Rum Luck Read online

  He woke suddenly, his heart hammering and his body awash in sweat. The sheets lay in a damp, tangled knot at his feet. He glanced around the room, straining to hear anything above the thumping in his ears. He was pretty sure he hadn’t woken up screaming. He’d even got four full hours of sleep. Best night all week.

  He rolled out of bed, splashed water on his face, and studied his reflection. He even recognized himself in the mirror this time. He dressed in a pair of gym shorts and a crumpled T-shirt, then headed out for a run. The woman at the front desk smiled as he jogged through the open-air lobby and past the pool.

  He ran barefoot along the beach, as he had every morning since he’d arrived in Tamarindo. He felt better when he ran, especially once he left the surfers behind and it was just him and the beach. If he ran hard enough and far enough, he could reach the point where all he thought of was the next stride.

  He ran until his lungs burned and his legs turned to rubber, then he sat down heavily on the warm, soft sand and looked over the sprawling bay, struggling to catch his breath. With it returned his problems.

  He scolded himself once more for allowing himself to be taken unawares by the panic attack in the crowded café, days earlier. He still wasn’t sure what had triggered the event, but suspected it was the shock of seeing the bloody piece of paper—so similar to the one that haunted his dreams—and Ben’s signature on the deed to the bar. It wasn’t the first time his heart had hammered in his chest while he struggled for breath, but it was the first time such an incident had overcome him with witnesses around. It was clearly tied to shock and stress, and his new life in Tamarindo was growing more stressful by the minute.

  With every fiber of his being, Miguel wished his invisible foe had a physical form; that it was one more enemy to be laid to waste with instinct and brute force. He was so very good at brute force. But he hadn’t the first idea how to fight what lurked inside and thrived on darkness.

  He had hoped their trip to Costa Rica would help Ben get back on his feet. Instead, Miguel’s friend had stolen a large sum of money from his ex-fiancée and her parents and landed himself squarely in the middle of a murder investigation.

  How their lives had changed because of his ridiculous suggestion to come here. Perhaps Antonio would still be alive if he’d kept his idea to himself. It seemed all he did was leave bodies in his wake.

  And how could he have left Ben drunk and alone in a foreign country? Foolish. What on earth had he been thinking?

  He’d been thinking about Ana.

  There was something there, between the two of them. It was too early to put it into words, but Miguel hadn’t felt this way about a woman in a very long time.

  But then something changed. One minute, Ana was laughing at one of his bad jokes and asking him to teach her how to spin bottles in midair. The next, she vanished. He’d finally found her in one of the storage rooms, taking an inventory she’d already done earlier that morning.

  Perhaps it was better this way. How could he get a fresh start with Ana when he still carried so much baggage? He didn’t know where to start unpacking it all, or what would happen if he did. It would be easier this way, to be another shallow bartender, moving from one girl to the next.

  He and his fellow close-protection operators had called themselves heartbreakers and life-takers. The reality was far less romantic: They were the doers of undoable deeds. Now Miguel had to live with that.

  The truth was he didn’t deserve happiness. Not after what he’d done.

  He rose to his feet and started to run, sprinting harder than he had on the way out. He ran until his breath came in ragged gasps and sweat stung his eyes, but he could not find the peace of his outbound run. Even the pounding surf couldn’t drown out the words repeating in his head.

  Your debts are still unpaid. You should be dead.

  Miguel returned to the hotel with barely enough time to shower, shave, and change. It was already close to ten, and he still had an errand to run before Enrico arrived that afternoon. Last night’s crowd had demolished their bar stock, and they needed to replenish it. There were still a few warm kegs in storage, but they were completely out of liquor. He’d buy as much as he could find. He was sure Enrico would pack the cantina to the rafters, even more than Victoria had the night before.

  His arms were still stiff from slinging bottles late into the evening—or early into the morning, he should say. In all his years as a bartender, he’d never seen such a crazy night. He wondered again how Victoria had learned to spin. With skills like that, it was almost a shame she had to fly back home today. Almost. He wouldn’t mind her taking her wild accusations against Ana home with her.

