Undercurrents Page 26

  A boat ladder splashed into the water in front of her. One of those horrible cheap things, metal chains and plastic steps. It immediately floated sideways. Ayala struggled to keep it in place. Sam grabbed one of the chains. At least it was something to hold on to. J.J.’s fingers clenched on to a yellow plastic step. The boat bounced into them. Sam’s legs drifted under the hull. She fought to pull herself upright again.

  Ayala shouted something in Spanish. “Fins!” J.J.’s voice was loud in her ear.

  Sam let go of the ladder, sank beneath the surface, and laboriously peeled off her swim fins. She cracked her head on the hull as she fought her way through the current and back into the world of air-breathers, surfacing in time to see J.J’s muscular calves and slender feet disappear over the side of the boat.

  Ayala took her swim fins, and Sam curled her fingers around the chains at the sides of the ladder. She forced her feet onto a step, which swam under the curve of the boat. Just a few more inches, she told herself. You can do it. It may take a while, but . . . Then her forearms were enclosed in a bruising grip and Ayala hauled her over the side. She tried to find her legs, but instead collapsed onto the floor of the boat. Her shoulders and head lolled against the rear seat. She abruptly realized that along with her BCD and tank, she’d ditched her camera. Out There would not take that news well.

  The ride was not any smoother topside. With a horrible scraping sound, the boat jolted off a rock. Sam bit her tongue, and the taste of blood filled her mouth with a metallic tang. There was a lot of shouting and jumping from side to side in the cockpit. More bouncing, rocking. J.J.’s air cylinder and attached BCD swung over the side of the boat, suspended on a boat hook, and then thunked into the cockpit in front of her. Her gear followed. She watched as the camera crash-landed on top of J.J.’s BCD.

  Her head hurt. Her tongue hurt. Bile burned her stomach and throat, but throwing up would require crawling to the side of the boat. She closed her eyes and focused on breathing.

  The bouncing changed to rocking. The swells still made her stomach lurch from side to side, but the rolling was better than the pounding. She felt the motor’s vibrations beneath her back as Guerrero switched from reverse to forward. When she was sure she was not going to vomit, Sam opened her eyes and studied the sodden heap at her side. Juanita Jane Bradley lay sprawled on the floor, her head propped up on a life vest. It was satisfying to see that J.J. looked done in, too.

  One brown eye opened. “God Almighty,” J.J. groaned.

  “Amen,” said Sam.

  Guerrero manned the wheel. Ayala clutched the back of a seat, holding a satellite phone to his ear. “Las llevamos ahora.” He snorted, then added, “Claro, vivas.”

  J.J. translated in a hoarse whisper. “We’re bringing them now. Of course, alive.”

  Sam couldn’t decide if that was ominous or reassuring. She was so tired of not knowing what was going on, of feeling like a very small rodent in an endless cat and mouse game.

  “Guess we’re not going to die today,” J.J. said.

  Ayala stuck the phone into his pocket and then stepped between them, opened the compartment beneath the rear seat cushions to extract rough wool blankets, which he then flung over Sam and J.J. He pressed a thermos top full of brown liquid into Sam’s hand, and when she didn’t put it to her lips, he held it there for her. Why was everyone always forcing coffee on her? She tried to form the words to say that she didn’t want it, but he poured it down her throat anyway. Not so bad. Lukewarm coffee, but it burned. Some kind of liquor in there, too.

  “Who were you talking to?” she gasped.

  “Papagayo.” Ayala poured another cupful and pressed it into J.J.’s hands. After another minute, Sam’s teeth stopped chattering and she was in control of her own jaws again. It was a reassuring feeling.

  Where her leg pressed against J.J.’s, Sam felt waves of shivering as they passed through the other woman’s flesh. J.J.’s perfect teeth chattered against the steel thermos top as she drank the contents. Ayala returned to the front of the boat.

  J.J.’s gaze followed him. “Shitheads,” she growled.

