Moon Over Water

Three

J ack Keller had never thought of himself as a big-game fisherman. But owning a thirty-two-foot twin-diesel cabin cruiser made about as much sense as anything else in his life, which was damn little.

He’d “retired” as a mercenary, gotten out of the death-defying game while the getting was good. At the end of his five-year stint he was sick of it all. Sick of the low-profile and corporate rescues Deliverance Company had specialized in. Jack was tired of fighting hotheaded terrorist groups and corrupt governments that used innocents in a cruel game of greed and revenge.

He had, however, been paid well for his skills, and he’d managed to save most of it. The major part had been wisely invested, and with the proceeds of the sale of his condominium in Kansas City, he could live comfortably in Mexico until he was a very old man. Growing old in the tropics appealed to Jack. Footloose and fancy-free, that was him. The boat was a bonus he hadn’t expected. An inheritance of sorts from Quinn McBride, a friend whose life he’d saved a decade earlier. Jack had lived aboard Scotch on Water for the past three years. He’d stayed in the Gulf of Mexico for most of that time, dropped anchor here and there, made a few friends. The strongest of these friendships was with Thomas Dancy, another American expatriate who lived in the tiny coastal town of El Mirador.

Although Thomas was about fifteen years his senior, the two shared a camaraderie and a deep love of their adopted country. Thomas was a man of secrets, but Jack had a few of his own. It was because of Thomas and Azucena that Jack had hung around the Yucatán; in the past few weeks, though, he’d decided to expand his horizons. Lately he’d been thinking about heading to the Florida Keys, stopping off at some of those small Caribbean paradises along the way. He’d heard the people were friendly, and it didn’t hurt any that the women were gorgeous.

Then again, he might return to Belize. He’d pulled into port at Belize City any number of times and he was impressed with the beauty of the country. His American dollars were always welcome; Jack had no problem with that. The women were warm and friendly—and there was a pretty señorita he was certain would be glad to see him. Jack couldn’t quite remember her name, but no doubt it’d come to him in time.

Either Florida or Belize—he had yet to decide. Before he set his course for either destination, he needed supplies and figured he might as well check his mail, too. Not that he was expecting anything. He hadn’t heard from Cain, Murphy or Mallory in several weeks, but he wasn’t much for keeping in touch with old friends himself. His life as a mercenary was far behind him. These days he had little in common with the men of what used to be Deliverance Company. His friends were married now, and the last Jack had heard they’d settled into domesticity. Not Jack, though.

Standing on the flybridge, the sun in his face and a breeze slapping his unbuttoned shirt against his tanned chest, Jack set Scotch on Water in a westerly direction. He checked the chart and saw he wasn’t far from El Mirador. It’d been a couple of months since he’d shared a beer with Thomas. Azucena must be ready to pop that kid of hers any day now, if memory served him right. Perhaps he’d arrive in time for the blessed event, and he and the new father could celebrate.

This was their third kid in six years. Good grief, Thomas was as bad as Cain and Murphy, but at least Thomas had an excuse. Azucena was a traditional Catholic and didn’t believe in birth control. Sex without marriage, sure; birth control, no. Interesting logic, Jack thought with a grin. During one visit, Thomas had confessed how upset he’d been when Azucena turned up pregnant the first time around. In the years since, he’d apparently grown accustomed to fatherhood. Then again, Jack might, too, if he had a hot-blooded woman like Azucena warming his bed. There was some reason Thomas couldn’t marry her, some reason in his past; he’d alluded to it but never explained.

A few years back, fool that he was, Jack had given marriage serious consideration. He found it hard to believe now, but he’d actually been ready to buy into the whole scene—wife, family and house in the suburbs. Luckily he’d escaped that trap…but at the time he hadn’t felt especially lucky. In fact, it’d hurt like a son of a bitch when Marcie turned down his proposal. What really got him was that she’d married a plumber named Clifford instead. It still boggled his mind that a woman as smart and sexy as Marcie would find happiness with a slow-witted moose of a man named Clifford.

But they did seem happy. He found it remarkable, but had to admit he felt relieved; he wouldn’t want her to be anything else. He’d received picture Christmas cards from her and Clifford for the past two years. The first one showed her standing proudly beside her big oafish husband with her stomach extending halfway across the room. She looked a good ten months’ pregnant. Next year’s Christmas card explained why. Twins. He’d forgotten their names now, but they were rather unimaginative, as he recalled. Billy and Bobby or something along those lines. What he remembered most was how happy Marcie had seemed. Her face had glowed with joy as she held one squirming toddler and Clifford hoisted the other. Jack had kept the photograph tucked away on the boat as a reminder that she’d made the right choice in not marrying him. Other than that one all-too-brief episode, Jack had realized a long time ago that he wasn’t the marrying kind. Nope, not even close. He wasn’t interested in settling down with a woman, putting up with all that domestic crap. He enjoyed his carefree life and didn’t need anyone messing with his mind. Or his heart…such as it was.

