It was a joke, he thought. Surely a joke. Edward ran around the house, looking for the painting. He thought about his creation as he moved, the whole tone of it was something new for him, a breakthrough, a transformation in his style. It was an important prototype for future work. Edward beat a fist into the door, cursing the visitors, and cursing himself for letting them stay.
Had Gene planned it? A little return stab for his insult? Had used the word fortunate in his note for a reason? Gene must have gotten his friends ready to leave, prepared the boat for castoff, come in to use the bathroom, and seeing Edward passed out there on the bed, took the painting. It was twelve noon. If they had left one or two hours earlier, they were long gone. Edward brought his fists down on his desk. He would have given them any of his other paintings. He would have let them stay in the main house. Throw a party. Do anything to get that painting – his greatest work – back. His energy drained out of him like liquid leaving a container, he felt weak, and fell onto the bed, grabbing the sheet, screaming obscenities into the mattress. He imagined the painting of Mary stuffed in a suitcase, sitting on a cabin shelf, or propped up next to a portal getting ruined with saltwater spray.
Half an hour later, he put on swim trunks, stomped out to the beach and fell into the water, slapping his arms at the surface, powered by his anger. As he began his swim, he fantasized about the violent things he’d do if he ever saw that playboy Gene again. Break his nose. That would be justice. Edward regretted not letting Mary reply. He should have let her say whatever she wanted. Then, perhaps, Gene wouldn’t have cared. And now his property, his most valued possession had been taken from him and there was nothing he could do. Edward’s arms rotated through the warm bay mechanically. He took in gulps of air and kicked, having become so used to the motion of his swim it felt like he wasn’t moving.
He reached the inlet island before he realized it. And with Gene’s violation still stinging him, he sat down on the beach and stared off at the southern horizon to try to catch an impossible glimpse of that sailboat. Edward kept telling himself he’d never allow another stranger to stay on the property again. He would never have let a stranger into his New York apartment. And even here, with not a soul around, it only took one snobby drifter to teach him that old lesson. Life wasn’t fair.
Take whatever you can, he told himself. Take it and run. Generosity was for schmucks.
Edward got up, still feeling like he wanted to break something. He walked along the skirt of beach, around to the side of the island where the path into the jungle started. Images of Gene and his whole spoiled life went through his head as he walked through the quiet grove. When he came out at the clearing, he tilted his head to stretch his neck muscles. He walked straight to the wood shack lit by rays of sunlight penetrating the swaying canvas, and without hesitation, he gave the door a forceful yank, breaking off the latch to pull it open. When he saw what was inside, he licked his lips. There were four new backpacks, sporty ones with brand names and Day-Glo straps. And each was stuffed tantalizingly full.
Edward pulled one over, dragging it across the rough wood floor. He unzipped it, and peeled it open. What was inside was what he imagined: bulky packages wrapped in butcher paper. These packages were the size and shape of thick books. They looked just like the props for a TV show about cops and drug lords. They had to get their ideas from somewhere, he thought. One thing he didn’t expect was the writing on the paper. Like the back label of any grocery store item. There was the weight, the date, the ingredients with percentages. There was a nine-digit ID number on each package that appeared to be unique. Drug trafficking truly was a business like any other.
He lifted out a package of cocaine with one hand, gauging its weight, laughing madly at how absolutely obscene life was. One minute life takes. The next it gives. The thrill of it all shot through him as if injected into his bloodstream. It started at the top of his spine and ran down to his toes. Evidence was what the police wanted and evidence was what the police would get.
But he needed to act fast. The drug runners would see the door of the shack was broken. They would know their hiding place was compromised. They might even return before the police showed up.
Unless…
Edward rezipped the backpack, slipped his arms through the straps and picked up one of the other packs. They were bulky, so he carried only two. With giddy breaths, he ran through the trees and around to the other side of the island. There he dropped the packs on the sand, found a flat piece of driftwood and used it as a shovel to make a hole next to the rocky cliff. When he found the piece of wood too inefficient, he used his hands to lengthen and deepen the trench. He finished, placed the two backpacks in, and ran back around. He returned with the last two packs and dropped them into the hole. Then he pushed sand over them until they were completely covered.
Finally, he stood up, slapping his hands together, and looked down at the mound. It looked no different from a fresh grave. He stabbed a piece of driftwood into the sand at the head and laughed. Now they wouldn’t find it.
But he needed more. He needed to see it. What good was his act of justice if he couldn’t witness it? He wanted to see the criminals discovering their loss. He would tell the police, but only after he watched the drug runners leave empty-handed. He imagined them assuming the police had found their stash and rocketing away from the island to escape.
Edward ran into the water. Sand washed off his skin. He started swimming back, stopping in the middle of the inlet to laugh out the excitement running through his chest.
When he got home, he made a sandwich, wrapping it in Saran Wrap. He dropped this, the binoculars and a bottle of water into a bag, and then trekked over the hill to the eastern beach. From that location he had a partial view of the inlet island and a clear view of the larger islands stringing their way toward Anguilla which lay somewhere over the horizon. He found a perfect spot on the incline. He sat back against a felled trunk. A single palm stood between him and the edge of the island.
His spot was comfortable, and over the next hour there was sparse activity in front of him. A cargo ship or oil tanker snailed its way north, probably heading toward an East Coast port. A fishing trolley, anchored off an island to the south, didn’t move for almost an hour, and then it moved off. And some sort of yacht powered its way toward him, passing out of view on the south side of the Peter Island. Edward finished his sandwich, drank some water, and rested his head against the trunk. Then, in his well-shaded spot with a tepid breeze blowing over him and cool sand on his back, he fell asleep.
~~~
The buzzing woke him. It was no louder than a bee flying around his knees. He opened his eyes, having no idea of how long he had slept – twenty minutes perhaps. He sat up, rubbed his eyes and looked out at where the noise came from, glimpsing the red hull just before the glittering brightness of the sea stung his eyes and he had to blink hard.
He looked again. The boat had disappeared behind the mangrove copse. From where he was on the east beach, the island was a little over three hundred yards away. He felt around on the ground behind him without taking his eyes off the island and found his bag. He reached inside and pulled out the binoculars. He moved onto his stomach, scooting over to put most of his body behind the palm that was between him and where the go-fast boat had disappeared. He pressed the binoculars to his brow and squinted, struggling to see through the surface glare.
Would they walk around the island to look for their drugs? If they did, there was a good chance that they’d find them. But why would they look? Could they possibly guess that someone had hidden their stuff so close? Had he left footprints? His heart started drumming as he tried to remember the ground. The ground was firm, hard dirt with grass, and he had walked through the overgrown path where it would be difficult to see footprints. But if they found the path… He played the scenarios over and over in his head, watching the edge of the island.