“Dive?” he said. “Mine?”
She nodded. Just keep him following.
She led him along the path that skirted the northern end of the house, that ran along a jutting ridge to the gazebo sitting on the thumb of rock above the sea. He made that sound again. What’s wow in Portuguese? She opened the gate in the gazebo fence and started down the steep steps. It was a moment before she heard his halting steps on the metal mesh. The steps led down to a long skinny cove, rock-floored, walled by shaly bluffs that had yet to crumble under the onslaught of high tides.
She had a sudden ache, a need to sing out the tide.
Low tide now, so they did not have to navigate the high rocky path. They walked on sand, all the way back to the skinny mouth of the cove.
When they reached the cleft in the wall, and he could see the chain-link gate and the darkness beyond, he halted.
“It’s safe,” she said, “in there.”
“Seguro?”
“Yes, seguro.” She took out her key, unlocked the padlock, and went in first. She turned on the two electric lanterns that flanked the entrance. Between that and the overhead cracks that admitted sunlight, the cave glowed.
She heard Silva behind her. Making that wow sound again. Oooh. Aaah.
She smiled. She never much liked showing off the hacienda because she had not created the hacienda. But she had created this. Well, her father had installed the gate, but then he’d turned over the cave to his kids. Sandy’d been in charge. It was Sandy’s vision that made this place. She showed it off, now, to Silva. Glowing bone-white was a network of driftwood. Driftwood dragged in here over the years by her and her brothers, driftwood crafted into tables and chairs and shelves and sleeping pallets and coat racks and candle holders and at the back of the cave a driftwood ladder that spiraled from the floor to the hole in the ceiling. She and her brothers used to go up and down that ladder, in and out the hole, hide-and-seek, spying on each other, wicked little pirates.
She pointed out the ladder to Silva and shook her head and drew a finger across her throat.
Silva’s eyes widened.
“Danger,” she said. “No climb.”
His focus shifted away from the fantastical shapes and came to rest on the line of storage bins. “Dive?” he repeated.
“In a minute, Joao.” She sat on top of the closest bin. “Sit.” She indicated the next bin. “Talk first.”
He sat, edgy.
She sat facing him. Put him at ease. “When I was a kid,” she said, “I played in here. Pirates.” She covered one eye and slashed an imaginary sword.
“Corsario!” He actually grinned.
“Real corsarios used to come here. Prohibition rum-runners. Come in by boat, offload their cases of whiskey, hide them in here until the men with the trucks came.” She saw she’d lost him. It didn’t matter. “Corsario…illegal. Like you.”
He was frowning now.
“I don’t care. But policia might care. They might come looking to your little village.” She jerked a thumb, in the general direction of the highway. “But if you want to hide, you can stay here.”
Still he frowned, showing the effort of trying to understand. He sagged now, giving up the effort of sitting straight.
She thought, he’s exhausted. Toxic purple-stripe sting, hypothermia, allergic reaction, delirious. Or faking it — could you fake unconscious, in the hospital? Anyway, he’d been well enough to escape this morning, to get himself to the village somehow. But he didn’t look so well now. She said, slowly, “The cave stays dry. There’s blankets, pillows, air mattress.” She pointed at one of the bins. “Make a bed.” She pointed at a rocky ledge, mimed sleeping. “I’ll bring you food. Boa comida.”
He started to nod.
“Stay until policia stop looking. Stay long as you want. It’s safe.”
“Seguro?”
“Right, seguro. Sometimes I stay here, to be alone.” Away from Lanny and his neediness. “Nobody comes here. For Joao now. Seguro.”
He rose from his bin and went to the gate and pointed at the lock and shook his head.
“You don't want to be locked in?”
He kept pointing and shaking his head.
“Fine.” She removed the padlock.
He slowly smiled. He held out his hand.
She took it and they shook.
“Dive gear?” He still smiled.
Now, she thought, the rubber meets the road. She opened the closest storage bin.
He came over and looked inside. His smile died. He looked up at her, outrage squaring his face. “No dive gear.”
“No,” she said. “The cops took your dive gear. And I didn’t really lie to you back at the park, I told you to come to my place and we’ll see about your gear.”
He gaped.
Either he didn’t have enough English to understand that, or he didn’t appreciate splitting hairs. “Joao,” she said, “we will see about it. I’ll help you get it back. Unless you want to go to the cops and ask for it?”
He shook his head, tight. He understood that.
“I will help you,” she repeated. “But you have to help me.”
He sagged again. Nearly collapsed onto the rocky ledge.
Sandy went to the bin he’d been sitting on, opened it, and pulled out a black mesh bag. Held it up, let him look at it, its emptiness.
His eyes widened.
“With your gear there was a dive bag like this one.” She’d bought it at Morro Marine. Standard style. She held it out to him. He didn’t want to take it. “There was something in your bag, Joao.” She opened the drawstring, mimed putting something into the bag. “What was it? Que in bag?”
He shook his head.
“And then somebody took it out. Stole it.” She mimed taking something out of the bag. “I didn’t take it.” She put her hand on her chest, shook her head. “But I think I know who did. I can get it for you.” That was stretching the truth. She had no idea where it was. Whatever it was. Red mystery object. Last night when Lanny was at Jake’s place — and what was up with that, Jake inviting Lanny over to watch the idiot box? — she had gone through Lanny’s closet, his drawers, all his special hidey-holes. The red thing wasn’t there. But come hell or high water, she was going to find out where Lanny had put it.
She gave Silva a straight look. “Joao, tell me what was in the bag. Where did you find it? Why did you have it? What does it mean?”
He shook his head. Lifted his palms. Smiled sadly. Nao compreendo.
She said, softly, “You will.”
CHAPTER 11
As I was picking through the evidence in my culture dish — a pinch of the sand from Donie’s duffel bag — I caught a familiar odor.
I leaned in closer and with the tweezers nudged aside sand grains and shell fragments and teased out the tiny green seed. Easy to ID because I’d seen its like yesterday out on the Sea Spray. Chewed on it, and blessed Lanny Keasling for the relief.
Fennel.
For a wild-ass moment I envisioned Robbie Donie and Lanny Keasling together on the Outcast, chomping fennel seeds to ward off seasickness. And then I put them on shore because this fennel was mixed in with sand. Now I envisioned Donie taking a day off to lounge at the beach, Lanny coming across him and that old Keasling rivalry sparking and somehow Lanny drops his day pack and out spills his jar of fennel seeds into the sand, and then Robbie in a huff gathers up his towel, encrusted with fennel-laced sand, and he stuffs it into his duffel and…