Without a Grave (10 page)

Before I could reply, Molly practically skipped down the path we'd just come, but this time when she reached the fork, she turned the other way. Soon we were scrambling down a rocky trail, grabbing at bushes and holding on to tree trunks to keep our feet from flying out from under us. ‘Where's Daniel when you need him?' I said as a branch slapped across my cheek.

Ahead of me, Molly had reached the beach. ‘It's still here!' Triumph in her voice.

When I burst out of the undergrowth and joined her a few seconds later, we were standing on another pink sand beach at the base of a tiny cove. Behind us loomed the headland, dark and dense with vegetation. I squinted into the foliage. ‘Where?'

Molly had her hands pressed together like an excited child. ‘See that speck of green over there?' She pointed, but I still couldn't make it out. ‘That's a corner of the porch. Let's have a look.'

Although its paint was peeling, and morning glory and love-vine had reached out to claim it, the cottage was, indeed, still there. Of typical island board-and-batten construction, its windows closed and dogged down tight, the little house huddled in overgrowth, defying decades of often savage weather. I twisted the toggles that held one of the windows shut and tugged on the handle, but it refused to budge. ‘Damn. Must be hooked on the inside.'

A woman after my own heart, Molly performed a similar test on the two remaining front windows with a similar lack of success. Undaunted, she moved around to the left side of the house while I nipped around to the right.

Where I found a door. With a big padlock. A shiny, heavy-duty, spanking-new Brinks. ‘Molly!'

She was at my side in a flash. ‘Well, what do you know!'

I grabbed the lock and jiggled it, but it was secure. I bent down for a closer look. ‘Wish it were a Sergeant or a Master Lock. I could pick one of those with a couple of paper clips.'

‘Do you have any paper clips on you?'

Since we were wearing only our bathing suits I started to giggle. I pointed at Molly's hair, stiff with sea salt and standing out from her head in punk-like peaks. ‘Or, I could use a couple of hairpins.'

Molly patted her head, then began to laugh.

‘If nobody lives here, why the locks?' I asked a little bit later as we sat together on the porch, our bid for membership in the Breaking and Entering Club temporarily tabled.

‘Family named Kelchner used to own this property. Maybe they still do.'

I shook my head. ‘Nope. I've seen the maps. Mueller's development company owns everything to the west of Hawksbill settlement, all the way out to the point. Where we were standing up there? I think that's the ninth hole.'

Molly reached out and gave my knee a pat. ‘Guess we better be getting back.'

But neither of us made a move to do so. Sea, sand, sun and sky . . . inertia was a powerful thing.

One grows accustomed to the sounds of the tropics: birds chittering, seagulls jeering, lizards scurrying and locusts keening. It's when you don't hear anything that you notice. All of a sudden, the silence, as they say, was deafening. ‘What was that?'

Somewhere over our heads, rocks clattered and all nature stopped to listen. Someone was stumbling down the same path we had.

Molly sprang to her feet. ‘Let's get out of here. Quick! I know a short cut.'

The only way out that I knew was back the way we had come, and already they were closing in.

‘Down there!' a man's voice yelled. Whoever he was, he had not come alone.

A mini avalanche of rocks. A cry of pain. A curse.

‘Shut
up
, you moron! They'll hear you.'

Molly had already reached the beach. She ducked into the mangroves, as dense in places as the briar hedge that grew up around Sleeping Beauty. I followed. Shielded from view, we fought our way along the perimeter of the bay, breaking out at last on to the beach of the adjoining cove.

Where Molly's Zodiac bobbed quietly at anchor.

I bent over, resting my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. ‘You are a genius.'

‘Local knowledge,' she panted.

We ran into the water, splashing wildly. I'd swum halfway to the Zodiac before I remembered the bucket of sand dollars.

‘Leave them!' shouted Molly. Holding on to the side of the inflatable with both hands she kicked her feet and surged upwards, straightened her arms like pistons, and propelled her body neatly into the boat.

‘It'll just take a minute!' I turned and stroked steadily toward the beach where I scrambled ashore and retrieved the shells. A few minutes later I was back at the Zodiac, handing the bucket of souvenirs over the side to Molly.

