Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 137, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 835 & 836, March/April 2011

Tap-Tap by David Dean

2010 was a good year for 2007 EQMM Readers Award winner David Dean, who received nominations for two awards for his EQMM stories: “Awake” (7/09) was nominated for the Short Mystery Fiction Society’s Derringer Award in the category of Best Flash Story and “Erin’s Journal” (12/09) was nominated for Deadly Pleasures Magazine’s Barry Award for Best Short Story. This new story was inspired by a vacation the author and his wife took to Belize not long ago.

Brandon read Julia’s words on the screen and felt something, the knot of his heart perhaps, uncoiling like a serpent within his chest. His vicious hangover, momentarily overcome, retreated like a whipped, angry dog to skulk at the dark edges of his consciousness. The message was from the previous Friday evening, but as he had taken Monday as a sick day, he was only now discovering it. She made no mention of their fight prior to her leaving, or of missing him at that moment. In fact, she made no mention of him at all. Instead, she rendered a breezy accounting of her impressions, so far, of Belize and the resort she had been sent to scout. The message was clearly intended to be passed on to the upper echelon after it completed its job of wounding her one-night lover. This being accomplished, Brandon clicked on Forward, selected the appropriate addresses, then tapped Send.

He sat for several moments in the blue light of his computer and stared out his office window into the street. Outside, a steady, cold rain fell and the sidewalks were empty; cars planing past like water-skiers. The office around him was deserted and he expected no walk-ins and had no appointments. In honor of this, his mood, and his hangover, he turned off all the lights of the small ground-level office and sat in artificial twilight.

He wanted to hate Julia now, but instead found himself wondering how to stop her from ending their relationship — a relationship that had hardly begun. Perhaps she was simply punishing him for his inquisitiveness — his possessiveness; he didn’t know. How could he? — they barely knew one another. In an act of self-flagellation, he read through her words once more, carefully mining them for any hidden reference to her feelings for him:

“Hi all, guess what? It’s hotter than blazes here! Who would have thought it, Central America in August, huh? Duh! Next time (if there is a next time) I’m coming in January... please!”

Brandon could picture Julia as he scrolled through her words — her wide, laughing mouth that could be so generous in passion and so set in anger; her long, fragile neck, the hollow at the base of her throat beaded with droplets of sweat. He could hear her trilling, nervous laughter as she wrote the words he was reading; could visualize her whipping her silken brown hair from her narrow face to reveal the large dark eyes — eyes that showed far too much for her ever to be safe.

He shook his head as if to clear it and continued reading: “Well, as you know, it takes two planes to get here. There are simply no direct flights from PHL to BLZ... period. That’s a big drawback for a lot of folks. The airport is, well, picture the Atlantic City bus station — before it was remodeled! Ha, ha!

“Now comes the fun part — the puddle-hopper to Dangriga! I never knew I had a fear of flying until now! On the other hand, for clients who are into extreme sports, this is just the ticket. It’s more like a ride at Six Flags than a mode of transportation, but trust me, it’s the only way to get around here if you’re in a hurry, as most vacationers are, to get to your destination.

“Dangriga is nothing to write home about, so I was glad the driver from the resort was there when I arrived. The people here seem nice enough, though god-awful poor. The ride to the hotel was another thirty minutes over very bumpy roads! Again, there’s a big part of our clientele who are not going to buy off on this kind of thing... it’s too much like work and not very comfortable. The driver was very pleasant and did his best to make me welcome. The staff did the same when we arrived. Everyone here speaks English — big plus! — it’s the national language (former British colony don’cha know), though several other languages are spoken as well, it seems. Note: The people in this district are mostly Garifuna, they tell me. They are descended from African slaves who escaped from St. Vincent Island in the 1700s, stole some ships from the Spanish, and sailed them here where they have lived ever since. Quite a story, isn’t it? They are very proud of their heritage and have their own colorful customs. Who knew? On Thursday they will have dancers and musicians perform in their native costume. Big plus. It may be kind of poor around here, and certainly remote, but it’s still authentic! They have me fooled, anyway.

“Now to the accommodations: The design is pretty much as their photos promised. It gives the appearance of an African village (now I understand why) nestled against the Caribbean Sea. Most of the cottages are spacious, with white-washed stucco walls and thatched roofs — a little bit like Ireland, oddly enough. Each has a lovely porch beneath the overhang furnished with wicker chairs. This is a great idea as it rains a lot here this time of year, so you might as well settle down with a book, or laptop in my case, and enjoy the sea view. Which brings me to another slight disappointment — the sea, while still that lovely green we turistas are so fond of, is rather flat and uninteresting. It seems the resort is built on a sheltered, very shallow, bay. The beach is a problem too, I’m afraid — very gritty; almost yellow; not very clean. In spite of their location, this is not a beach destination — sorry. And the bugs, OMG! You cannot be out at dusk or dawn! The no-see-ums will drive you to madness. You should see the welts on me!”

