Without a Grave Page 10

  My radio crackled. ‘I hear you! Keep clapping!’

  I clapped for minutes, hours, days.

  I clapped for my life.

  EIGHT

  I’VE SEEN FIRE AND I’VE SEEN RAIN

  I’VE SEEN SUNNY DAYS THAT I THOUGHT WOULD NEVER END

  I’VE SEEN LONELY TIMES WHEN I COULD NOT FIND A FRIEND

  BUT I ALWAYS THOUGHT THAT I’D SEE YOU AGAIN.

  James Taylor, Fire And Rain, 1970

  I was so busy clapping that I saw it before I heard it, growling and grinding, emerging like an illusion out of the smoke: the old Massey Ferguson, ropes coiled neatly on either side of its radiator grill, with Mimi behind the wheel.

  ‘Heard you on the radio,’ she shouted over the clanking of the engine as I scrambled gratefully aboard. ‘Figured you’d be over here. We use that old bathtub as an emergency watering trough.’

  Since Mimi occupied the only seat on the elderly tractor, I sat cross-legged on one of its steel fenders, hanging on to a rope tied to the steel sunroof as Mimi lurched over potholes and leaped over logs.

  ‘You know what’s scary?’ Mimi shouted as she slammed the gear shift forward.

  ‘This is pretty scary!’ I said, hiking out to keep my head from bashing into the sunroof as she drove over a boulder.

  ‘It’s what it says in the operations manual for this thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I shouted back.

  ‘“Avoid steep hills and sharp turns.” So here we are, doing everything but Immelmans.’

  I couldn’t help but laugh.

  As it turned out, I hadn’t wandered very far from the crossroad at all. In what seemed like no time, we were back. Paul was still pacing, radio pressed to his ear.

  When Mimi brought the tractor to a grinding halt, I hopped down and ran, backpack sprayer and all, straight into my husband’s arms.

  ‘Don’t you ever do that to me again, Hannah, do you hear? You can’t do everything single-handed.’ He had dropped his radio and was squeezing me so tight I could barely breathe.

  ‘No chance of that,’ I muttered into his shirt. ‘Your hug is going to kill me.’

  From her perch on the tractor seat, Mimi said, ‘I’ll drive you back to the base. Other volunteers are coming in . . .’ She paused. ‘Ah, here’s Avenar with some of them now. Great timing. We can take the truck.’

  I shrugged out of the backpack and set it next to the water jugs for refilling, then climbed into the cab of Mimi’s truck next to Paul, feeling suddenly stiff, sore and not nearly as young as I used to be. While we waited for Mimi to consult with the caretaker, Paul reached over and took my hand. ‘I was really worried, you know. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.’

  I rested my head against his shoulder. ‘Ditto, ditto.’

  I felt Paul tense. ‘Jeez, Hannah! You’ve got first-degree burns.’

  I looked down. No wonder my arms had been tingling. They were lobster red, like a bad sunburn. ‘That’s what aloe is for,’ I said, just managing to smile.

  Feeling a combination of regret and relief, I watched through the truck’s scuzzy windshield as two new recruits suited up in the backpack sprayers Paul and I had so recently carried. My mind drifted, thoughts swirling like smoke. I closed my eyes, surrendering to sleep.

  Something went plip on the windshield. Plip-plip, leaving splotches the size of a quarter. Plip-plip-plip-plip.

  ‘Rain?’ As I struggled to sit up, the drops fell faster, beating a tinny tattoo on the roof of the truck.

  ‘Rain!’ I wrenched open the door and slid off the worn vinyl seat to the ground. I spread my arms, welcoming its cooling balm. I raised my face to the sky, and opened my mouth, savoring each raindrop as it landed on my tongue.

  ‘Rain! Rain! Rain!’ I grabbed Paul’s hands, dragged him out of the truck, and waltzed him around in a circle, laughing like a raving looney. ‘Chaac, the rain god, has heard our prayers!’

  As if to prove he was really in charge, Chaac sent thunder, too, deafening claps that boomed, rumbled and echoed across the sky. He ripped open the clouds, and the showers turned to deluge. Along with Mimi and the other volunteers we laughed, cheered and hugged one another. If some of us were weeping, it would have been impossible to tell as water streamed from our hair, down our foreheads and into our eyes. Everyone was gratefully soaked to the skin.