  She apparently said it loud enough for the two men to hear. They erupted into a flurry of apologies in both English and Spanish. Most of their words were lost in the engine noise and wind, but sorry was echoed at least twenty times, and Sam caught the word fishing as well. Then she noticed that the solid heap over which her legs were stretched was not a rolled-up tarp but a huge mackerel. Its sleek silver scales were already losing their luster in this alien world.

  “. . . hooked, but he swim fast,” Ayala yelled. “We follow him, just a little way far from the rocks.”

  “So the line would not break,” Guerrero chimed in.

  J.J. was not appeased. Through clenched teeth, she hissed, “You damn near killed us.”

  “Yeah.” Sam could hardly believe such an inane addition had come from her lips. She pressed them firmly together to keep it from happening again.

  “But everything ends happily, no?” Ayala yelled, beaming. “You are safe, we are here, we have this excellent fish.”

  Sam pushed her feet against the excellent fish, using its weight to lever herself into a more upright position. She rubbed her hand over her aching forehead and leaned against the rear seat cushion. They were headed back east to Papagayo’s moorage. The lighthouse on Wolf was already a tiny blur at the top of the island silhouette, difficult to make out in all the burning brightness. Where had her sunglasses gotten to? A second later she wondered if she’d voiced the question, because Ayala handed them to her, along with a paper sack and a can of soda. “Enjoy your lunch.”

  Ayala helped J.J. onto the padded bench, tucking the blanket carefully around her legs. He placed a similar sack in her lap and returned to the bow. Sam stayed on the floor, chewing carefully, determined not to bite her tongue again as they hydroplaned over the tops of swells.

  “Let’s toss their excellent fish overboard, J.J.,” she suggested.

  “Maybe when we get to Papagayo.”

  Oh, yeah, they were not quite safe yet. But they were getting there fast. Had these two guys intended to kill them? Had they been saved only by that call from Papagayo? Was that Eduardo’s doing? She was grateful to be alive. She turned to her dive partner. “We did it, J.J. That was the last site on Dan’s list.”

  J.J. held up her right hand. Sam clapped it in a weak high five.

  She’d write her posts for the day, and then she’d be done with this crazy job. She’d accomplished her mission. Hard to believe that she’d been drowning fifteen minutes ago. She should be thinking profound thoughts after such an experience, shouldn’t she? Instead, her mind was a complete blank. She rested her head on the seat cushion.

  * * * * *

  Maybe it was the sudden drop in speed as they approached Papagayo that awakened her, or maybe it was J.J.’s muttered “Oh, shit. Not now.”

  Sam kept her eyes closed for a minute longer. What else could happen? Surely the law of averages was on her side now. Her neck was excruciatingly stiff from lolling backward against the seat cushion. Could she even hold her head upright? Maybe she’d pretend she was unconscious; let the crew carry her from this boat to her bunk.

  J.J. nudged her with an elbow, forcing her to sit up. The vertebrae between her shoulders popped as she raised her head.

  It was just past sundown. A strip of orange still marked the transition between the inky blue ocean and the night sky, but that would disappear within minutes. The islands in the background were unfamiliar. Papagayo had moved to the next stop on its itinerary so the tour group could explore James (Santiago) island on their last day. Tomorrow, the boat was scheduled to deliver the passengers to the Baltra airport to catch their flight home.

  The Navy boat was rafted up alongside Papagayo again, a couple of officers standing attentively in its bow. For a brief moment, Sam had hope that they’d stopped by to drop off her passport. But then she saw Officers Schwartz and Aguirre, and Montero, the po
nytailed woman from the police station, on the walkway surrounding Papagayo’s main deck, observing the arrival of the go-fast boat.

  Above the fiscalia officers, the tour group and Jon and Paige Sanders lined the railing on the uppermost deck. Clearly everyone was waiting for the main event to begin. It didn’t seem likely that returning her passport would be such a big attraction.

  The go-fast boat slid into position on the other side of Papagayo. Sam stood up to step aboard. Sergeant Schwartz descended the steps, pulled his pistol out of his holster, and pointed it at her.

  23

  Now Sam knew how a perp walk felt. Except that instead of being paraded from jail to court down an alley lined with reporters, her perp walk involved being awkwardly transferred from one bouncing boat to another.

