Mermaids in Paradise - Lydia Millet (phonics story books txt) 📗

lunch we had no interest in) that our embargo was beside the point. Obviously there couldn’t be an embargo without a commodity—in this case the mermaid video. So with me sitting upright next to him on their sofa, Chip had told Steve—Steve and his wife Janeane, who preferred to be called his life partner—about the mermaid sighting.

To my surprise the Freudian didn’t mock us. I’d assumed a therapist type would instantly dismiss our claims, but Steve just cocked his head to one side, contemplative.

“Something happened to me, not long ago, that I could never explain either,” he offered, nodding.

“What?” asked Chip.

“Enh, I’ll tell you the story sometime. But in a nutshell, I had a strange experience. It made me question things. Question a lot.”

“It was how we met,” said Janeane. “I mean, after his experience. We both went to this PTSD encounter group.”

“For post-traumatic stress?” asked Chip. “Hey. So sorry. I know they say they don’t let women in combat, but once you’re out in a war zone that line blurs. Doesn’t it.”

“Oh, she wasn’t in the army,” said Steve. “Janeane?”

“My practice is around peace,” said Janeane. “Sending out empathy for all beings.”

“What happened was, a therapist told her the phobia had features in common with PTSD, so she started going to the group. I was helping to moderate that day.”

“It was a new horizon,” said Janeane, smiling. “Plus I met Steve!”

Now, in the tropical dusk, Janeane was back in their cabana, resting and making all of us a late dinner; she didn’t like to eat out much. In the resort’s restaurant, she’d said, and the various restaurants off-campus too, there was always the chance of a bludgeoning. Especially now, after this, she was reluctant to emerge. She’d be picking at an overpriced entrée, she’d said, fingering the stem of a goblet, and then suddenly see, in her mind’s eye, a machete intruder.

Standing there on the dock, we wondered where Riley the videographer had gone. We hadn’t seen him since he told us the footage had been stolen; he’d said he was going straight to the police, to tell them about his camera. He’d promised to be here to welcome the Berkeley anthropologist, but he was nowhere to be seen and didn’t answer Chip’s calls or texts.

We worried about the Berkeley anthropologist, too—what he might say, without a video. He’d probably think he’d made the arduous and, let’s face it, expensive trip for nothing. It was no joke, flying from California to the Caribbean on a last-minute ticket. And if he turned out to have been close to Nancy, worse yet—for then, of course, there’d also be the grief. We couldn’t recall if she’d said they’d been friends or only colleagues.

The three of us watched the white prow of the ferry as it first appeared—it’s not a large ferry, really, mid-sized at best—and the lights of the harbor around us twinkled in the gathering dark.

“I like ferries,” mused Chip, and squeezed my hand.

“We came in by chopper,” said Steve. “I don’t do boats. Not anymore. No boats of any kind, not even a rowboat. I’ll never set foot on a ship again until the day I die.”

“Do you get seasick?” asked Chip.

“Not at all,” said Steve.

Chip and I waited politely, but he didn’t go on.

The ocean and horizon were dim purple shades, and the lights on the ferry twinkled—though way more dimly than the lights of the resort at our backs. Then we saw another light, the light of a second, smaller boat as it approached the ferry from one side.

“That’s a police boat,” said Steve. “The BVI police cutter. Or maybe it’s the Coast Guard. I’m not sure the Brits even have their own boats.”

To our surprise the two ships met. We couldn’t tell if the ferry slowed or stopped; it seemed to remain static until the police boat moved away again, off to somewhere we couldn’t see. After that it grew nearer steadily.

“I’ve got a bad feeling,” said Chip.

And sure enough, when the ferry reached us at the dock tourists streamed off—mostly couples, a few singletons with bulging shopping bags, the odd kid holding hands with a tired-looking parent—but there was no Berkeley anthropologist. We thought at first he might have been camouflaged among the day-trip shoppers, and Chip approached one or two, but we got no love from them.

“Do you think,” I asked the guys, when the last of the passengers had disembarked and we were still standing there lamely, “that police cutter could have had something to do with it? With the fact that he never arrived?”

Steve looked at me, and I saw it in his eyes: he did.

“I don’t get it,” said Chip, as we walked slowly back down the dock, slumping. “If the police boat intercepted the ferry to meet the anthropologist—I mean if; he could have just missed his plane. But first off, why would they? How would they even know he was coming?”

“They have her phone,” I suggested. “I’m sure they do. So they can access her voicemail, her texts and her email, no problem. That’s my bet. She probably unlocked her phone, since she was using it so much.”

“But why would they want to intercept him? I mean he’s not a suspect or anything.”

“And the cops around here are kind of a joke,” said Steve. “I researched it, you know—because of the phobia. Our assumption was, in this kind of tourist economy, good cops would actually be a bad sign, in terms of the likelihood of violent crime. The Virgin Gorda cops have to call in the troops from other islands when something serious goes down. I can’t see them doing anything they didn’t have to do.”

“Who does have the power on the islands?” I asked Steve. “Do you know?”

Steve shook his head.

“Is there power?” he asked naïvely.

“There’s always power,” I said. You’d think a Freudian would know that better than anyone, but I kept my mouth shut on that point. “The question is who has it.”

“Whoever has the money,” shrugged Chip. “Right?”

We stepped off the