Gerrie Nelson - Lab Notes

She slipped into the back door of the mansion and stepped quickly around the perimeter of the atrium, heading toward the staircase. But approaching Carlos’s study, she noticed the lights were on inside. She checked her watch and grimaced; it was three in the morning.

Prepared to face the music, she walked to the study doorway. The elder Carrera stood at the opposite end of the room looking up at his battle memorabilia. She watched as he removed the antique dueling pistols from the wall. Obviously unaware of her presence, he stood motionless, head bowed, studying the firearms in his hands. She moved on.

Exhausted, Diane stumbled into her suite and collapsed onto the bed. She closed her eyes, thought of Gabriel and groaned. What had they set into motion? Drifting into slumber, she rolled onto her abdomen, slipped her hands up under the pillow and let out a yelp. She had been bitten.

She jumped to her feet, her heart pounding with the sudden fright. She turned on the light and examined her finger, then moved closer to the bed and flipped the pillow over—like a rock off a snake. There, at the head of the bed, lay a stalk of prickly aloe vera.

Carefully, Diane picked up the plant and studied it. It had apparently been placed there by a member of the household staff. But what did it mean? Was the word already out about her and Gabriel? Did his manservant find the pile of dripping wet silk that Gabriel had peeled off of her and somehow telegraph the news across the island? And did the Indians sense bad karma there?

Rubbing the aloe gel on her punctured finger, Diane walked to the window and looked down at the placid marina below bathed in amber lighting. Watching the boats tug gently at their dock lines, she began to feel ill. Then anxiety gripped her chest.

She looked at the plant in her hand. Could this be some sort of spell? She shook her head. Most likely it was sleep deprivation. She set the aloe on the windowsill, returned to the bed and flopped on her back.

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply to relax. Drifting off, she saw Gabriel’s face appear before her. She could still feel his heat igniting her being and the excruciating caress of his velvety towel, its monogram gently branding her skin—

Suddenly she was catapulted into a sitting position. “No–o-o,” she groaned and jumped to her feet. She ran to the window, and it all came into focus. It burned through her tear-filled eyes and into her brain. “Oh my God,” she wailed.

She reeled to the foot of the bed where she steadied herself on one of the posts. Then she paced, raking her fingers through her hair. She was in grave danger. She had to get off that island. But how? She sat on the bed and dropped her face into her hands. Calm down. Think. Think.

Maybe she could jog over and wake up Fernando; on the island tour, Gabriel had pointed out the houses where the captain and his crew lived. She’d concoct some story so he’d run her over to Aruba in the launch. Or, how about the helicopter? It should be back on the island by now. Santos could fly her over. She groaned and shook her head in her cupped palms. Get real, Diane.

The only person she could rely on to get her off that island and away from the Carreras was herself. She’d have to steal the motor launch.

Overnight bag slung over her shoulder, Diane slipped out the back door. She worked her way around to the front of the mansion staying inside the shadows of the foliage.

She had seen Carlos’s study from the atrium balcony. The doors were closed now. But she knew his bedroom suite faced the harbor. She needed to check it for lights.

She left her bag under a shrub and ventured out onto the veranda. If she encountered anyone, she had insomnia. Stepping to the rail, she gazed around like a tourist. Hopefully, the darkened front windows meant everyone was asleep. With a parting glance at Carlos’s balcony, she wondered how far his two-century-old pistolas could shoot.

Diane retrieved her bag and headed for the marina stairs. But at the top step, she froze. The birds. If they sent up their alarm, they could awaken the household. But it was nighttime, and normal birds should be sleeping. She’d just have to chance it.

She opened the veranda gate and stepped down one step. Then another. The first macaw sat asleep beside her. So far, so good. She successfully advanced another four steps. Then her bag rubbed a palm leaf, and water droplets sprayed the bird below. Feathers fluttered. Diane stopped dead. The bird settled down.

She descended the rest of way without incident. Reaching the bottom, she turned and walked quickly past the Carrera’s yacht and approached the launch tied up alongside the dock. She threw her bag into the cockpit, then loosened the stern line and tossed it onboard. She untied the bowline, hooked it around a dock cleat and climbed aboard holding the free end.

Stepping to the helmsman seat, she studied the electronics mounted in front of her. Where was the starter? Then her heart sank. A key. What was she thinking when she came up with this harebrained scheme? Of course she needed a key.

Her eyes frantically scanned the controls. Then she smiled. “God bless you, Fernando.” Just below the starter button, there in the keyhole, was the ignition key.

Diane turned the key and reached for the starter. Then she stopped and grimaced. On the way to the island, the inboard engine had been quiet. But she didn’t remember how it sounded starting up. And the cliffs surrounding the harbor provided a perfect echo chamber.

“Please don’t roar.” She took a deep breath and pushed the button. The engine purred to a start. She flipped on the instrument lights and pulled in the bowline. Shifting into gear, she steered toward the opening to the sea. Almost free.

She turned and looked up at the house. All was quiet. She glanced back at the stairs. Nothing moved. Some great guard birds you are.

As she approached the harbor’s outlet to the sea, waves splashed through the opening and rolled up the cliff on the boat’s starboard side. She could see a riptide where the rushing sea met the slack harbor water. But beyond that, only blackness.

She’d have to steer to the port side to avoid being smashed against the rocks. She throttled up and motored through the opening. But immediately she lost steerage, and the boat stern whirled into the cliff. She was caught in an eddy and being dragged along the rock face. The sound of grinding wood echoed off the walls. She flipped the wheel around, powered all the way up and plunged out into the darkness.

When her night vision finally kicked in, she scanned her surroundings until she spotted the dome of light on the horizon. Relieved, she turned the boat toward Aruba. She was committed.

What’s next? Diane thought with dread. Then she remembered the gap between the islands that funneled the open sea southward. Her old friend the wind waited there to throw more trials in her path. She hoped one of them wouldn’t be another boat. She was running without lights and would be until she was well past the island.

Ignoring Gabriel’s house on the cliff, Diane planted her feet for stability and cleared the eastern end of Carrera Island. But she had underestimated the wrath of the storm-churned sea.

The first wave crashed across the port bow and rolled the launch onto its side. Diane was thrown from the helm and smashed against the opposite seat. The boat wallowed, then tracked off to the southeast, taking its cues from the sea.

Ignoring the crushing pain in her shoulder and jaw, Diane scrambled back to the controls. She watched the compass and fought the wheel around until the bow headed northeast. She looked through the windshield for the reassuring dome of light. But only blackness lay ahead. Then she realized she was staring into the side of a wave.