Brandon thought of Julia’s smooth whiteness against the dark blue of his sheets; her sleek, unblemished skin; her cheeks and throat flushed with passion. He shuddered with the immediacy, the force of the memory, then glanced shyly around the empty room. Their boss, Donna, would return tomorrow from her niece’s wedding in Fort Lauderdale, but until then he was alone. He noticed the voice-mail message light pulsing on her phone. It was her private line and she had not given him the code to retrieve her messages. In the dimness of the office, its persistent beacon seemed to flash a warning from across the room. He turned away and resumed Julia’s narrative.

“The resort’s lobby, gift shop, dining area, and bar are all beneath the same roof — a large building designed just like the cottages but on a grander scale. Kind of one-stop shopping, I guess. On the plus side, it’s all very charming and well kept up and clean, but on the down side there’s not much to choose from, be it gifts, food, or drink. The chef here does a great job, but it’s surprisingly English — lots of mayo on everything... I ask ya! Still, there are several excellent fish dishes to balance things out.”

Brandon leaned back in his chair remembering Julia eating hungrily from a can of fruit cocktail; dredging the diced fruit with a spoon. Once, she stopped to smile shyly at him from the other side of his bed, then returned to her task with childlike absorption. He smiled at the memory and at the thought of her slender, almost famished-looking frame. How well she hid that fragility beneath her business suits, her office armor, her ambition and drive.

Outside his window the cars plowed by, throwing up cascades of dirty water; a man on the opposite curb teetered uncertainly beneath a black umbrella that seemed close to collapse. He could not cross without getting drenched and Brandon briefly wondered why he didn’t just do it and get it over with; then returned to the pulsing words on his screen.

“Lastly, for now anyway, the two owners (and our potential partners) leave something to be desired. It’s not that they aren’t nice; they both have excellent manners as everyone here seems to, and are intelligent; that’s obvious enough when you talk to them, but there’s something I can’t put my finger on. One is Hispanic and comes from San Pedro. That’s way inland where most of the people are of Guatemalan or Mayan descent. This one is Hernando Fuentes. He’s very sweet but drinks a bit, I think. I can smell it on him when he sits too darn close! He seems harmless enough, though; he’s always talking about his wife and children.

“The other one is Claudell Paige, and he is Garifuna. He is a large, heavy man and seems to be the driving force behind the lodge. I think Señor Fuentes is the money. Mr. Paige laughs and jokes with all the employees and they appear to like him very much. He grew up in the nearby village of Hopkins just as they all did. Señor Fuentes, on the other hand, keeps a low profile. He is very small and thin and spends most of his time with the bartender — get the picture? Most of the staff here hardly acknowledge him. Curious, isn’t it?”

Brandon already did not like Fuentes. Happy family man, my ass, he thought jealously.

“Anyway, they’re an odd couple, and an uneasy one too, if you ask me. Still, I’m not exactly sure what troubles me here — it’s a little bit of a lot of things, I think. The location, while beautiful, is just... off, if you follow me. While the facilities are charming and unique, an air of... something... desperation, maybe, hangs over the place. Of course, when you see some of the poverty here, the desperation becomes understandable — they have to succeed!

“Then again, it might just be me, as I haven’t been sleeping well at all here. The rooms and beds are comfortable enough, but I keep getting awakened by someone knocking at my door in the wee hours! Naturally, I don’t answer it, but no one ever answers me back when I call out either. I’ve tried looking out the window to catch them at it, but I can never see anyone. I’m a little worried it might be bandits, but the management says they have a security man on duty all night. It’s very peculiar and a little unsettling, and the staff denies all knowledge of anything. One of them suggested a lizard might be in my room and the rest laughed. I guess that was a sample of the local humor at the expense of the turista. Ha! Ha!

“Tomorrow I take an excursion inland to visit some Mayan temple ruins. I’m really looking forward to getting away from here for a while. I’ll send more then.

“The no-see-ums are beginning to find me so I’ve got to take shelter. The sun is setting, and I must say, in spite of my misgivings, that it is truly beautiful here. The entire horizon is blood-red and a lone fisherman is out on the water in his dugout — that’s right, the locals actually use hollowed-out logs carved into little canoe-like boats. Amazing, isn’t it, in this day and age? He’s just standing out there like a stork — I don’t know how he doesn’t fall in. For some reason it makes me feel very lonely and out of place here. Ta, all. I’m looking forward to coming home. Julia.”

Brandon read the last few sentences once more — were those words really meant for him? They could almost be read that way. Was it him that she was really lonely for? This thought gave him hope, and for the first time in over a week he felt a tingle of excitement, a renewed interest in life. They were young, after all, he reasoned, so it was only natural they have their fights. And when Julia returned, they could make up, as young couples the world over and for time immemorial have — they would kiss madly and confess their remorse. The forgiveness that followed would be joyous and cathartic and he could hardly wait! He jumped up and rushed over to her desk to search for her return date. He felt quite certain she was due back any day now. Maybe he could pick her up at the airport.

He felt the damp breeze before he heard the man cough and looked up guiltily in the midst of rifling through Julia’s desk. It was the man with the umbrella and he was, as predicted, soaked. The damaged umbrella hung from his hand like something he had tried, and failed, to save from drowning.

“Yes,” Brandon said, startled. “How may I help you?”

