tires squealed around each curve.
The sun had fully set, and we still had several minutes of driving before reaching Karpata. Streetlights, houses, or any other light source didn’t exist that far north on the coastal road, so our only sources of illumination would be the flashlight and the truck headlights.
The craziness of this whole trip raced through my mind. I doubted we’d find Tiffany still at Karpata. There had to be another, more reasonable explanation. Even if she had dived alone, she’d have been finished by now and be back in town.
Besides, she had promised.
We drove around the last curve and pulled into the small parking area at Karpata. Emptiness filled my gut as the headlights flashed across the side of Arabella’s car—the only vehicle in the lot. After pulling alongside and killing the engine, I jumped out and swiveled my head in all directions searching for Tiffany, calling her name several times.
I walked over to a small ledge and looked out across the sea, at the spot Tiffany would’ve used to enter the slight surge. The rhythmic sound of the waves lapping the shore echoed off the rock cliffs, and a slight breeze rustled the trees. A crescent moon shone in a dark sky full of stars.
I cupped my hands around my mouth and called her name. No response. Only Lester’s heavy breathing and the cadence of the sea along the shoreline. From our angle and distance, the flashlight beam wasn’t powerful enough to penetrate the darkness to the shore, so we started toward the water’s edge.
With Lester in tow, I headed for the concrete stairs that led from Karpata’s parking lot to the edge of the water. The first twelve went toward the sea, then the staircase turned left and continued down eleven more steps. Near the bottom, two more stairs went to the right. They were wide and uneven, with a three-foot white-painted concrete wall that ran along the outside edge acting as a makeshift railing. I shone my light downward and moved as fast as possible.
Coral rubble and baseball-sized rocks composed most of the shoreline along that part of the island. In the dark, with only my flashlight and a sliver of moonlight reflecting off the water, I had to be careful navigating out to the shore. I yelled again for Tiffany. No answer. Not even an echo. The only sound being the slight hiss of the waves stirring small pebbles and sand along the water’s edge before finding its way back to the sea.
I shone my light past Lester and peered into the blackness. He slowly walked the
shoreline to the south, yelling, moving deeper into the darkness. I pointed the beam northward, in front of me, seeing only rocks, surge, and gloom.
Lester crunched along the coral rubble and continued his search, while I followed the shoreline in the opposite direction. I stumbled several times on the bigger rocks but maintained my vigil with the light and peered to the edge of its effectiveness.
After about twenty yards, the far edge of the light’s beam shone on something. My pace quickened. The light bounced on and off the object as I moved faster along the shore.
“Lester, over here.” My throat was dry, the yell softer than intended. A quick flash of the light behind me showed Lester striding in my direction as I hurried along the shore.
The reflection of a silver scuba tank halted me in my tracks. The object was indeed a body—a body decked out in full scuba attire, including pink fins and accents, swaying back and forth, in a slight rocking motion, as the surge hit the shore and retreated.
I did my best to run the last few yards but stumbled and fell, crawling over the last bit of rock and coral rubble. The diver lay on one side, back facing me.
I placed a nervous hand on one of the shoulders, the cold, moist wetsuit sending shivers slinking down my spine, goose bumps sprouting on my arms. On the edge of hyperventilating, I swallowed hard and closed my eyes. A couple of slow, deep exhales calmed me, and I opened my eyes. Terrified, I rolled the body over.
Lester kneeled beside me as I shone through the tinted glass of the mask, sitting sideways on the diver’s face. The cloudy, opaque eyes showed no reaction to the light. I wasn’t surprised. I’d seen this countless times before. The purple lips, the pale skin, the terror frozen on her face—she was dead.
Tiffany.
As if not believing my conclusions, I placed two fingers on her throat. No pulse. I bowed my head, deflated, unable to understand this nightmare. But a moment later, a shot of adrenaline pulsed through me.
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