Adrift on St. John (19 page)

The tapering path’s loose, rocky base became more difficult to discern as it disappeared into a tangled mass of ferns and oversized agave plants, but Beulah needed no guideposts. She knew the route by memory.

Higher and higher, the old woman climbed, pushing her way through the underbrush, swiping at the dangling curtains of ropelike vines that snaked down from the treetops—until slowly, the canopy began to fall away, revealing a star-strewn sky and, across the water, a moonlit Maho Bay.

She reached into the holster of a ragged sport belt secured around her tiny waist and pulled out a bottle of water. Unscrewing the lid, she tipped the bottle to her lips. A few gulps later, she gummed her toothless mouth and wiped the sweat from her brow.

Taking care with her footing, she crawled onto a rocky outcropping that gave her a better view of the bay. From this vantage point, Beulah could see almost the entire outline of St. John’s northern coast, a ruffled skirt of tree-rimmed beaches and the occasional odd-shaped cay dotting the water just beyond the shoreline.

In front of her ledge, bobbing out beyond the rounded blunt of Mary’s Point, she spied a small catamaran powerboat tethered to an anchor. Red lettering painted along the white side of the boat read WATER TAXI.

Beulah watched as a brawny, muscular man threw an
inflatable yellow dinghy over the side of the boat, and then followed it into the water. After pulling the rip cord on a tiny black motor attached to the stern, he drove the dinghy inland toward the narrow divot of an inlet cove, where it disappeared into the shadowed darkness.

To her left, Beulah’s vision took in the sweep of the hillside that housed the eco-resort and its protected beach on the sand below. Her eyes squinted as she focused her gaze on a scrawny, splashing man desperately paddling out into Maho Bay.

The mysterious woman who had drawn him into the water was nowhere to be seen.

The next morning found Conrad Corsair snoring sleepily into his pillow, facedown on his cot inside the teepee tent, wearing nothing but his Bermuda swimming trunks and a fogged-up pair of goggles. His spindly arms and legs were tangled in his bedsheets, still occasionally flailing about in a paddling motion as he tried to catch up to the singing woman who had disappeared into the ocean near Maho Bay.

The manila envelope lay on the floor by the nightstand, where it had fallen the night before during a frantic search for the ziplock bag of guitar picks. The end flap had popped open, revealing a portion of the contents stuffed inside.

A ragged stack of photocopied papers took up much of the envelope’s volume. The top sheet was stamped on its upper right-hand corner with the imprint of New York City’s largest public library. Part of a map was visible—it appeared to be a delineation of the west coast of Africa, heavily marked with penciled annotations pinpointing the known locations of Danish slave forts from the 1700s.

A slight breeze siphoned through the tent, riffling the papers. The top sheet peeled back to reveal the surface of the one underneath.

A second map, similarly stamped and covered with penciled handwriting, portrayed a far different geographical
location—the island of St. John, expanded to highlight the area around Maho Bay.

Next to the pile of papers, hanging halfway out of the package, was a leather rope necklace connected to a circular iron amulet forged in the shape of a sun.

21

Jeff yawned as his wristwatch alarm beeped its five a.m. alert. Pushing a button to silence the beep, he rolled silently out of the queen-sized bed, taking care not to wake its other, still snoozing occupant.

With the crook of his finger, he scooped up his red T-shirt from the floor. A quick twist of his wrists turned the garment right-side out, so that the logo of the resort’s dive shop was now visible. After a discreet sniff, followed by an “oh well” shrug, he stuffed his head through the neck hole.

A couple seconds later, he’d pulled on a loose pair of well-worn, knee-length shorts, slipped into his flip-flops, and ducked noiselessly out of the one-bedroom condo unit.

He stood on the doorstep and briefly scanned the surrounding area. In the predawn darkness, no one else was awake to observe his exit—save the bright green iguana staring curiously up at him from the nearest lawn. This section of the resort was slated for renovations that were scheduled to begin in a few months’ time, and the outdated rooms were rarely used to house paying guests.

With another wide yawn, Jeff waved at the iguana and loped down the hill to the dive shop.

*    *    *

Bright lights burned through the shop’s front windows, the only illumination beyond the ground lamps that lined the sidewalks leading to the resort’s quiet waterfront.

Drowsily rubbing the rough stubble on his chin, Jeff pushed open the door and shuffled inside. The other crew member assigned to the morning’s charter sat kicked back on a stool behind the counter, loudly slurping a cup of coffee.

Jeff groaned internally as his expressionless gaze fell upon Rick, a cheeky blond-haired kid in his late twenties who’d recently moved down to the island from Tampa. This was one of his least favorite work pairings.

Rick was easily distracted, sloppy with their safety protocols, and had an annoying tendency to disappear whenever there was work to be done. Even worse, he was apparently under the misconception that the two of them were buddies.

Jeff felt his jaw tighten as Rick greeted him with an enthusiastic, “Good morning, sunshine.” He raised a knowing eyebrow and added slyly, “Sleep well?”

Issuing a noncommittal grunt, Jeff reached behind the counter for his beat-up toiletry kit. The slightest twitch creased the left corner of his mouth as he retreated out the door, but the taciturn exterior concealed a constant commentary that played inside his head.

Mind your own business, jughead, he thought with irritation.

A few long strides took Jeff around the corner of the building to a public restroom.