The visitor wore glasses and had to prop the umbrella in a corner in order to wipe them dry with his handkerchief. His tired-looking grey suit was made several shades darker by the rain; his thin hair was plastered to his narrow skull. “This is Resorts Investments, isn’t it?” he asked politely.

Brandon nodded his head even as he gauged the man. Without understanding why, he knew that he was neither a potential client nor a salesman. “How may I help you?” he repeated. The hangover crawled, dark and ugly, across his vision and back into his brain.

“Does Julia... that is, is this the office where Ms. Julia Catesby was employed?”

Brandon tried to digest this. “Was?” he came to at last.

“Are you a coworker?”

“Yes,” he answered like a man in a dream. “I am a... coworker. Why?”

The man appeared to consider this, then withdrew something from his inner jacket pocket. He held it out for Brandon to see. “I’m from the State Department, our office in Philadelphia.” Brandon could see that the older man’s ID confirmed this. “Are you her employer? We’ve called here several times and left messages,” he said.

“No, no, I’m not,” Brandon answered, the message light flickering redly at the edge of his vision. “She’s out of town and won’t be back until tomorrow. What’s this all about?”

“We’re trying to locate her next of kin. Would you know how to do that?”

Brandon felt as if the room was growing darker yet, as if the rain outside was only the prelude to a greater storm. He shook his head and whispered, “No, I don’t.” His ignorance made him feel sick and selfish. “She’s from upstate New York... I think.”

The State Department official appeared to give this some consideration, then said, “We have her out at the airport, I’m afraid. We’d like to take her home, if we could.”

“The airport,” Brandon repeated. They had her at the airport, he thought, struggling to regain the surface he was sinking beneath. Did they think she was a drug runner — a smuggler of some kind? “Why do you have her at the airport? What’s she done?”

“Done?” the official repeated. “She hasn’t done anything, Mr...?”

“Highsmith,” Brandon answered with some attempt at bravado. “Brandon Highsmith.”

“We have her because she’s... she’s dead, Mr. Highsmith. She died in Belize, and it’s one of our jobs to return Americans to their homes in circumstances like these. We were hoping you could help.”

Brandon seized the edge of Julia’s desk to keep from sinking to his knees, and stared up at the older man through bloodshot, brimming eyes. He was unsure whether he would be sick or pass out, but he was certain that he could be of no help.

The resort appeared exactly as Julia had written and as was depicted on the postcard Brandon had received several days after her funeral. It was the only personal item he had been given by her in their brief, secret relationship and he carried it in the pocket over his heart like a talisman. The words scribbled on it gave no recognizable clue as to why she would hang herself no matter how many times he read it. Even so, as the porter left him to get unpacked, he retrieved it once more in the hope that the setting it was written in might aid him in deciphering its meaning. The cottages in the foreground were as charming as depicted, but the mountains looming in the near distance, undoubtedly meant to be alluring and mysterious, appeared brooding and shadowed to Brandon’s eyes.

He sat wearily on the edge of the bed and read the cramped, tiny words: “Don’t know when this will get to you — weeks, probably. Went into the mountains you see on the front. On the way we hit a traffic jam! You’ll never guess why — the driver tells me that there’s a haunted spot on the road and when the ghost (a mysterious woman, he says) is seen, no one will travel through for a while. She’s a warning, he said. It’s a bad curve and a far fall. Can you believe it? Ghost crossing! We stop for the dead! The driver laughed like it was superstition, but we didn’t go around the other cars, either. Soon, Julia.”

Soon... the word stood out from the soiled white of the card, scribbled and sweat-stained, and Brandon’s eyes kept returning to it. Soon. Had she meant simply that she would see him again before too long, or was its real meaning concealed within her own intentions? Her death, he knew, had occurred mere hours after her return from the mountains.

He had not seen the police photos taken of Julia, but they had been described to him by the man from the State Department. He had not known of Brandon’s connection to Julia and Brandon had chosen to remain silent on the subject. The agent knew only that they were friends and coworkers and appeared to accept that this explained Brandon’s reactions sufficiently. Fortunately, his secret remained just that. Otherwise, it would have been unlikely that his boss, Donna, and the Philadelphia head office, would have agreed to his completing Julia’s assignment. He had five days, and no more, to follow up on her impressions and recommend a decision to advance or withdraw from the tentative deal.

Julia’s choice of death had been simple and effective, in fact, a method quite popular in jails and holding cells, he had learned. Utilizing the terrycloth belt that had been provided by the lodge with her complimentary bathrobe, she had secured one end to the clothes hook on the bathroom door. The other end she had fastened around her neck in a simple slip knot. The length of the belt allowed her to kneel on the cool tiles of the bathroom (she had used the bath mat to cushion her knees) and simply lean forward. After a few moments, Brandon was assured, the lack of oxygen would have rendered her unconscious, allowing gravity to accomplish the rest. There would not have been much discomfort, the kindly official had assured Brandon. She had left no note of explanation or goodbye. Presumably, her last words were those scribbled on the resort postcard.