  J.J. leaned close. “They won’t get away with this.”

  Sam wasn’t so sure about that. Nobody was protesting at the moment. Guerrero and Ayala stuck to the far side of their boat as she climbed over their excellent mackerel and onto Papagayo’s stern platform. She was painfully aware of the two male fiscalia officers’ pistol barrels tracking her movements.

  Officer Montero stepped onto the platform and took hold of Sam’s arm. “You are under arrest,” she said in English.

  No shit, Sam thought. “What the hell for?” she said aloud.

  Surprise flashed across Montero’s face. “For murder of Daniel Kazaki.”

  Sam waited for them to read her rights. They didn’t. Oh crap. She was far, far from home. And in big, big trouble. “What?” she squeaked.

  “Dr. Kazaki was cut.” Montero made a slashing motion from her cheek down her neck. “We have your dive knife with your fingerprints, your earring, all found where he died.”

  “No,” Sam said. “That’s not possible.” When she’d found Dan’s body, she hadn’t even had her dive knife with her.

  Did she have the right to an attorney in Ecuador? How the hell would she find one? Would she even get a phone call? Damn it, how could Chase be incommunicado when she needed him most?

  Eduardo squeezed past J.J. on the stern platform and bent close to Sam’s ear. “I will come see you tomorrow night.”

  Was that supposed to be reassuring? Then he climbed back up to the main deck to join the tourists and crew.

  The officers didn’t bother to handcuff her, but merely shoved her aboard the Navy boat. Her two duffel bags and her computer and camera cases sat on the deck, bulging with what Sam supposed was gear and clothing from her cabin. The sight gave her a glimmer of hope. Maybe they’d simply deport her; put her on the next flight home.

  As the Navy boat pulled away, the tourists and staff watched the spectacle. Abigail Birsky kept one hand curled against her chest as if fighting off a heart attack. “God bless you, Sandy,” she shouted in a wavery voice.

  Sandy Roberson gave the older woman a sideways glance. Ron Birsky leaned down to whisper in his wife’s ear, no doubt telling Abigail that she’d called Sam the wrong name. Ken raised a clenched fist in the air. Which meant what? Fight? Stay strong? Sandy Roberson smiled and waved tentatively. Bon voyage?

  As soon as the Navy captain maneuvered the patrol boat out of sight of Papagayo, the police holstered their pistols. They didn’t bother to handcuff her on the way back to Puerto Ayora. A sailor helped her stow her camera and dive gear. She lifted the computer case and was relieved to feel the weight of her laptop inside. “My phone?” she asked.

  Schwartz pulled it out of his shirt pocket, turned it on, and held it out toward her. She could see a long list of voicemail messages, but she didn’t have the chance to read the names before he turned it off and slipped it back into his pocket.

  “Don’t I get a phone call?”

  “Mas tarde,” Schwartz growled.

  Montero translated, “More later.”

  She changed into dry khakis and T-shirt in a tiny interior cabin as Officer Montero watched and Schwartz and Aguirre waited outside the door. Then they all trooped up to the bridge to join the two Navy officers there.

  As the boat plowed through the inky water, the police and Navy officers shared sandwiches and conversed in Spanish.

  Except for an occasional over-the-shoulder glance, nobody paid much attention to her. She could dash though the door and jump overboard before they would even notice. And then what? Tread water in the midst of miles of dark ocean with lots of friendly sharks? That might be what the officers were hoping for.

  She consumed a sandwich and an orange drink that Schwartz handed her, then stretched out on a bench inside the cabin. She’d save her strength for whatever was coming next.

  After docking in Puerto Ayora, Aguirre said adiós and strolled off, leaving Schwartz and Montero to handcuff Sam and escort her through the town. It seemed odd that they had no police vehicle waiting. But then, as more and more interested faces appeared at windows and peeked from beneath the lamps in outdoor cafes, the light dawned. She was the main attraction in a piece of Galapagueño performance art. She straightened her spine and tried to assume an appearance of outrage and innocence.