  He walked down the hallway, stopping to press an ear to Ben’s door. Snoring. That, or he was trying to smother a hippo. He resisted the temptation to wake him and drag him along for the ride. Better to let the man sleep; he had a busy day ahead.

  Miguel grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl at the front desk on his way out. The clerk behind the desk fluttered her eyelashes at him. He gave her his best winning grin, all the while noting that the shift change at the front desk had occurred at 9:00 a.m. as usual. One clerk left, one arrived. Both would be distracted for five minutes during the handover brief. Video security remained active throughout.

  There was a time when Miguel had tried to stop himself from seeking vulnerabilities and weaknesses in everything he saw. Eventually, he accepted that he could no more stop searching for threats and tactical advantages than he could will his heart to stop. He tossed the banana peel in the garbage and strolled out through the front gate.

  It was another beautiful morning in Tamarindo. Bright and sunny, but not yet hot. A gentle breeze rustled the palms. All along the main street, store owners were unlocking their shops and setting out sandwich boards advertising beach towels, manicures, surfboard rentals, and everything in between. Amazing how all of it seemed to be on sale, all of the time. Funny how that worked.

  The peak of the season would soon arrive, and hordes of tourists along with it. He hoped the bar was ready by then. He and Ben would have to find a new place to stay sometime soon, but there was enough to worry about for now without giving up the comfort of the Diria. They needed to get Uncle Enrico settled in first.

  He thought about searching for a humble apartment somewhere, but his musings ground to a halt the moment he saw the rental car. The driver’s side mirror dangled limply from its wires.

  He was instantly on alert, running through his mental checklist: Inhale. Check at five meters. Look for freshly turned earth, protruding wires, signs of a pressure plate. Scan out to twenty-five meters. Look for graffiti or chalk marks. Check for unusual activity from the locals, anyone paying too much attention or too little. Traverse in a circle. Exhale.

  His scan complete, Miguel was satisfied that the risk of anti-personnel mines or improvised explosive devices was low. He spotted nothing worth noticing, except for an ancient grounds-keeper raking the dirt and a hand-lettered sign offering “Kittens for Rent” in a nearby apartment window. He allowed himself a small smile at that. If he ever lost his job as a bartender, perhaps he could find work here as an English teacher.

  Miguel walked over to the groundskeeper and asked in Spanish, “Excuse me, friend? It seems someone damaged my mirror. Have you seen anyone else park here?”

  “No, no. There have been no new cars for the past two nights.”

  “Do you think it could have been one of the staff?”

  “We are always very careful. We let management know if we hit anything. It’s happened before, and they are understanding, as long as we are honest. There is only the one truck here, anyway,” the groundskeeper said. “Perhaps a monkey hit it with a coconut?”

  Miguel looked up at the soaring palms, then back down at the groundskeeper. “A monkey?” It was possible. Barely.

  The old man shrugged. “What else could it have been?”

  What else, indeed? Miguel examined the mirror carefully, checkin
g to see if it had been removed with a hammer, tin snips, or good old-fashioned blunt force. He spotted a few dark streaks running down the fender, above the wheel well, but nothing else was out of the ordinary. Yesterday, the mirror was attached to the car. Today, it wasn’t. The hammering in his chest picked up once more. Ben was going to love this. At least with the “Gringo” tag, they knew they’d been vandalized. Now the car looked like a bizarre art project.

  Miguel’s heartbeat steadied as he slid behind the wheel. The battered rental started on the first turn of the key, a pleasant change from yesterday. He rolled out of the parking lot and took the road out of Tamarindo in search of a supermarket with the variety and volume of liquor needed to restock the bar. The dense palm trees near the beach soon faded from view, replaced by long stretches of waving grass and the occasional ancient tree reaching for the crisp blue sky.

  The driver’s-side mirror clunked against the side of the car as he drove, reminding him of all the loose ends that lay tangled at his feet. He didn’t enjoy facing an enemy he couldn’t see, particularly one that sent unsigned death threats. He preferred them signed. At least you knew where you stood with those. And the car mirror . . . It felt too random. Like someone was trying to get under his skin.