The local police had summoned the U.S. Embassy shortly after they had determined the nationality of their victim, but her body had been removed from the scene prior to their arrival. The autopsy, however, had been witnessed by one of their investigators, the official had told Brandon in his kindly, factual manner, and no evidence contrary to the police investigation was obtained. The results of a rape kit had been negative. There was no apparent reason to disbelieve the in situ photographs the Belizean police had taken. “Suicide,” the older man had assured him, “often happens in situations like these... when people who are disturbed and vulnerable find themselves in strange places, uprooted, if you will. I can’t tell you how many situations like your coworker’s I’ve had to look into over the years. It’s not good to travel alone, in my opinion, and believe me, I’ve done enough of it to know — you have to be strong.”

Repeated knocking drew Brandon from his reverie, and he hurried from the bathroom to answer the door. The man who had driven him from the Dangriga airport and who had carried his suitcase to his room smiled up at him. He was slightly pudgy, and yellowish in color, with carefully combed and lacquered grey hair. His smile was large, the teeth as yellowish as the man himself. Brandon could not readily assign him a race or ethnic group. “Hello, again,” he chortled. “I hope I have not awakened you, Mr. Highsmith?”

Brandon shook his head, even as the man thrust a bottle into his hands. “Compliments of management, sah,” he continued, the vestiges of a British accent buried deep within his own patois. “Our very own national rum. It is very good, if I must say so... but, please, you are the judge.”

Brandon turned the brown bottle in his hands and studied its cheap paper label and foil cap. “Thank you... and thank the management. It really wasn’t necessary. I’m sure that I’ll enjoy it.”

The yellow man bowed slightly and turned to go. “I was wondering,” Brandon blurted out, “if you knew which room Ms. Catesby stayed in? Was it this one, by any chance?”

The driver stopped and turned, his smile dimmed by a slight creasing of his round face. “I was not her driver, I’m afraid. Management will best answer such a question, Mr. Highsmith; they will surely know.” With a wave he resumed his short journey along the boarded path to the main lobby building, where, presumably, management dwelled.

The sun was settling into the molten bay as Brandon made to retreat into his room, but as he closed the door against the heat and the glare of the sea, he noticed a lone silhouette floating on the reddening horizon. Just as Julia had described, a fisherman, as still as a heron hunting the shallows, stood poised within his pirogue some fifty yards from shore. Brandon could not guess his intended quarry, and did not really care, because for a brief moment the sight afforded him an image as sharp as the image of the man on the water itself — a picture of Julia sitting with her laptop, perhaps on this very veranda, seeing exactly what he was seeing and sending that image to him across the ether.

He did not answer the knocking on his door — the combination of several tots of the sweetish local rum and his own physical and emotional exhaustion had rendered him almost senseless. In the event, though the knocking was insistent and loud enough to rouse him, he was unable to answer its brief summons and fell back into a deep slumber before its echoes faded into the inky darkness where jungle met sea.

Management revealed itself the following morning at breakfast. Brandon had just seated himself near one of the wall-length open windows in the dining room when he was joined by Paige and Fuentes.

“Well, you don’t look much the worse for wear,” Paige declared happily while completely blocking Brandon’s view of the gently undulating sea mere yards away. “That is the great beauty of being young — so much stamina!” He seized one of Brandon’s hands in his great paw. “So glad you have joined us, Mr. Highsmith. I am Claudell Paige and this,” he stepped aside slightly to reveal his much smaller partner, “is Hernando Fuentes. I hope your journey was pleasant. How is the breakfast... hmmm?”

Brandon hastily swallowed his mouthful of scrambled eggs and attempted to rise. “Glad to meet you,” he managed.

“No, no, please sit, I insist,” Paige said. The partners pulled out chairs and did so as well. Paige signaled a waitress and shouted across the nearly empty room, “Coffees, Brenda... please, dear girl.” Brandon noticed Fuentes wincing at the larger man’s volume.

Paige surveyed Brandon’s plate with scepticism. “You did not have the chef prepare you one of our delicious omelets?” He shook his great head sadly. “That is a shame... a great shame. You are really missing out, I assure you.”

“Yes, I’ve heard the food here is good,” Brandon lied, then added, when he saw Paige’s dark face crease in disappointment, “excellent, actually... Julia wrote and told me.”

Paige’s smile grew in wattage, then dimmed by degrees as the name of the dead girl floated, ghostlike, between them all. Brandon thought the sallow Fuentes appeared to grow queasy, though whether it was over the conjured name or perhaps from his previous evening’s drinking, he could not know. The coffees appeared at the men’s elbows.

“Oh dear,” Paige intoned. “Yes, that poor girl.” He stirred several spoonfuls of brown sugar dispiritedly into his cup. “We’ve never had anything like that happen here before,” he assured Brandon.

Brandon noticed Fuentes cross himself and whisper, “Madre de Dios.” When he saw that Brandon was watching him, he smiled in a sickly manner and said in perfect English, “My wife and I pray for her, Mr. Highsmith. We have lit candles in our church for her soul; perhaps it will help.”

“Help?” Brandon asked. “What do you mean?”

Paige looked down on his diminutive partner as if he were contemplating knocking him over. “Suicide,” Fuentes murmured, “it’s a bad thing, is it not... the sin of despair?”

“What do you mean?” Brandon repeated a little more loudly. A middle-aged couple several tables over glanced nervously at them and then hastily away again.