  Down in the forest the flames sizzled, sputtered and died. The tree bark hissed and steamed.

  ‘God be praised!’ someone sang out. ‘It’s over!’

  ‘It’s not over until it’s over,’ Mimi commented as we rattled along the old logging road in her truck. She tipped her head, squinting up at the leaden sky through the swathe that the windshield wipers, set on frantic, labored to keep clear. ‘Lightning is one of our worst enemies, although if this monsoon continues, I think we’ll be safe for a while.’

  She turned to look at me. ‘You got a ride back to Marsh Harbour?’

  ‘We came with Jeff Key,’ I told her. ‘He’s supposed to be working on the fence line at the eastern edge of the preserve.’

  ‘Right.’ Mimi slammed on the brakes, executed a neat, three-point turn, then headed down the road in the opposite direction. ‘They will have done all they can for now, may even be heading back. Wouldn’t be surprised if we met them halfway.’

  We had covered less than a mile before Mimi brought the truck to a halt and set the emergency brake. ‘This is as far as we can go without the tractor. Always hoping someone will donate an all-terrain vehicle. Ha ha.’

  The rain had let up some, so we climbed out of the truck and stood on the edge of the road. The trees that surrounded us were charred, but no longer smoldering. ‘The path starts over there.’ Mimi pointed. ‘Fire burned through a couple of days ago, so it shouldn’t be a problem.’ She captured an errant shirt tail in each hand and tied them in a knot at her waist, as if girding her loins for battle. ‘Wait here. I’ll be right back.’

  Paul gave my sleeve a surreptitious tug, locked his eyes on mine. I’d been married to the man for too long not to know what he was thinking. Mimi might heft five-gallon jugs, pull fence, convince a wild horse to stand still while she trims its hooves, leap tall buildings in a single bound . . . but he was too much of a gentleman to let her go off into the woods on her own. ‘Mind if I come along?’

  Mimi shrugged. ‘If you’d like.’ She turned to me. ‘Hannah?’

  ‘I’d rather stay in the truck, if you don’t mind. I’m a bit chilled.’

  Paul’s face was inches from mine, concern written all over it. ‘Are you sure, Hannah?’

  ‘Of course, I’m sure. I’m feeling chilly, is all.’ I waved him off. ‘Go! I’ll be fine.’

  After they left I huddled on the seat, hugging my knees with Mimi’s towel wrapped tightly around my shoulders, like a shawl. I stared out the window through a thin curtain of rain. My breath was fogging the inside of the window, so I used a corner of the towel to clear a peephole in the glass.

  To my right was the forest, to my left the fence line, and beyond it, a vast expanse of field I assumed to be part of the old Bahamas Star Farm property. It must have been the fence line Mimi had been talking about. A strip about six feet wide had been cleared along the fence as far as I could see in both directions.

  Through the trees, charred and smoking, an oasis of green that had miraculously escaped the flames stood out like an emerald on a lump of coal. I climbed out of the truck and jogged over to the fence for a closer look. In the thick foliage, something moved. A flash of brown? I wiped the rain out of my eyes. Yes, and a glint of white. Could it be the horses?

  Ash covered the forest floor like snow, but the rain had turned it into gray mud that sucked at the soles of my shoes as I ran. When I got back to the truck, I climbed into the flatbed and hoisted myself on to the roof. I stood on tiptoe, shielding my eyes from the downpour, scanning the bushes for any sign of the horses.

  And then I saw them, the stallions Hadar and Achenar, grazing happily
on poisonwood. The horses had survived!

  I clambered down from the truck and ran back through the soggy, still-warm undergrowth to find and tell Mimi. In my haste, I tripped over a log, falling headlong into the mud. I swore, picked myself up and wiped my hands on my jeans. Damn log. I gave it an impatient kick.

  I should have hurt my toe with that kick. I should have been limping around, nursing my foot. But this felt like kicking a soccer ball gone flat. Curious, I stooped down, then reeled back.

  It wasn’t a log. It was a body, or what was left of one after the fire. Its knees were drawn up into the fetal position, its elbows bent, hands clenched. The skin was charred, like a burned marshmallow, and where the intense heat had caused the skin to split open, it had peeled back, revealing ugly patches of red, roasted flesh. There wasn’t much left of the face to recognize – no nose, no ears. When caught by the fire, the man had been wearing jeans. What remained of his shirt was fused to the skin on his chest. One twisted foot still wore a tennis shoe; the remains of the other shoe lay on the ground nearby.