  He turned on the radio and pressed its buttons, searching for music that would help him relax and enjoy the leisurely drive. It was a beautiful, sunny day, the wind was . . .

  The wind caught the mirror, thumping it against the door in a frenzied rhythm.

  . . . Damn it. Miguel couldn’t relax, not with the mirror banging. That was when he noticed the vehicle tailing him.

  It was a dark brown SUV with tinted windows. The first model-year for the Jeep Grand Cherokee, by the look of the grill. At first, it hung so far back that Miguel could barely see it. He might not have spotted it at all if not for the slow-moving truck that pulled out between him and the Jeep. The Jeep slid across the double yellow line, blasted past the truck, and slowly dropped back to its original distance.

  Miguel slowed down, and the Jeep slowed down. Normal traffic didn’t do that. No one needed to keep a ten-count behind the car in front. Not unless they were trying to stay inconspicuous.

  Miguel’s heart began pounding once more. His breathing turned shallow, and the inky darkness began creeping in. He couldn’t let that happen, not now. He blinked twice and took a deep breath. His hands trembled, then went dead calm.

  High-speed pursuit in a soft-skinned vehicle. Pursuers are likely unarmed. Even if they have weapons, they won’t want to open fire on a major route. If that’s how they are willing to play the game, they would have opened up already. No weapons, smoke grenades, or other countermeasures available to break off the pursuit.

  He cursed himself for telling Ben not to waste his money on renting a GPS. The directions he’d written down on the back of a receipt would be of little use once he turned off the main road. It was a risk he’d have to take.

  He wished he’d had the chance to get to the supermarket first. Then he could have improvised a Molotov cocktail from a bottle of 151-proof rum and a greasy rag. But he was getting ahead of himself.

  He glanced down at his messy scrawl on the crumpled receipt. Inspiration struck.

  A fork in the road appeared in the distance. To the left lay the road to the Guanacaste supermarket. To the right was the road to the Tamarindo airport. Miguel slowed the hatchback to a crawl and triggered the left turn signal. The Jeep’s driver had two choices: either slow down, hang back, and make it painfully obvious they were tailing Miguel or finally close the gap. The Jeep closed in, its left turn signal blinking in Miguel’s rearview mirror.

  He accelerated sharply into the left turn lane, then, halfway through the curve, he pulled hard on the hand break and spun the wheel to the right. The emergency maneuver would have been dramatic in a faster car, but the hatchback simply looped lazily across the median. An oncoming minibus, its horn blaring, missed Miguel by inches. He slammed the car into second gear and sped off toward the airport.

  The airport wasn’t much to look at, little more than a tiny strip of asphalt and a handful of steel-roofed outbuildings. But it was guarded by the Ministry of the Interior. Miguel steered the car into the parking lot.

  He hopped out of the hatchback and strode inside. Every move he made was measured—not fast enough to attract attention, but not a second slower than necessary. He checked the arrivals board, then wandered over to the information counter and picked up a brochure. He leaned against a wall by a window and read the pamphlet as though he were waiting for a flight to land.

  Miguel’s adversary was now faced with three options, none of them appealing. If they lacked subtlety or skill, they would tear into the parking lot at full speed, arousing the immediate attention of the guards. Unlikely, but possible. He had never ceased to be amazed by the poor decisions his foes made once their carefully laid plans started to unravel.

  Their second option was to take up a vantage point along the road to the airport and pick Miguel up again when he left. A bold but foolish move. It assumed that he hadn’t called the police, caught a flight, or bypassed the airport entirely. The tail might opt for it if they thought themselves clever. But not clever enough to realize he could easily slip the net.

  Last, his pursuer could break off the pursuit. This was the most dangerous option for Miguel for two reasons. Either the tail was patient and very thorough. Or worse, this whole episode could be a figment of his imagination. That would mean this threat, like his dreams, his panic attacks, and his obsession with Ana, existed only in his head—the interest on his unpaid debt.