My re-entry to the Zodiac was far less dignified than that of my septuagenarian friend. After three attempts, I managed to hoist myself over the gunwale where I balanced ignominiously on my stomach, planning my next move. Eventually, I managed to swing one leg over and roll into the boat, flopping to the floor, panting like a fresh-caught grouper.

‘That was pretty ugly,' Molly teased as she grabbed the anchor line and started hauling in the anchor, hand over hand. ‘You didn't
need
to go back for the sand dollars.'

‘Yes I did.' I picked up the canvas bucket. ‘See this?' I pointed to the place where the name of her Zodiac,
Good Golly
was stenciled in dark-blue paint.

Molly blushed down to her scalp. ‘I take it back. It was an excellent plan.'

With Hawksbill Cay receding in the distance behind us, I said, ‘What do you suppose they've got locked up over there?'

Molly shrugged. ‘Equipment, most likely: solar panels, generators, outboard motors and air conditioners. That's the kind of expensive, hard-to-get stuff that tends to disappear in the islands.'

‘It's just that . . .' I paused, trying to make some coherent arrangement of the thoughts that were ricocheting around in my brain. ‘Why the hell does Mueller need all those freaking guards? And did you see that guy? I think he had a gun.'

Molly shook her head. ‘It's virtually impossible for a Bahamian citizen to own a gun legally, and that includes security guards. Bahamian gun laws are among the toughest in the world.' She paused. ‘At least on the books.'

‘Seven hundred islands, two thousand cays and God only knows how many miles of uninhabited shoreline, some of it less than one hundred miles off the coast of Florida. Why am I not reassured?'

Molly slowed, eased
Good Golly
up to her dock, and killed the engine. We made the boat secure, then headed up the dock with me carrying the bucket of sand dollars. ‘Want to come up for a drink?' my new friend asked.

‘Thanks, Molly, but I'm pooped.'

She gave me a thumbs up. ‘Hannah and Molly's Excellent Adventure. We must do it again sometime.'

‘You bet!' I smiled and waved.

As I meandered home along the path that led from
Southern Exposure
to
Windswept
, however, the smile disappeared from my face. Excellent? I wasn't so sure.

There are only so many ways one can phrase the words, ‘Shut up.'

Shut up!

Shut up?

Shut
up.

Shut
up
!

‘Shut
up
, I said!' to Alice.

‘Shut
up
, you moron!' to his security guard.

Those two words made me almost certain that the man crashing down the hill behind us had been Jaime Mueller.

SIX

IT'S HARD TO BELIEVE, BUT THE ABACO CRUISERS' NET HAS BEEN ON VHF CHANNEL 68 AT 8:15 A.M. EVERY DAY FOR EIGHTEEN YEARS THIS DECEMBER. THAT'S 6,570 MORNINGS IN A ROW – IN SPITE OF STORMS, WEDDINGS, BIRTHS AND DEATHS THAT HAVE OCCURRED ALONG THE WAY.

Pattie Toler,
The Abaco Journal
, December 2008

H
annah Ives, Net Control.

Could I be starring in a James Bond flick? Uh, would you believe an episode of
Get Smart
?

Seven fifty a.m. With a chair pulled up to the kitchen table, Pattie's ‘bible' to my left and a spiral-bound logbook to my right, I opened to a blank page. Stuck to the table in front of me were a dozen Post-its where I'd jotted down information about community events so I wouldn't forget to announce them.

Microphone in my left hand, pen in my right and both eyes on the clock. Paul minding my coffee cup, keeping it full, but adding more sugar than I like.

The digital numbers on the clock ticked from 7:58 to :59 to :00.

Show time!

‘Good morning, this is Hannah Ives at
Windswept
on beautiful Bonefish Cay. I will be your Net anchor today and I'm standing by on this channel now for anyone who would like to register early for the Abaco Cruisers' Net which will begin in fifteen minutes on this channel.'

During those minutes the airways clicked and hissed and hummed as listeners called in on their VHF radios, making appointments to talk. Using my notebook, I assigned callers to slots, depending on the category – community announcements, invitations, mail call, new arrivals, departures – on a first-come, first-served basis.