No question, things had worked out for the best when Marcie married Clifford. Jack would have made a rotten husband, but there were times, albeit few and far between, when he wondered what would’ve happened if Marcie had married him.

He’d drink a beer in her honor, Jack decided, frowning into the wind. To Marcie and their lucky escape.

The Boeing 767 landed in Mérida on the Yucatán Peninsula early that afternoon. As Lorraine exited the aircraft, she peered over the customs counter, hoping her father had received her message and follow-up letter and had been able to meet her plane. The only photograph she had of him was the wedding picture, which showed him with long hair and a beard. He’d be fifty now, and Lorraine had no idea whether or not she’d even recognize him.

The map securely tucked in her purse showed that El Mirador was about seventy-five miles north of Mérida. She glanced around anxiously. It took an unusually long time to clear customs, with lots of people complaining about the unnecessary hold-up. From what Lorraine could make out, the small customs office was short-staffed because of some museum theft. Apparently every available officer was checking the luggage of passengers leaving the country.

After what seemed like an eternity, she was waved through. She collected her suitcase and carefully searched the waiting area, but saw no one remotely resembling the man in the photograph.

“Time for Plan B,” she muttered to herself, grateful that she’d thought this out beforehand. She made her way across the airport to the car-rental booth.

“Can I help you?” the clerk asked.

“Great,” she said, digging through her purse for her driver’s license. “You speak English.”

“Yes.” The young woman flashed her a toothy grin.

“I need to rent a car.”

“Very good.”

“I’m not sure how long I’m going to be needing it, possibly an entire month, unless there’s a rental agency I can return it to near El Mirador.”

The friendly smile faded when Lorraine mentioned the name of the town. The clerk looked over her shoulder and said something in Spanish that Lorraine didn’t understand. Right away the first woman was joined by a second, who appeared to be the manager. They spoke in rapid Spanish, and while Lorraine recognized a few words, she couldn’t catch the gist of the conversation.

When they finished, the girl with the toothpaste-ad smile turned serenely to face Lorraine once again. “I’m sorry, but my supervisor says we have no cars available at this time.”

Lorraine didn’t believe it. “But you were perfectly willing to rent me one a minute ago.”

“Yes.” She didn’t deny that.

“Why won’t you now?”

“El Mirador has no roads.”

“No roads?”

The clerk pulled out a rental agreement, silently read it over and underlined the appropriate section before handing it to Lorraine. People in the line behind her were becoming impatient, so Lorraine moved away and sat down to read the section the other woman had highlighted. With the aid of her dictionary, it did make some sense. Apparently rental cars were not allowed on anything but paved roads. In other words, El Mirador was well off the beaten path, and the roads leading in and out of it were either dirt or gravel. Getting there, it seemed, would be no easy trick.

“Okay, then. Plan C.” Except she had yet to figure out what that would be. There had to be another way to reach El Mirador. A bus. If she couldn’t get a rental car, she’d take a bus. Which meant she had to find the bus station first.

That decided, she picked up her suitcase and walked outside the air-conditioned airport. The blast of heat made her stagger. She felt as if someone had thrown a hot towel over her head. Almost immediately her linen pantsuit became damp and clung to her like a second skin. Summers in Louisville could be stifling, but she’d never experienced anything like this—and it was only May. She looked down at her limp wrinkled trousers and sweat-stained jacket; this was what she got for wanting to make a good impression on her father. Had she been meeting anyone else, she would have dressed less formally.

Joining the long line for a colectivo —cab—she patiently waited her turn. Unfortunately the taxi driver spoke little English, but with her pocket dictionary and traveler’s phrase book, she was able to get her message across. The driver nodded repeatedly at every question, then loaded her suitcase into his trunk, which he tied closed with a frayed rope.

Lorraine climbed into the backseat and searched for a seat belt. There wasn’t one. The instant he got behind the wheel, her meek and mild-mannered driver turned into a road warrior. Lorraine was tossed about the backseat like a sack of oranges, flung from one side of the vehicle to the other as he wove in and out of traffic. He switched from lane to lane, sometimes racing toward oncoming traffic at a death-defying rate. It would have helped had she found something to hang on to, but all she had were her wits, and those had scattered long ago. The one compensation was that she was too terrified to notice how miserably hot it was.