  Miguel sat in the airport lounge, staring at the same brochure for almost an hour. When he finally left the airport, he saw no sign of the Jeep.

  Ben’s alarm beeped for several minutes before he finally woke up. He was having a rough time adjusting to being a night owl. He blinked twice and glanced over at the clock, his eyes laden with exhaustion. Almost noon. Better get going, if he didn’t want to be late again. He sat up and looked longingly out at the Pacific sparkling in the distance. The inevitable surfers were barely visible between the folds of the waves. He hadn’t even found time for a swim yet.

  Or had he? Ben wondered, not for the first time, where else he’d gone the night of Antonio’s murder. His clothing from that night hadn’t been salty, nor had he found a starfish in his pocket or anything like that, but his failure to remember much of anything that happened that night still troubled him. What if the one clue that could crack this case had been washed away by a ninth shot of rum?

  Ben knew what he ought to do: head down to the cantina, get Oscar to make him something to eat, and dig into the pile of paperwork threatening to envelop his desk and the nearby chairs. He gazed down at his white belly, soft from years of working behind a desk.

  He reached for his shirt but grabbed his swim trunks instead.

  Ten minutes later, he plunged into the surf headfirst, enjoying the silken slap of a wave breaking over his body. He wiped his eyes, his mouth tingling with saltwater. He could see why this stretch was so popular with surfers—every wave was almost the same size, as though forged by something more than tide and breeze.

  Perhaps he’d sign up for surfing lessons. From what the surfers at the bar had said, Witch’s Rock Surf Camp had a—

  A surfboard sliced past his left ear, missing him by inches.

  “Hey! Who the hell do you think you are?” He waved his fist at the surfer’s back as he neatly turned the board and rode it onto the beach. Ben planted his feet on the bottom and waded over to give him a piece of his mind.

  The surfer tucked the surfboard under one arm and turned to face him. She was one of the most beautiful women Ben had ever seen.

  “Sorry about that nasty bit of bizzo,” she said with a thick Australian accent. “You must’ve just hopped in. I checked this spot when paddling out, but not after I caught the wave. That was almost quite the bang-up.” She shook the water from her short bl
ond hair. Her tanned cheeks were flushed with the exertion of a hard morning spent riding waves.

  Ben was suddenly very aware of his pudgy white torso and how his wet bathing suit clung tightly in some places and rode up in the others.

  “That’s all right,” he said. “I’m Ben. Nice to meet you.” He decided against reaching out for a handshake.

  “Name’s Jenni. You’re the bloke who bought the bar, aren’t you?” She flashed him a brilliant smile, then looked thoughtful. “I think I saw you the night Antonio died.”

  “You did? When?”

  “About halfway through the night. You were standing on the bar, trying to pull a sombrero off the wall. Looked like you were having a hard time of it. I had no idea it was you who’d bought the place.”

  “That was me, all right.” Ben scratched the back of his head.

  Jenni planted her surfboard in the sand. “How’s that doing so far? The bar, that is.”

  “It’s doing rather well, actually.” He explained the beach-bar-for-rent idea. “We have our first client coming in later today. Enrico Morales. He’s a famous bongo drummer.” The words still sounded awkward to Ben, but he had faith Miguel knew what he was doing.

  “Can’t say I’ve heard of him, but I do enjoy a good show.” Jenni checked her sport watch. “I should get back out there. I’d love to hear the full yarn about how you bought the bar, though. Mind if I stop by later tonight?”

  His voice seemed to speak of its own accord. “I’d like that.”

  “Ace! See you tonight, Ben.” She flashed him another million-watt grin, then splashed back into the surf.

  Had that conversation actually happened? He turned to gaze at Jenni as she paddled back into the surf. It had. Things were looking up.

  He swaggered back onto the beach, where he discovered his sandals and towel had been stolen. He did what he could to dry himself with his T-shirt, then made his way back to his room, his swim trunks dripping a trail of water as he went.