“Gracias,” she told Jesus.
Jesus nodded deeply and stepped from her path so she could exit his room, ukulele in hand. At least she could return something to Rebecca and Pamela, she thought with a sick feeling in her stomach.
After a refill of coffee, she climbed to the sun-dappled bow deck and grabbed a seat cushion for a mat. She sat down, crisscross-style, with her back to the women riding waves. But she couldn’t seem to get into her work. The discovery of the ukulele kept looping through her mind.
Reeve had taken his clothes and other personal effects, but not his ukulele. Were ukuleles expensive? Maybe Reeve didn’t even really play it, but had just brought it along for fun. He had always dabbled in music. Maybe he was teaching himself how to play. If he had been going to San Juan to party, of course he would have left it. But if he had only gone into San Juan to get high or get laid, why take everything else?
The conclusion was that Reeve had known he was leaving and wasn’t coming back.
Why?
Cassidy went through the possibilities. He was running from someone or something in Costa Rica. So then why not just hop a bus and go over the border? Why abandon Bruce’s trip and his responsibilities? He had a passport, an income . . . And if Reeve had known that he was going to abandon Bruce in San Juan, why bring the ukulele at all?
What if he had left other things behind that Bruce hadn’t noticed? Though whether or not those supposed things Reeve abandoned would give any clues as to why he left and where he was headed was unknown. Could she search the boat without making it a big deal? The other guests might think she was nuts. Bruce might not like her poking around.
“Hey,” Bruce said from inside his wheelhouse. He had opened the sliding windows.
She looked up from her papers, realizing that she hadn’t read a single word.
Bruce’s smile looked tight. “We’ve got company,” he said, then stepped out of sight.
Ten
Alarmed, Cassidy gazed at the horizon, and saw a small boat approach. A slick of terror pooled in her gut. The boat was painted with a blue, gray, and black camo pattern, and there were figures onboard wearing red vests. Her eyes couldn’t quite make out the lettering on the side of the boat, but she did notice the large gun stationed at the bow and the person standing ready to use it.
“Who is that?” she asked but Bruce was on the radio, replying to whoever was coming towards them.
The boat slowed and maneuvered so it was side by side with Bruce’s. The men onboard all wore stern faces, their black eyes targeting Bruce. The man at the big gun on the bow stood with his feet planted wide, the brim of his hat pulled low over his dark eyes.
“What do they want?” Cassidy said as an officer prepared to board the Trinity.
“They’re the Narc police,” Bruce said, stepping forward to greet the officers. He was holding a kind of dossier, and she realized it contained their passports.
Cassidy hung back, but she could still overhear some of the words the officer who stepped aboard was saying: “documents” and “search”.
Then, with a wave of his hand, two officers jumped aboard and began methodically opening storage spaces, barking to each other in short phrases, as if amped, ready for some kind of find. They passed by her as if she wasn’t there, and disappeared into the galley. They had a charged, aggressive energy. Cassidy realized that her heart was thumping. These men had guns, and plenty of authority to use them.
The man who was in charge, his dark, squashed face a confusion of odd crinkles, took the paperwork from Bruce and sat at their dining table where he methodically went through everything. He copied down information from their passports into a notebook he pulled from one of the cargo pockets in his pants.
Cassidy heard the two officers down below talking with Jesus, then it was quiet again. Cassidy imagined the officers rifling through her backpack, or the other women’s belongings, touching their private things.
The man stood and returned the passports and paperwork, practically snapping his boot heels together. He said something sly, and indicated Cassidy with his chin.
The officers shared a light chuckle.
“No, solo surfeando,” Bruce replied, his jaw tight.
The two search officers returned. One gave his report—Cassidy couldn’t hear it but the lead officer turned to Bruce and asked: “Donde están los otros?”
Bruce indicated the beach with his chin. “Surfeando.”
The officer squinted in the direction of the waves and turned back to Bruce. He asked another question, to which Bruce’s reply had an edge—defensive, but not angry. The lead officer seemed to think about this, then nodded. He stepped clear of Bruce and replied “Asegúrate de hacerlo,” he added, then the officer jumped back onboard his boat. The engine started up, the bumpers were pulled in, and just like that, they were gone.
Bruce remained standing, tracking the boat as it moved down the coastline. “Well, that was fun,” he added when they had become a small dot in the distance.
“Does that happen a lot?” Cassidy asked.
Jesus poked his head up from the galley. Something wonderful was cooking; Cassidy could smell onions