  The Puerto Ayora jail was about two blocks away, a small cement-block building set back from the street. In passing, Sam would have mistaken it for a water district or electric utility hut. As they entered, Schwartz switched on the lights. The building housed a small, bare front room with a desk, and behind a cement-block divider, a narrow hallway fronting only two cells. Apparently the government wasn’t expecting a lot of criminal activity. A pungent odor—equal parts urine, old beer, and ammonia—filled the jail area. If she’d had a free hand, Sam would have pinched her nostrils shut.

  The first cell they passed held two men in tattered clothing. Both lay on their bunks, each with an arm thrown across his eyes.

  Montero pushed her against the bars of the second cell as Schwartz unlocked the door. The front wall was barred, and a bed extended from each of the three cement walls that enclosed the cell. A metal toilet occupied one corner. A mottled brown gecko had glued itself to the wall a few inches above the toilet tank; it swiveled its head as Schwartz opened the door.

  A young man looked up from his position on the center bed. Early twenties, Sam guessed. His khaki shorts hung to his knees and exposed a good two inches of jockey shorts above the waistline. He wore no shirt and his face and chest were sunburned. No socks with his Nikes. Pale hair hung to his shoulders and matching stubble dotted his chin. Was he going to be her cellmate?

  Schwartz jerked his chin in the direction of the open door. The youth rose and scuttled sideways past the officers.

  “No more trouble,” Schwartz growled as he passed. The kid flashed an uncertain smile, then fled the building.

  Sam stared at Schwartz as he pulled her through the doorway. “I knew you spoke English.”

  He shrugged, then stepped behind her to unlock the cuffs. They slipped off her wrists. The door clanged shut behind her. Her heart leapt to her throat.

  “Wait a minute!” she yelled at their retreating backs. She wrapped her fingers around the bars. The door was solid; it didn’t even rattle when she tested it. “Where’s my phone call? What’s going to happen now?”

  In answer, there was only a muffled epithet from the other cell. No doubt the Spanish equivalent of “Shut up.”

  The lights abruptly went out and she heard the building door shut with a thud, followed by the sound of a lock clicking into place. Clearly there would be no answers tonight. Sam fumbled her way to the opposite wall in the dim light that spilled from the single window overhead. She sat down hard on the thin mattress the kid had vacated, wincing at the shock that traveled up her spine. The pad rested directly on a poured concrete bench. No springs. No pillows. She collected one of the other two mattresses and layered it on top of the first, then rolled the remaining pad into a semblance of a pillow. Tolerable, she judged after stretching out on it. But there was only one thin gray cotton blanket, and it was already chilly in the cement building after dark. The high window had no glass, on
ly a heavy wire grid.

  Could she signal for help? She stood up on the concrete bench and twined her fingers through the window mesh. Standing on tiptoe and leaning against the block wall, she stretched until she could see over the lip of rough concrete. The cell looked out on a field of rocks and sparse grass, weakly illuminated by a bare yellow bulb on the back wall of the building. A spotted horse occupied the lean pasture.

  “Help?” she murmured. The pinto raised its head and pricked its ears in her direction, chewing thoughtfully. Was this going to be her view of the outside world from now on?

  She let herself drop back down to the mattress, where she sat, legs crossed, her face in her hands.

  What was she going to do now? What could she do now? At least the team at Out There would notice that something had gone wrong. They would already be upset that her posts for the day had not arrived on time. J.J. would yell at someone, or more likely at everyone.

  She stretched out on the bare mattress and pulled up the blanket. Something scuttled across the floor beneath her bunk, and then there was a crunching sound. The gecko had scored a meal, probably a cockroach. The saga of predator and prey continued, even in a jail cell. She felt a flash of sympathy for the roach.

  Snoring ensued from the cell next door, stopped, and then started again. Sam closed her eyes and tried to envision herself home on the couch, with Simon purring in her lap, Blake cooking in the kitchen, and Chase by her side.

  24

  The clang of the steel door startled Sam awake. Her tongue and throat were dry. She opened her eyes just in time to catch Montero’s legs walking away under a khaki uniform skirt. The exterior building door thudded shut. One of the guys in the cell next door yelled something in Spanish. This time the words sounded more like a plea than a curse.