“Her soul,” Fuentes continued, oblivious to the heat in Brandon’s voice. “It is lost to God. Was she Catholic?” he inquired gently.

“Drink your coffee and be quiet, man,” Paige calmly commanded Fuentes. “You are upsetting our guest.”

Brandon recalled drops of water, cold and unexpected, splashing his face as the priest blessed the coffin that concealed his lover. “Yes,” he whispered, “she was a Catholic.”

“Well,” Fuentes continued, as unaware of his partner’s disapproval as he was of the depth of Brandon’s feelings, “there are exceptions, of course — insanity... an altered state of consciousness... the Church understands these things.” He rose unsteadily to his feet and said, “I’ll be back presently. Please continue in my absence.” Brandon watched the disheveled little man shuffle off towards the far end of the restaurant, his pace picking up as he drew near the double doors that concealed the bar.

Brandon turned back to find Paige regarding him solemnly, small beads of sweat dewing his hairline. “Do forgive him,” he said. “He is not a well man and this... this business... Ms. Catesby, I mean, has upset him very much. It has upset us all, of course; you as well, I suspect.”

“Yes,” Brandon admitted. “Yes, it has.”

“Did you know the young woman well?” Paige asked.

Brandon hesitated, stirring his forgotten eggs with his fork. He hadn’t known her, he thought; hardly at all, he realized now. “Did she seem unhappy here?” he asked in return, evading Paige’s question.

“No, not at all,” Paige boomed once more. “Quite the contrary. She appeared very interested in our resort here... our culture, as well... very inquisitive. No one could have been more surprised than me.”

Outside, Brandon saw a huge frigate bird lofting in the thermals made by the rapidly heating beach. It hung in the air like a kite over the few sunbathers who languished beneath it, rocking to and fro with the feigned indifference of the predator. “Someone was bothering her at night, Mr. Paige... someone kept coming to her door. Were the police told of this?”

“Please call me Claudell,” Paige responded. “Oh yes, of course I heard of her complaint and we did look into it. I had the security guard posted just yards from her door. But it was to no avail. The following morning she complained of someone knocking at her door once again. My man saw nothing.” He let this last piece of news hang between them for a few moments. “He’s a very reliable man... Brandon, isn’t it? May I call you Brandon?”

“Yes,” Brandon agreed. “Was there any other way to her door?”

Paige regarded the younger man for a moment. “Brandon, if you look out you will notice that we rake the sand each evening.” He made a sweeping gesture meant to include the entire grounds. “Whenever anyone strays from the walkways they must leave behind their prints... yes? My security man placed his chair on the walkway that led to Ms. Catesby’s door and saw nothing. But, even had he fallen asleep, the... visitor, shall we say, could not have passed him without stepping into the sands. So you see, unless our culprit is an angel... or a ghost, he must have left footprints in his wake.”

“Then what did happen?” Brandon asked hoarsely.

“Why did anything have to happen?” Paige replied, sitting up a little taller. “She did what she did, and I must say, Brandon, that she did us little good in the act. Have you considered that? It is clear to me that you have considerable feeling for the young woman and I am wondering now why you have come here. Can we expect you to be objective about us, Mr. Highsmith? Will we receive a ‘fair shake,’ as you say in the States, with your investors? We had nothing to do with this young woman’s death.”

Fuentes stumbled out from the bar, righted himself, and then set his sights for their table. His walk was more vigorous, his color better. He waved at the two men as if they were a great distance away. “I am coming,” he assured them happily. “Everything is arranged now.”

“Perhaps we could begin your tour now?” Paige offered.

Brandon stood up, suddenly angry. “Security is a concern of our investors, Mr. Paige.”

Fuentes sidled up to Brandon and gripped his elbow, his breath a fog of brandy. “We’d best get underway before the day gets too hot, my friends,” he said. “I have made all arrangements.” He struggled to situate his snap-brim hat on his small head.

Paige stood as well, towering over his two companions, his jet skin glistening in the growing heat of the day. “You two go ahead, I have some business to attend to here, and then I’ll catch up to you.”

Undeterred by his brush-off, Brandon asked, “Can I see Julia’s room?”

Both partners went silent. After a moment, Paige answered, “You already have, young man. It’s the best bungalow on the beach; naturally, when we received word that you were coming, we assigned it to you.” He turned for the kitchen, then added, “Of course, I didn’t know then of your personal involvement — I’ll have your things moved at once.”

“No,” Brandon blurted out, then went on more quietly, “that won’t be necessary.”

Paige gave a shrug, then continued on into the kitchen.

Fuentes, having finally settled his hat, tugged Brandon toward the entrance, the grounds beyond glowing whitely in the late morning sun. “Not to worry, my young friend,” he assured Brandon with a sweep of his arm, “the room has been exorcised. We paid good money for the priest to do it.” He leaned into Brandon and whispered confidentially, “These people are very superstitious, you know.” He waggled his eyebrows at the black waitresses in their colorful head scarves. Several seemed to be laughing at the little man behind their hands. “We can’t allow ghosts around here, you know, or we’d have no one to work the place — they’re more afraid of them than they are of jaguars.” He put a finger to his lips. “Let’s just keep that between ourselves, my friend, shall we?”

