Gross, Andrew - The Dark Tide by Gross Andrew

Author:Gross, Andrew [Gross, Andrew]
Format: epub
Published: 2010-04-01T03:00:00+00:00

C H A P T E R SEVENTY-NINE

The twelve-seater Island Air Cessna touched down on the remote island strip, its wheels barely finding the slip of land in the green-blue Caribbean Sea. The small plane coasted to a stop at the terminal, basically a Quonset hut with a tower and a wind indicator.

Hauck winked to Karen across the aisle from him. “Ready?”

Two baggage handlers in T-shirts and shorts ran out as soon as the propellers stopped.

The young pilot in wraparound sunglasses helped passengers out onto the tarmac at the bottom of the landing steps.

“Nice flight,” Hauck said.

“Welcome to paradise.” He grinned back.

They had taken the morning flight down to San Juan from JFK, caught the American Eagle connection to Tortola, and now the cramped puddle jumper over the glasslike sea to St. Hubert. Karen had been quiet for much of the trip. She slept, fidgeted through a paperback she’d brought along. Anxious. To Hauck she could not have looked prettier in a tight-fitting brown tank 322 Andrew Gross

and white capris, an onyx pendant around her neck, and tortoiseshell sunglasses perched on her head. Hauck helped her off the steps and flipped down his own shades. Whyever they had come here, it was beautiful. The sun was dazzling. A cool trade wind off the sea caressed them.

“Friedman? Hauck?”

A local representative from the resort, dressed in an epauletted white shirt and holding a clipboard, called out to them. Hauck waved him over.

“Welcome to St. Hubert.” The young black man grinned amiably. “I’ll be taking you to the resort.”

They loaded their bags into a hotel Land Cruiser. The island seemed barely more than a large ribbon of sand and vegetation in the middle of the sea. Only a few miles from end to end. There was a small mountain splitting the island, some makeshift food stands, locals selling fruit and homemade rum, a few goats. A couple of colorful billboards for a local rent-a-car service and Caribe beer.

The trip to the hotel took a little more than fifteen minutes of bouncing over the uneven road. Soon they were pulling into the St. James’s resort.

The setting was beautiful, lush with vegetation and tall palm trees. It took about two seconds to establish that this wasn’t the type of place Hauck could afford on his own. A week here probably cost more than a month’s pay. At the open-air front desk under a thatched roof, Karen asked for the two adjoining rooms she’d reserved in the hotel part of the resort. They had discussed it. That was okay with Hauck. This wasn’t a holiday. It was important to remember just why they were here.

“Any messages?” Karen inquired as they checked in. The pretty island desk clerk behind the counter scanned the computer. “I’m sorry, Ms. Friedman, none.”

A bellman took them out to their rooms, each tastefully decorated with a large canopied bed and expensive rattan furniture. THE DARK TI DE 323

A large marble bathroom with a big tub. Outside, palm trees swayed right up to the terrace, which looked over the perfect white-sand beach.

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