He dropped the toiletry kit onto the ledge near the sink, turned on the faucet, and dunked his head under the cool stream of water. Then, with a fist full of paper towels from the automatic dispenser, he scrubbed his face dry.

Jeff let out a sigh as he ran his hand through the tower of tight curls piled up over his head. The night before, he had finally given in to Pen’s demands and washed his hair.

Bannanquits, he thought with a small smile, before opening the kit and fishing out his toothpaste.

Half an hour later, Jeff guided a sleepy group of hotel guests off the dock and into the dive shop’s powerboat. Up in the vessel’s elevated cabin, the captain reviewed his equipment checklist and confirmed the day’s weather report.

Jeff scanned the boat’s interior and the adjoining dock. Rick was, predictably, nowhere to be found.

Once Jeff had safely loaded the passengers, he returned to the dive shop for the rest of the day’s supplies. Muttering under his breath, he picked up a crate holding a thermos of fresh coffee, a box of Danishes, a variety of juice containers, and several bottles of rum. By the time he returned with the crate, Rick had reappeared and was now aboard, happily chatting with the passengers.

Grimacing, Jeff hefted the crate over the side of the boat and began his routine inspection of the rigging. Despite the early departure—and the less-than-desirable shipmate—today’s outing was a welcome break from his regular routine.

The dive shop typically ran two daytrips a week. The first route circumnavigated the straits between the U.S. and the British Virgin Islands, taking a few snorkeling stops en route to the Virgin Gorda Baths on the far east end of the BVIs.

The Baths were marked by several enormous boulders that looked as if they’d been propped up on their ends like dominoes—the huge structures could be seen from miles away. A series of trails wove in, around, and over the rocks, creating a fun, kid-friendly, but often crowded playground.

Those were busy trips, Jeff mused wearily: helping the children struggle into their pint-sized life jackets, teaching the tots how to use the snorkel gear, and constantly counting heads to make sure he didn’t lose anyone. But he’d take that shift any day over the alternate route.

The dive shop’s other regular excursion was a more adult-themed affair. That trip focused on Jost Van Dyke, an island
positioned at the west end of the BVI chain, not far north of St. John. Due to the later departure time, the boat stopped first for lunch at Foxy’s Bar and Restaurant before proceeding on to White Bay. There, the passengers swam ashore, carrying money in plastic ziplock baggies, for a taste of one of the Soggy Dollar’s renowned Painkiller cocktails.

In between stops, Jeff spent the majority of his time pouring drinks, cleaning up spills, and wishing he could push his increasingly inebriated passengers overboard.

In contrast, this morning’s excursion was a specially chartered voyage. Over the next couple of hours, they would slowly circle the island, stopping every so often for a scenic photo op and the occasional snorkel break. It was a refreshing deviation from the weekly schedule. And at least on this trip, Jeff reflected drowsily, there were only four guests to cater to. How much trouble could that possibly be?

A reclining Rick waved as Jeff untied the boat from the dock. “Hey, ya’ need any help there, bro?”

Make that
five
passengers to take care of, Jeff grumbled internally.

The sun’s first creeping edges reflected off the flat surface of the water as the powerboat finally pushed away from the pier. Jeff began passing out pastries while Rick sat sipping his second cup of coffee.

The loud hum of the engine drowned out all conversation—which was just as well. By the time they had passed the outer edge of Cruz Bay, the vigorous commentary inside Jeff’s head had reached a fever pitch. His fellow passengers had given him plenty of material to work with.

The two couples who had booked the early morning charter were from Texas. Jeff had gathered as much from the snippets of conversation he’d picked up during their earlier dialogue with Rick. Their distinctive drawling accents combined with an intense debate about the current starting lineup for the Cowboys football team had given them away.

This alone would have provided Jeff with an easy hour’s
worth of mocking mental dialogue—his New England–born prejudices were firmly imprinted on his persona—but the observational bonanza of these guests didn’t stop with their aggressive hometown pride.

These were rich men, overtly so—in a way that had blurred their individuality as well as their common sense. Who else wore Rolex watches and expensive leather loafers on a boat, Jeff pondered cynically. Despite their request for an early morning snorkeling stop, he was willing to bet his portion of the tip jar that neither man would risk dampening their elaborate hairpieces in the ocean’s salty water.

Their wives, of course, were another matter entirely. These women were the men’s second, probably third iterations on the marital wheel, judging by the dramatic age differences and the females’ numerous plastic improvements.

No need to worry about additional floatation devices, Jeff thought wryly. Not with the size of those implants.

The boat rumbled past Caneel Bay’s pristine western shore, revealing a row of one-bedroom cabins discreetly tucked into the trees and bushes. The acres of shallow water that stretched out from the beach were populated by a wide array of colorful fish, several bobbing turtles, and a squadron of dark gray stingrays—the last of which were, in Jeff’s opinion, far too snorkeler-friendly.

As they rounded the top corner of the Caneel property, the rocky outcropping of Turtle Point came into view. This protruding spit of land was the scenic location for some of the island’s most lavish and extravagant weddings. The outer rim of the national park’s north shore provided a stunning photographic backdrop for newly hitched couples.

Jeff’s bleary eyes followed the track of the land east from Turtle Point’s narrow peninsula. He knew every inch of the map by heart: the bays of Hawksnest, Trunk, Cinnamon, and Maho—then, looming in the distance, the densely wooded curve of Mary’s Point.