Brandon said nothing, as the image of Julia’s displaced soul, tormented and now cast out to wander in this foreign land, floated before his eyes. But as the two men crossed the threshold, it was burned away like a scrap of paper in the roaring furnace of the sun.

That night the knocking came before he had fallen asleep. There were three loud raps and then silence. He lay in the darkness of the bed, his eyes wide and his heart hammering within him, and could not move. The reverberations of the summons recalled the previous visitation, which he had forgotten. He struggled to rise and look out, but the image earlier that day of Julia’s homeless spirit rose unbidden in his mind’s eye and transfixed him with horror. He had never given any thought to the nature of the soul before this day, and now could not set it aside. What if it was she who summoned him to the door, demanded to be returned to her room? In the stygian darkness of this steaming backwater, anything seemed possible. And though he had traveled thousands of miles to find some evidence of Julia’s passage, he lay in rigid, sweating silence awaiting the next blow to fall.

After what seemed like ages, the howler monkeys began to scream and cry to one another in the near distance, and with that, as if they heralded the return of the natural world, Brandon was released and fell into a deep, troubled sleep.

Even before he opened his eyes, he knew that day was long arrived. The light penetrated the simple cloth curtains of his room and warmed his eyelids. Outside he could clearly hear birds chattering with the news of a fresh day and the tapping that awakened him held no other significance than a polite request for entry. With a groan, Brandon threw back his sheet and placed his feet on the still-cool ceramic tiles of the floor.

“Mr. Highsmith, we missed you at breakfast this morning... are you all right? Last night’s fish agreed with you, I hope?” Señor Fuentes’s voice held a note of urgency. “Mr. Highsmith... Brandon?”

“Yes,” Brandon answered, inexplicably feeling like a man with a hangover in spite of the fact that he had drunk nothing alcoholic the night before. “I’m fine, Hernando... thank you.” He staggered to the door in his underwear and pulled it open; Fuentes almost fell into the room. “Good morning,” Brandon mumbled around his swollen tongue.

“Oh good... yes, I can see now that you are well... good.” He stood awkwardly at the threshold feeding his hat brim through his fingers. Brandon could smell the brandy that Fuentes seemed to wear like cologne. “Yes, okay... so you are well, then.” He appeared genuinely relieved.

“Noises,” Fuentes repeated, glancing around the room uncomfortably. “I see. Perhaps a change of rooms is desirable, no?” He smiled weakly at Brandon while nibbling at a yellowed fingernail.

It suddenly occurred to Brandon that Fuentes, and probably Paige as well, was concerned for him for reasons that had nothing to do with last night’s dinner — they were afraid for what he might learn, and what that might do to their plans for the resort. “No,” Brandon assured Fuentes in what he felt was a calm, resolute voice. “I’m fine here. After all, you and Claudell have assured me that all is well, so why should I be concerned with someone knocking on my door in the middle of the night?”

Fuentes’s veined eyes slid over him and away and he cleared his throat. “Quite so... quite right, my friend... Claudell runs a tight ship, as they say... but, sadly, not all is controllable in this world... only the very young believe that.” He studied Brandon’s stubbled face for a moment and appeared to come to a conclusion. “Pests,” he announced almost happily. “Perhaps your problem here is pest-related... a rat in the thatching... a visitation of monkeys — they can be very inquisitive, you know, and very persistent in their attentions; even a lizard, in my experience, a damned gecko.” He looked hopeful.

Brandon recalled the forceful, insistent knocking of the two previous nights. “I don’t know what you and Paige are playing at, Mr. Fuentes, but someone came to my door last night and the night before, too. The same thing happened to Julia... she wrote me about it. All I want to know is what happened to her, what’s going on here.”

Fuentes sputtered almost angrily, “I am not aware that I am playing at anything, Señor Highsmith, but I cannot account for all things in this world; you should know that. I assure you that Claudell and I are not at playing; we have a business to run,” he concluded huffily. He studied Brandon for a moment, then added, “Will you not come out with me, young friend? I had hoped to show you the Mayan temples today; they are quite spectacular, very popular with our guests. It will do you good to get out.”

Brandon thought of Julia’s trip through the mountains, the ghost in the road, and said, “Give me a few moments to get ready. I’ll meet you in the dining room.” Fuentes skipped away, delighted.

Their trip over the mountains was uneventful and they encountered no traffic jams as the result of apparitions. The driver, the same yellowish man who had driven Brandon from Dangriga, admitted to having heard of the haunted curve, but laughed at the tale as proof of the backward, superstitious ways of mountain people. Fuentes woke up long enough to heartily agree, then returned to his snoring.

As they wound their way upwards, the grey clouds that appeared to rise up from the wet carpet of jungle condensed and grew trailing beards. Moments later they showered a thick warm rain on the battered Land Rover and obscured the sheet metal and plywood shacks that clung to the roadside slopes along their way. By the time they reached the ruins, the sky had cleared and the sun beat down with renewed force, as if to reclaim every drop of moisture given.