By the time she arrived at the bus station, she was grateful to have survived the trip. Her shoulder ached from being slammed against the side of the car and her jaws hurt from being clenched. She paid the fare with no argument but without any tip, either, and lugged her suitcase into the depot.

One thing was for sure: her presence certainly attracted a lot of attention. Every eye in the dilapidated place was focused on her. With what she hoped was grace and style, she squared her shoulders and made her way up to the window as if she’d done this every day of her life.

“I’d like a ticket to El Mirador,” she said in English, forgetting to use Spanish.

The man stared at her blankly.

Lorraine reached for her phrase book and flipped pages. She discovered that mentioning the name of the town wasn’t enough to achieve the result she wanted. She attempted a number of times to ask for a ticket, and each time the agent merely shrugged and looked blank.

Then he tried speaking to her. First he spoke slowly, then louder as if that would make her understand. After five minutes of this, she was ready to scream with frustration.

“Perhaps I can help.”

Lorraine turned to find a smiling clean-cut man standing next to her.

“Jason Applebee,” he said.

“Lorraine Dancy.” She held out her hand, noting that his was bandaged. “You’re American?”

He nodded. “I guess that’s fairly obvious, isn’t it? Around here I stick out like rice in a bowl of beans.”

“I take it you speak Spanish?”

“Fluently.” Then, as if to prove his point, he spoke to the man behind the counter. The clerk grinned, nodded and said something in return. His eyes moved to Lorraine; she couldn’t miss the relief in his expression.

Lorraine didn’t understand what either of them had said. By this point she was beyond translating even the simplest verbs. Jason turned to her. “Now, what were you trying to ask?”

“I need a ticket to El Mirador.”

“You’re joking,” Jason said, his face lighting up. “I’m heading that way myself.”

“Really? I thought it was just a small town.”

“Actually, I’m going to a place not far from there. I was planning to spend the night in El Mirador.”

“You mean there’s a hotel?” If things didn’t work out with her father, it was reassuring to know she’d have someplace to sleep that night.

“I guess you could call it that,” Jason said, and they both laughed.

Lorraine paid for her ticket, and Jason bought his, as well. When they’d finished, they sat in the shade outside and waited for the bus, which was due to arrive, Jason said, in thirty minutes.

“Will you be staying at the hotel, too?” her newfound friend asked as he arranged his backpack at his feet.

“I don’t know yet,” Lorraine muttered. It had been a long day already, with a plane change in Atlanta and a two-hour delay. “How long will it take to reach El Mirador?”

“A couple of hours, possibly more—if the bus doesn’t break down, that is.”

“Oh, great.” She sighed loudly, wondering if anything else could possibly go wrong.

“Hey, it isn’t so bad,” Jason said. “You should’ve been at the dig I was on last week.” He explained that he was a part-time archaeology lecturer at a small college in Missouri; she didn’t recognize the name. He was here doing research for his doctoral thesis. He’d been in Mexico a month now, he told her, although this wasn’t his first trip. Lorraine guessed him to be in his mid-thirties. He had short dark hair and the ubiquitous sunglasses, and wore a short-sleeved cotton shirt tucked neatly into khaki pants. The freshness of his clothes made Lorraine feel even more despairing about the condition of her own.

“So you were working on this dig?”

“Yeah, and it was fantastic, other than this,” he said, lifting his bandaged hand. Jason entertained her for the next hour—the bus was late, of course—with tales of his adventures, including a harrowing description of the accident in which he’d injured his hand. He’d rescued one of the Mexican assistants on the dig from a knife-wielding pair of thieves. She shuddered at his dramatic telling.

Lorraine liked Jason. It was impossible not to. He was witty and cheerful, not to mention generous with his help. At one point he bought some melon slices from a street vendor and shared them with her. Lorraine hadn’t really been hungry, but the fruit quenched her growing thirst.

She’d never made friends with anyone so quickly. She suspected that everyone responded to Jason this way; his open exuberant personality encouraged confidences and camaraderie.

With billowing exhaust and much grinding of gears, the bus finally pulled into the station. Jason had been right to warn her about its likely condition. The rattletrap of a vehicle looked as if it’d been on the road since the Second World War. Its color was no longer distinguishable and half the windows were missing. In this heat, though, that was probably a blessing.

The bus was one thing, her fellow travelers another. The minute the bus rolled into the yard, people appeared from every direction. Adults and children and caged chickens. One man was hefting a pig under his arm.

“Go and get us the best seat you can,” Jason advised, urging her toward the bus. “I’ll make sure our luggage gets on board.”

Lorraine watched, amazed, as two men climbed on top of the bus and waited for Jason and another man to throw suitcases up to them. She didn’t envy anyone the task of lifting her suitcase, let alone hurling it eight feet off the ground.