February Heat. Wilson Roberts
was that he would be re-elected in a landslide. The weather was going to be mostly sunny with a high of eighty-one the next day, sea swells expected to be one and a half to two feet high, and the garbage collectors were entering the tenth day of a strike.
They showed a commercial three times with a single repeating line:
“One third of all jobs in the U.S. Virgin Islands come from tourists. Think about it!” There was a background picture of tourists descending from a cruise ship. “One third of all jobs in the U.S. Virgin Islands come from tourists. Think about it! One third of all jobs in the U.S. Virgin Islands come from tourists. Think about it! One third of all jobs in the U.S. Virgin Islands come from tourists. Think about it! Be nice to tourists!”
I turned the television off and fell asleep as waves broke against the foot of the bluff, wind rustling palm fronds, and tree frogs whistling from the bush in the damp earth behind my home.
I was jolted awake by the phone and Liz Ford telling me somebody had just tried to kill her.
THREE
LIZ SAT ON the edge of the bed wearing a green and white batik kimono. The pattern, although not the color, matched the outfit she’d been wearing on the boat. She was calm as I entered the room.
“Thanks for coming.” There was no trace of the thin frightened voice I had heard on the phone. Sitting in a chair, I leaned forward, my eyes fixed on hers. She did not look away.
“I’m here because you called me in the middle of the night, saying somebody had just tried to kill you.”
Without speaking, she stood and moved across the floor, opening the wooden jalousie window. Looking toward the sea she rubbed her forehead, sighed and turned. Folding her arms over her chest she walked back to the bed and sat drumming her fingers against her shoulders.
I studied her face. Her lips were slightly compressed, her eyes in constant motion, the sound of her fingers on her shoulders audible across the room. She was clearly tense, frightened, in spite of her calm air. Unfolding her arms, she held her palms open in front of her. She was shaking. Her eyes narrowed and she bit her lover lip. Letting her arms fall to her sides, she spoke.
“I’m not here on vacation. Tomorrow night I have to pick up a package at an airport I’ve never been to, from someone I’ve never seen and pass it on to someone else I’ve never seen who is supposed to show up in a dinghy at a place I’ve never heard of before, Micah’s Bay.”
“Drugs,” I said.
Taking a deep breath, she let it out in a loud sigh, but did not directly respond.
“Somebody did try to kill me.”
“I don’t do drug deals.”
She continued as though I had not spoken. “You know this island. I need your help getting around and I’ll hire you to protect me.”
I glared at her, furious at myself for being taken in. A package switch at a small airport in the Caribbean could only mean one thing. The interesting woman who said she needed a little help was just another part of an endless chain of island drug smugglers. There was no other explanation.
Starting toward the door, I fell into my hardass film noir act. “Forget it lady. This isn’t my style. Look, I’m no Joe Pure. I’ve done a little weed in my time, even grew some, but St. Ursula is no place for drug dealers. They lock them up in Her Majesty’s Prison for a lot of years, and let me tell you, Her Majesty’s Prison is a hell-hole where they feed you gruel and flog you for minor infractions of rules which are made up by the guards to keep themselves from dying of boredom.”
She moved quickly across the room, blocking the door. Again, our eyes met and she reached toward me, taking my hand between hers.
“I didn’t say anything about drugs.”
“You don’t have to. Picking up a package the way you’ve just described it and getting shot at spells drugs.”
“Do I look like someone who’d be involved with drugs?”
I shrugged. “I’ve known drug dealers that look like dentists, plumbers, housewives, babysitters, cops, anything but drug dealers and druggies.”
“I’m not like that; this situation isn’t like that.”
I shrugged again. “Did someone really try to kill you earlier?”
“And I asked if you think I look like a drug dealer.”
I exhaled, tense with anger. “I don’t care what you look like. I’m sure you are one.”
She smiled. “Good. I’m glad you wondered about me. I’d be in trouble with someone naive on my side.”
“I’m not on your side.”
“You will be when you hear my story.”
“I like a good story, but don’t expect me to buy it.”
Still holding my hand, she pulled me to the middle of the room. “Somebody did try to kill me.”
With a small sarcastic chuckle to let her know I wasn’t going to easily believe her, I allowed her to continue.
“Ten minutes before I called you I woke up and had to pee. I never turn the lights on when I go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. If I do I have a hell of a time getting back to sleep. While I was in there I heard the door to the other room open. Then there were three sounds, you know, fa-whump fa-whump fa-whump, just like the sound from silencers on guns in the movies. Then the door closed and I came out, looked at the holes in my bed and called you.”
She led me across the room to the bed, pulled back the covers and pointed to three small holes with burn marks around them. Using my Swiss Army knife I dug around in the mattress and found the lead slugs embedded in it. She was lucky it was her first night on St. Ursula and she still peed in the dark. A few more nights in the islands and she would have turned the lights on to make sure there were no scorpions or tarantulas skittering across the floor.
I dropped the covers and shook my head, the slugs lying in my hand, resting together like small, oddly shaped pebbles. Jamming them into my pocket, I breathed regularly and deeply.
“So, you say it’s not drugs. What are you into?”
“I can’t tell you, but I need help. I mean I really need your help, Frank.”
There was no trace of pleading in her voice, just a straightforward request for help. I shook my head, but I liked the way she was approaching me. I like strong women. They’re not black holes sucking all light and energy from people around them. Too many people run around yelling ‘fill me up,’ ‘make me whole,’ ‘help me, I’m a victim.’ They’re exhausting. Sometimes they’re hard to spot because they’ve managed to substitute the trappings of success for their need of light and substance from other people.
Liz was in trouble. She needed help. But she was no black hole.
I returned to the chair, collapsed in it, my arms dangling over the sides, my feet stretched out straight.
Life on St. Ursula was good. I enjoyed my house on the bluff, the sounds of the ocean mingling with those from the creatures in the surrounding bush. I had all the time I wanted to write poetry, play my guitar, and walk the beaches with Rumble. Whenever I felt like it I could drive into town, have a few beers and hang out with other ex-pats and locals. Until I came to the islands I hadn’t felt so free since I was thirteen and my father made me take a job helping an undertaker friend of his dig graves. From then on my life had been school, college, back-breaking summer jobs in the tobacco fields of western Massachusetts and Connecticut, and finally selling insurance.
The island was the perfect place for me. It was warm year round; the booze was cheap and I was surrounded by incredible natural beauty. Even better, I had no responsibilities beyond those I placed upon myself. I was free to do whatever I wanted to do, as long as I watched