“Twenty dollars.”
“American?”
Ray nodded. “He said he hadn’t seen you for weeks. I asked the other people in here too. A couple of leathery old men and that layabout fisherman whose wife always comes in looking for him.”
Manny laughed. “How much did you tipthem ?”
“Not much.” Ray set down his beer among the many circular rings on the single Formica tabletop in the corner of the bar. “Feels like home,” he said, cooling himself under the slow-moving ceiling fan.
“To what do we owe this visit?” Peta asked.
“I’ve been with Terris and—” He stopped short, clearly reluctant to continue whatever it was he had to say in front of Peta. “Look, this is confidential.”
“Don’t worry about it. The last thing I need is your little-boy games.” Peta slid off the stool.
“I’m sorry,” Ray said. “Arthur’s dead, but you’re not yet officially a member of the club. That doesn’t mean you don’t have my respect.”
“No problem. I’m leaving.”
“Stay,” Manny said. “I’m not a member of the club either. Whatever I can hear, you can hear.”
Peta was torn between her first instinct, which was to tell Ray to stick it, and her need to find out what part—if any—he had played in Arthur’s death.
“If you have doctor-type things to do, I can call you later,” Ray said hesitantly. “You’re in my database.”
“Bad idea,” Manny said. “You know as well as we do what a problem it is keeping things confidential when dealing with our telephone system.”
Peta knew that Ray couldn’t argue with him, not after being privy to many an argument with Grenadian officials about the fact that line tapping was legal on the island. Any attempt at privacy here was more of a challenge than all of the death-defying feats Ray had accomplished in his lifetime.
Judging by the look on the American’s face, he was making a tough decision. “I’ve been on theValhalla with Terris,” he said finally. “Took a short island hop from the rig to Trinidad, then a flight here.” He looked around, as if searching for eavesdroppers, then lowered his voice and looked at Manny. “We need your help.”
Without wasting words, he filled them in on McKendry’s plan to find Selene. Even before he was finished, Manny had admitted that he knew where to find the camp and agreed to participate on the condition that killing was minimized.
“I’m coming too,” Peta said.
“No—”
“Yes. I’m going to do what Arthur would have done. First of all, it’ll save time if I fly you to Trinidad. Second, you may need a doctor—”
“No—”
“Don’t argue with her,” Manny said. “It’s both of us, or neither. I’ll sail down so we have my boat. I can leave in the morning.”
“I’ll clear things with my locum tonight,” Peta added. She thought for a moment. “Frik will probably call me on the pretext of seeing if I’m all right after the incident in the cavern.”
She was about to ask what she should say to him when, right on cue, her cell phone jangled.
“Yes.”
“Frik here. I’m sailing in. I want to apologize to you for the debacle in San Gabriel. Will you have dinner with me?”
“I’m busy,” she said.
“Tomorrow?”
“No. I’m flying out in the morning.”
There was silence at the other end. “I really need to see you,” Frik said at last.
“It’ll have to wait.”
“I won’t be here again until Carnival.”
August will be too late to feel me out, too late to find out what I know, Peta thought. Nevertheless, deciding she needed some insurance should he become persistent, she said a cursory farewell to Frik and a warm one to Manny. To Ray she said merely, “Be at the airport at noon.”
Exiting Aboo’s, she made her way past the awnings of the tourist shops toward the coal pot where an old woman was roasting corn on a makeshift grill over glowing coals. She bought several ears, wrapped them in one of the sheets of newspaper piled next to the fire, and flagged down one of the few taxis that roamed the Carenage on a Sunday evening.
With darkness descending and the sound of a lone steel drum in her ears, she directed the driver to take her home. She called the airport to tell them to have her plane ready for departure at noon. Then she ate her corn, bathed, and packed a small overnight bag. Before midnight, she was fast asleep.
The next morning, carrying nothing but a tote and her medical bag, she drove her Honda to the bank. She took her pendant out of her safe-deposit box, pocketed it, and headed toward Morne Rouge and her Rasta friend, Ralphie Levine. He was the only person on the island who could be trusted to do what she needed to have done: replicate the piece in her pendant and swap the two, putting his fake in the bezel while he held on to the original.
Everything went so smoothly that Peta was at the airport thirty minutes early. She made one last check on her plane and headed upstairs to the coffee shop. Ray was already there, eating a lunch of chicken roti. He pulled a small bone out of his mouth.
“Have some,” he said, pushing the roti toward her. “It’s good.”
“I know it is.” Though she never tired of the lightly curried chicken, cut into small pieces and wrapped, bones and all, in a thin East Indian flatbread, she scooted the dish back at him. “I don’t eat before I fly.”
“What’s wrong, Peta? Have I done something to upset you?” Ray looked genuinely distressed.
“I don’t know, Ray. Have you?”
“I would never do anything to hurt you. Surely you know that.”
Ray took her hand. His touch was warm and reassuring. “I do know that.” She smiled at him and retrieved her hand. “Now let’s get out of here.”
It wasn’t until the two of them stepped onto the tarmac that she saw Frik. He was dressed in long pants, wore shoes, and carried a briefcase—formal attire for him. His eye remained partially closed; his hand was wrapped in pressure bandages in a continuing attempt to minimize scarring from the deep burns he’d suffered.
“I know where you’re going and what you’re going to do,” he said. “McKendry told me all about it. I’m coming along.”
“Not a chance,” Peta said quietly. “It’s my plane and you’re not getting on it.”
He blocked her path. “You’retellingme what to do?”
“Yup. Now get out of my way.”
Frik didn’t move.
“You heard the lady, Van Alman,” Ray said.
“Even if we wanted you on board, you’re in no shape to come,” Peta added.
Frik stood his ground. Peta and Ray walked around him and headed for the plane. He followed them. Peta slowed down almost imperceptibly. When he was so close that she could feel his breath on her neck, she stopped in her tracks and turned around, forcing him to step aside.
“What part of ‘no’ do you not understand?”
Frik stared at her, eyes filled with hatred. Waving his bandaged hand perilously close to her face, he said, “You’ll regret this, bitch. One hand—no hands—I’m twice as good as any woman.”
30
In early June, standing at the head of Oilstar’s La Brea dock, McKendry looked over his assault team. Except for the fact that Manny Sheppard had been missing for two days and that they still had no specifics about the whereabouts of the ecoterrorists, they were as ready as they would ever be.
The three men Bruzual had sent slouched together against one of the pilings, smoking Peta’s cigarettes and polishing their weapons. The one called José drew his knife against a stone to sharpen the edge. As he spun it, McKendry saw the initials J.R. etched into the pommel.
“You’re his buddies. Where the devil is Sheppard?” McKendry looked at Peta and Ray accusingly.
“Triple A to the rescue,” Manny said, appearing out of nowhere. With a self-satisfied grin, he handed McKendry a grease-stained scrap of paper with a sketch on it.