After parking their vehicle and before ascending the slope to the temples, Fuentes excused himself for a trip to the men’s room. Brandon suspected that he wanted a pull on the flask of brandy that was ill-concealed in the rear pocket of his trousers. He made use of his time to wander through the small army of vendors who had set up their wares near the park entrance. Most of the tables were manned by Indios, Mayan, he assumed, and their wares ran the gamut from ashtrays to necklaces, carved masks to paintings. But even to his untrained eye, most of the objects appeared amateurish and cheaply imitative of their ancestors’ craftsmanship, and he wandered listlessly from stall to stall. The heat and humidity was draining his small reserve of energy and soaking his clothes in sweat.

He turned irritably to scan the area for Fuentes when his eyes alighted on an object carved from some dark wood on one of the makeshift tables. At first, he mistook it for some type of walking stick, then realized it was far too short for such a purpose unless it was designed for a dwarf. He sauntered over to where it was displayed, attempting to appear disinterested. The vendor, a powerfully built young man, had spotted him, however, and gauged his customer from long experience. He seized the very object in question and held it up for Brandon’s inspection, his black eyes sharp and bright with pride. “Forty dollars,” he said by way of greeting. “It is an authentic war club of the Mayan peoples, worth much more.”

Brandon thought it certainly looked authentic in the capable-looking hands that wielded it. Up close, he saw that the shaft was the body of a snake, smoothly scaled and slightly curved, the tail tightly wound to a small knot, presumably to prevent its wielder’s hand from slipping off the end. At the top of the shaft perched not the expected serpent’s head but some creature more birdlike, its beak curved and cruel. When he took it into his hands, the wood felt as hard as an iron bar. He had to force himself not to swing it around like a little boy playing Indian. He paid the forty without dickering and hurried away with his prize. He felt silly walking about with a souvenir war club, but for the first time since his arrival he felt a sense of security.

When Fuentes found him, he blanched slightly, but managed to say, “I hope that you have paid no more than seven dollars for that... Always haggle with the vendors, my friend; it’s in everyone’s best interest.”

Brandon enjoyed the tour of the ancient temples even as he found himself the object of curious stares. Standing at the top of one pyramid, he lofted the club above his head and shook it, warriorlike, at the tiny figure of Fuentes standing in the grassy courtyard far below and laughed. He could not see the older man’s expression, only that Fuentes looked quickly side to side as if scanning for witnesses or a way to escape.

When they returned to the resort, darkness was already creeping out from the jungle and Fuentes made a hasty farewell, pleading his wife’s intolerance for his long hours. Brandon suspected that he was overdue at the bar, as evidenced by the tremor that had started in his mottled hands.

After securing his purchase in his room, Brandon had a quick meal in the perennially empty dining area. The heat of the day was being gently swept away by a breeze off the ocean and when he returned to his bungalow he opened all his windows to allow it in. After a cool shower and after having made a few notes about his observations for Resorts Investments, he lay down on his bed. Within minutes he fell asleep to the soft wash of the waves against the grainy beach, while nearby, he could hear the steady sweep of a worker’s rake being drawn slowly and carefully over the coarse sands in the fading light of the long day.

“Yes,” he cried, sitting straight up in bed, “who’s there?” His voice was swallowed up by the darkness even as the echoes of the knocking still banged about in his skull. Brandon stared at the outline of the wooden door across the room and had no idea whether it was standing open or closed tight. His hand drifted to the hilt of the Mayan club, his fingers caressing the coils of the snake. As if released by its solidity, its violent purpose, he slipped silently from the bed and drifted like smoke towards the door, sloughing his fears like an old skin with each step. As he neared and his eyes adjusted, he was reassured to see that the door was indeed fastened and the war club which he had unconsciously raised to shoulder level was lowered to hang by his side. He eased over to the window in order to peer out onto his porch.

The second series of knocks drove him backwards in shock — it was as if they were being sounded within the very room itself. “Goddamn,” he cried out as the club rose into the air, “Goddamn!” He charged the door and threw it open. The night outside washed up to his very doorstep, an inky ocean. The kerosene torches placed along the walkways had been extinguished to economize, while the weak light next to his door glowed without illumination in its smeared lantern. The inlaid eyes of the war eagle stared sightlessly after its prey. Brandon was sure he heard footsteps slapping the boards of the walk.

In the near distance, a small pinprick of light indicated the hotel desk and as Brandon watched, it suddenly blinked out and returned a mere second later, as if someone had run past it. Brandon began to run as well, the adrenaline coursing through his veins removing any vestiges of sleep and fear. He sprinted toward the lobby and its beacon.

The girl behind the desk leapt to her feet with a strangled scream as he pounded into the room. He looked this way and that for whomever he had chased. The doors to the dining room were closed, as was the gift shop, but he tried each to make sure they were locked. He turned towards the clerk. “Who came in here?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, but walked towards her and around the counter, as there was no other place for his tormenter to have gone but into the office behind the check-in desk. She backed up slowly to allow him to pass, her eyes wide and moist with terror. He stepped into the cramped office. There was no one there. The small room contained nothing but two metal desks and a filing cabinet. An exit door at the rear stood open, allowing for a cross-breeze; beyond it lay the endless night of the jungle.

When Brandon returned to the lobby, he found himself alone.