  This could have been me.

  I had to get out of there.

  I ran back the way I had come, back to the truck, where I staggered around to the back and with one hand holding on to the tailgate, I quietly parted company with my Goombay Punch.

  Six o’clock had come and gone by the time the ferry dropped us off on the dock at Windswept. Heavy footed, we trudged up the dock together, with Paul’s arm draped loosely over my shoulder. I dragged myself up the steps to the porch and collapsed on a lounge chair. ‘I’m so tired!’

  ‘Move over,’ my husband said.

  ‘And I stink.’

  He ignored me and sat down, then nuzzled my neck. ‘Not really. You smell woodsy, like a campfire with a bit of eau de creosote thrown in.’

  I snuggled against him, trying vainly to disassociate myself from the horror in the woods. I shivered and buried my face in his chest. Overwhelmed by heat, smoke, soot and stress, I began to cry. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said after a while, swiping at my streaming nose with the back of my hand.

  Paul cupped my chin, turned my face to his and wiped the tears away from my cheeks with his thumb. ‘No need to apologize, Hannah. It’s not your fault.’

  ‘That poor fellow.’ I stopped and looked at my husband, fresh tears cooling on my cheeks. ‘Oh, God, Paul. I couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman!’

  After my embarrassing performance with the Goombay punch, I had been grateful when Mimi took charge. From the back of her truck, she produced a blue tarp which Paul and Jeff helped spread over the body, anchoring the corners with rocks.

  ‘Don’t get involved,’ Mimi warned when I started to call the police on my radio. She plucked the radio from my fingers. ‘Let me handle it.’

  So I did. Gladly.

  It’s like a TV show, I told myself. Think about that. How many seasons of CSI have gone by? How many episodes of Law and Order – regular, SVU and CI? Hundreds of bodies? Thousands? Shot, stabbed, beaten, burned, dismembered – in a home, on the street, on a slab in the medical examiner’s office. Tamara Tunie looking up from a Y-cut – this girl was six weeks pregnant when he shot her.

  It’s a prop. It’s a rental body from Dapper Cadaver. It’s CSI, Law and Order, Dexter, Bones.

  It was also no good. Better to think about the horses.

  ‘Are the horses safe, really safe?’ I asked my husband as he headed for the shower.

  ‘They are for now.’

  ‘I’m wondering why they can’t put the horses in trailers and drive them to safety. There’s only eight of them.’

  We’d reached the shower enclosure by then, and Paul began stripping off his shirt. ‘They’re wild horses, Hannah. You’ve seen what it’s like out there. First you’d have to find them. Then you’d have to use a tranquilizer gun to get them into a trailer.’ He returned my sheepish grin with a grin of his own, then unzipped and stepped out of his filthy trousers, hooked them on his toes and tossed them into the bushes. ‘But I’m betting Mimi’s a dab hand with a tranquilizer gun, too.’

  Paul began soaping up in the shower, so I nipped inside to fetch us both some clean underwear. When I got back, he was singing an off-key version of ‘I got the horse right here, the name is Paul Revere,’ from the musical Guys and Dolls.

  I waited outside the enclosure, leaning against the siding. ‘Don’t try to cheer me up. It won’t work.’

  ‘Can do, can do, this guy says the horse can do,’ Paul sang, ignoring me. Sudsy water from his vigorous shampooing began running out of the shower stall and along the concrete apron at my feet.

  ‘Even the curly tails are running for cover,’ I added.

  The water stopped running. My husband emerged from the shower, squeaky clean and smelling of Suave Cucumber Melon Splash. ‘I can tell you one thing, Hannah, you’re not going to cook tonight.’ He relieved me of the clean underwear and hung it on the hook outside the shower. Then he began to unbutton my shirt.

  ‘You know what they say?’ I asked as the first two buttons came undone.

  ‘No, what?’

  ‘“Save water, shower with a friend?”’

  And he drew me under the healing stream where we stood, locked together, until the hot water ran out.