As part of the fun, Paul had come up with the daily trivia question – in what year did the first Americans come to Man-O-War Cay (stubbornly refusing to share with me the answer). Meanwhile, I confirmed with Stu Lawless on
Dances with Wave
s that he'd do the weather report.

When it came to Stu, Paul had serious radio envy. Stu received his email and weather information on a single-side band radio and could download satellite maps from remote anchorages all over the world in the twinkling of an eye. We got our weather from
www.barometerbob.com
, a reliable source. When the Internet signal cooperated, of course.

At 8:14 I flipped to channel 16. ‘Good morning, all. The Abaco Cruisers' Net presents weather and announcements now on channel 68.'

And at 8:15, back on 68 I picked up Pattie's script and my microphone, pressed the talk button, and began reading.

‘Good morning, Abaco. This is the Abaco Cruisers' Net on the air every day at this time to keep you informed with weather, news and local events. This is Hannah Ives at
Windswept
broadcasting from Bonefish Cay.

‘Today is Monday, July twenty-eighth. If you think you may be calling in to the Net, please switch your radio to high power now so that everyone can hear you. Remember to use your call signs when calling in, so that I may answer you. I will repeat any messages that sound scratchy, but if you miss anything, feel free to ask me to repeat. You could do the same for me. If I appear to be ignoring a call, I'm not. Your relay will ensure that everyone is included, because, after all, the goals of this Net are safety, friendship and message handling.

‘Weather, the first concern for all of us. We will get an updated weather report now from Stu on
Dances with Waves
.'

While Stu reported on the weather – sunny, but the chance of squalls later in the day – I sipped some coffee, hoping the caffeine wouldn't make me more jittery than I already was. Maybe in a few days I'd be as relaxed as Pattie always sounded, able to lean back and plan what to fix for dinner that evening – chicken in the freezer, a nice eggplant, a handful of oddly shaped but flavorful heirloom tomatoes from Milo's stand over on Guana Cay – but at that moment, I was a caffeine-fueled, microphone-clutching, tightly wound spring.

‘Winds three to five out of the southeast.' Stu was wrapping up. ‘And if you're wondering about those smoke clouds over northern Abaco this morning, brush fires have been reported on the old Bahama Star farm, so let's hope this change of direction doesn't help them to spread.
Dances with Waves
out.'

I pressed the talk button. ‘Now that we are up to date on the Atlantic seas,' I announced, ‘we need to check close to home on the sea state of the Sea of Abaco. For this report we always trust Troy Albury at Dive Guana. Troy?'

If Abaco had a Man for All Seasons, it would be Troy Albury. Dive-shop owner, island councilman, community activist, Troy was also chief of Guana Cay Fire and Rescue; his boat was first on the scene in any emergency. A native of Guana Cay, Troy'd been spearheading the effort to halt the Baker's Bay project that threatened to overwhelm his tiny island, working his way tirelessly and painfully up through the Bahamian court system. I wondered if he'd turn up at the meeting in Hope Town the following week. Warden Henry Baker could certainly draw on Tony's expertise for any action plan directed against Rudolph Mueller's development on Hawksbill Cay.

That morning, though, Troy was wearing his dive-shop hat, reporting calm conditions on the Sea of Abaco, perfect for snorkeling and diving. After Troy signed off, I called on listeners all along the island chain, asking for sea conditions from Whale Cay in the north to Little Harbour in the south.

Calm conditions all the way.

‘Fabulous!' I said. ‘Just what everyone dreams of when you think about boating. Look out fish!'

‘We have no emergency email today,' I continued, consulting my notes. ‘But remember that Out Island Internet has provided a free emergency email service to listeners since 1997 – the address is cruisersatOIIdotnet.'

Gaining confidence with Pattie's script in front of me, I moved rapidly through the community announcements to headline news. I'd tapped Paul for that. He'd spent the morning checking the
New York Times
and
Washington Post
online, taking notes, so that he could summarize what was happening in the world we'd left behind.

Paul wrapped up with the stock market report, then handed the microphone back to me. I took it and gave him a high-five with my free hand.