Brandon staggered into the dining room the following morning, his sleepless night evidenced by the bruised-looking smudges beneath his eyes. Paige was waiting for him. “Mr. Highsmith,” he called out in his large voice, “after you get your coffee, perhaps you’ll join me in my office.” He pointed at the tiny room Brandon had visited the night before. The waitresses watched him like a row of owls from across the room. Brandon nodded, filled his mug, and followed the big man into the lobby.

“Mr. Highsmith,” Paige began as he settled heavily on the edge of one of the desks — he did not offer Brandon a seat. “In the short time you have been with us you have managed to frighten my staff and insult me, and Mr. Fuentes tells me that you made threatening gestures at him yesterday at the temple. There is no point in this situation continuing; I’m sure that you agree. I must insist that you leave our company at the earliest opportunity. Perhaps you will make arrangements now for an earlier flight home. Please feel free to use my phone.” He stopped and took a breath while studying the younger man. The morning breeze had faded with the rising sun and both men were perspiring heavily in the closed confines of the office. “You need to go home,” he concluded more softly.

Brandon looked up from beneath his eyebrows at the older man and whispered, “She wasn’t going to give you a good report; she was going to recommend against bringing investors into your resort. She didn’t think things were right here.” He placed emphasis on the word “right.”

Paige’s great dark face grew darker yet. “Who?” he asked.

“You know who,” Brandon answered. “Julia.”

Paige seized the office phone and thrust it at Brandon. “Call... now, please!”

Brandon made no attempt to sleep that night, as he knew it would be useless. His flight from Belize City was the following afternoon, but he would have to leave the resort at first light in order to make the plane. In any case, he had determined, after his conversation with Paige, that he would not be caught sleeping again under his roof.

Across the sandy expanse that separated his bungalow from the main building the thudding rhythm of drums reached him. This was the night the resort hosted the celebration of Garifuna music and dancing that Julia had written of. A barbeque was provided on the beach for the few guests. Occasional gusts of alcohol-fueled laughter reached him above the thumping music, the incomprehensible songs. His war club rose and fell on his chest with his breathing, its oystershell eyes winking in the overhead light. After several hours, the world outside his door grew dark and silent once more.

The tapping seemed not so loud and he wondered if its previous resonance had been fueled by his dreams. Its source this time, however, was evident even in the glowworm light of his porch lantern. The slim young man who tapped shyly at his door had not even seen Brandon sitting mere feet away in the wicker chair at the end of the porch. As Brandon watched, he placed his ear to the door and listened intently for a moment, his hand drifting over the doorknob, then away. He stepped beneath the feeble lamp and studied something in his hand, looked back to the door, then appeared to shake his head.

It was as he was bending over to retrieve something he had placed at his feet that Brandon spoke. “Did Paige and Fuentes send you... did they send you to Julia?”

The young man spun around to Brandon’s voice in time to witness his materialization from the greater gloom, the club rising rampant in his hands, the cruel beak slicing hungrily through the thick air. His only word was, “Mercy.” After the first blow brought him to his knees, Brandon completed his task with workmanlike efficiency — a passerby might have thought he was chopping wood.

The disheveled policeman sat outside Brandon’s cell and watched him drink the tepid coffee as his wife and three children studied the young murderer from around the edge of the outside door. The policeman removed his ill-fitting hat and waved it at his family as he would at flies. “Go away,” he commanded. They withdrew with titters and smiles to the safety of the outside world. The eastern sky had just begun to pink with the promise of day.

“You are a bad murderer,” the policeman observed aloud, “to remain with your victim instead of running away — not that that would have done you any good, of course.”

Brandon made no answer to this, but said softly, “Thank you for the coffee... thank your wife for me.”

“Why did you kill our brother and friend, Marcus Donda, young man? You are covered with his blood. Why did you lie in wait for such an innocent?”

When Brandon remained silent the policeman continued angrily, “He was an altar boy, did you know this? But how could you,” he asked the room at large. He sighed deeply, then added, “I cannot protect you here, young man; not once the word is spread. You will be transported at first light to Belmopan.” He seized the paper grocery sack that contained the bloody club and made for the door.

“Not so innocent, maybe,” Brandon said quietly to his back.

The policeman turned and studied his prisoner with genuine interest. “How could you know anything of him... of his innocence or badness? How would you have met or known him?” he persisted. “He only began his new job as waiter last night. That was why he went to your room — he had gotten the bungalows mixed up, poor boy. He was delivering room service, you fool.”

“His first night?” Brandon questioned softly, the metal cup drooping in his fingers, its contents dribbling unheeded onto the concrete floor. “... But there was the rapping... the knocking...?” But the policeman had already left to pull his truck around to the cell entrance.

Brandon felt everything whipped loose from its moorings like a twister dismantling a barn, board by board, even the nails being sucked out and driven like shrapnel before the maelstrom. He tottered to his feet like a drunk and peered out the barred window to the dawning, hellish day. On its ledge a gecko filled its throat-sack with air and sang its few improbable notes to the departing night, filling the echoing chamber with the resounding tap-tap of wood striking wood, or perhaps it more resembled the sound of someone knocking at the door urgently demanding entry or attendance... tap-tap... tap-tap-tap.

After a moment of this Brandon began to scream.

Copyright © 2011 by David Dean