  NINE

  THERE ARE STORIES ABOUT CORRUPT COPS WHO ACCEPT BRIBES, PURPOSELY FAIL TO SHOW UP FOR COMPLAINTS OR CRIME SCENES, OR FILE REPORTS ON CASES INVOLVING FRIENDS, FAMILY OR SOMEONE WILLING TO PAY FOR THEIR SILENCE, INTENTIONALLY CHOOSING TO PREVENT JUSTICE RATHER THAN ADHERING TO THEIR SWORN OATH.

  The Nassau Tribune, July 25 2008

  After my baptism, quite literally by fire, moderating the Cruisers’ Net the rest of the week seemed like a tropical breeze.

  There were the usual weather reports, arrivals and departures, a lost wallet, a found passport – ‘Don’t panic, Terri Ryburn, your passport has been found at Café Florance. Call me on seven-three after the Net and we’ll get you reunited.’

  Paul had followed through on his ‘no cooking’ promise, and then some. We’d lunched at Wally’s, the Golden Grouper and Cracker P’s – but the one invitation I didn’t want to pass up was the Sunday pig roast at Nippers Beach Bar and Grill on Great Guana Cay.

  Paul took my advice.

  Perched high on a forty-foot dune overlooking the Atlantic, Nippers has to be experienced to be appreciated. Imagine: raffia umbrellas stirring in a gentle island breeze; picnic tables painted every color of the tropical rainbow; a double-decker pool connected by a waterfall where you can swim right up to the bar; a hat rack labeled Hang Bikini Tops Here; and sipping frozen Nippers in plastic cups while grooving to the music of a two-piece reggae band.

  Self-medication never felt so good.

  I remember stopping at Milo’s stand to purchase some tomatoes, and the long walk up the hill past the cemetery where a sign reminds all visitors that ‘the wages of sin is death’ – thanks for sharing! – but after enjoying my first frozen Nippers, a pink fruit juice and rum Slushee, smooth and sneaky, everything gets a bit hazy.

  One drink was so yummy that I had to have two, and I may even have split a third one with Paul . . . hard to say. Weaving down the dunes, wading in the surf, lying down in the sand for a nice long nap, face up, no matter what Paul tells you.

  Everyone says I had a good time.

  All week I had been hoping for news about the body I’d found in the Wild Horses of Abaco preserve. If that had happened in Annapolis, WBAL would have been all over it. CNN, too. But, we were in the i’lans, mon. Nobody was sayin’ nuffin.

  The Marsh Harbour authorities had claimed the body, and everyone assumed it would be shipped down to Nassau for an autopsy, but other than that, there was no news, no ID.

  Molly Weston said that Winnie Albury told her that Forbes Albury had mentioned that one of his boatyard workers hadn’t showed up for a week. Everyone assumed he’d gone back to Haiti, to visit an ill mother someone said, but nobody knew for sure.

&nb
sp; I’d wondered if my status as Net anchor would give me a leg up in the information department, but I was wrong. I made a few phone calls, but ended up none the wiser. Maybe it was because I didn’t have Pattie’s connections.

  When the next edition of The Abaconian hit the stands, I snagged a copy, but the article didn’t tell me much I didn’t already know:

  Police retrieved the body, which had been severely burned, and had it transported to the Marsh Harbour Community Clinic, where it was officially pronounced dead.

  While police do not suspect foul play at this time, the body will be flown to New Providence, where an autopsy will be performed in order to determine the exact cause of death.

  Central Detective Unit officers from Grand Bahama are presently on the island assisting officers there with the investigation.

  ‘Officially pronounced dead.’ I shuddered. As if there ever had been any question of that.

  After the Net, I puttered over to Hawksbill in Pro Bono and went looking for Gator Crockett, dive shopowner, unofficial constable, island point man for reckless teens, Mr Knock-a-Few-Heads-Together. I found him in the shack he laughingly called his office, patching a wetsuit with DAP contact cement. Justice, the potcake, lay snoozing at his feet.

  I watched Gator work for a while before he noticed me.

  ‘Morning.’ He waved a glue brush. ‘Sit.’

  I parked my buns in a plastic lawn chair that see-sawed alarmingly on the uneven dirt floor. ‘Can you talk for a minute?’

  He nodded, pressing the edges of the patch together with his fingers.

  ‘I was the one who tripped over the body after the wildfire.’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘I’ve been waiting to hear that the body’s been identified, but nothing’s been reported so far. I was wondering if you’d heard anything.’

  Gator tossed the glue brush into a tin can, considered me with pale-blue eyes, saying nothing.