Second Chance Gold (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 4) by John Cunningham (tohfa e dulha read online TXT) 📗

We flew halfway toward St. Martin before I vectored west and entered the approach pattern into St. Barths behind a shiny new St. Barth Commuter plane. I broke off to circle around the outer edge of Gustavia. It was a clear day and Saba appeared through the mist like an ancient pyramid on the horizon, thirty-odd miles away.

Shell Beach marked the back corner of Gustavia where the shoreline turned into a steep, rocky, cactus-covered no-man’s land of sharp cliffs and bluffs. I saw a couple of rock outcroppings in the water that could be loosely characterized as islands, but nothing that fit Jerry’s paintings. Next came Gouverneur’s Beach and a long stretch of empty open water—until we reached a decent-sized island just past Saline.

“Ever been there?” I said.

“Ile Coco? No reason to.” She paused. “Anse de Cayes is on the other side of the island, why are we looking here?”

“Bernard from Master Ski Pilou—”

“I know Bernard.”

“He said Jerry typically followed the coast in this direction as he circumnavigated the island. I want to follow the same course.” I wiped sweat from my right palm on my shorts, my stomach in knots, wondering whether it was prudent to share my suspicions with Nicole.

We continued along the coast at an altitude of 1,500 feet above sea level, toward the rocky shore of the Grand Fond. I spotted Gisele’s parents’ farm as we approached Toiny, where surfers rode long waves just before the easternmost point on the island.

“The currents going north eddy around up to here, then press in from the east,” Nicole said.

We followed the coast past Grand-cul-du-Sac, where kite and wind surfers zipped around the horseshoe-shaped harbor, and then past Le Sereno Hotel.

“That island there is called Ile Tortue.” Nicole pointed. I glanced over—wrong shape.

We passed by Lorient and came to the wide bay of St. Jean, but I stayed north to avoid aircraft taking off toward us. The Eden Rock peninsula was prominent and Nicole leaned forward and tried to look past me, no doubt hoping to spot her house. I vectored the beast toward the islands to the northwest.

“And these?” I said.

“Ile Fregate out there.” She pointed out the starboard side window. “And Ile Chevreau ahead.”

Ile Chevreau was the big island you could see straight out from Jerry’s house on the beach at Flamands.

“Anse de Cayes is right there to your left,” Nicole said. “Mostly locals live there, not a lot of vacation rentals, only one major hotel. I am not sure exactly where Jerry’s Jet Ski washed ashore.”

There was a black sand beach below with a couple of surfers lying atop their boards awaiting a ride in. Flamands was around the next corner, and the land cut hard to the left to where the Taiwana resort and the Hotel St. Barth Isle de France marked the start of the long, wide beach. Many houses dotted the landscape, but Jerry’s house, right in the middle, was one of the largest on the waterfront. Was Gisele in her chaise lounge staring up at us as we flew over?

I pressed down on the right pedal and headed straight north to Ile Chevreau, the largest of the offshore islands surrounding St. Barths. I gripped the wheel tighter. It was oval shaped with twin peaks that formed a valley. I was tempted to fly low and look for rock piles but decided against doing it with Nicole on board.

“Do people ever come out here to explore?” I said.

Nicole shook her head. “It is very rocky with strong currents and no beaches, so not really. It is a beautiful island, though. I have always wanted to come here and have a picnic on one of the high meadows, but never have.”

We circled around and I saw she was right—the shore was lined with white water splashing off rocks and I saw no beaches where a boat could come ashore.

I again considered Jerry’s likely course after leaving the dock in Gustavia. Any number of things could have caused him to fall off his Jet Ski, not the least of which was the bottle of rum he’d had with him. If Nicole was right and the current pressed in from the east, his accident likely happened somewhere between Marigot and the western end of the bay of St. Jean, or by Anse de Cayes itself.

We continued past Colombier and out to another large island that was also roughly egg-shaped.

“What’s that one called?”

“Ile Fourchue.”

I saw no other islands except for a few dots on the distant horizon toward Anguilla and St. Martin, so I turned us back into the landing pattern and flew straight toward Gustavia and the airport.

“Not much of a flight,” Nicole said.

I didn’t respond, focused on steering us through the narrow approach between the two peaks at stall speed, cars close enough to see their driver’s faces below, the white cross on the peak now above us.

As we slowed to a stop at the end of the runway, we paused a moment to gaze down the beach to Eden Rock.

Nicole suddenly turned toward me.

“What if la petite enfant is Ile Chevreau?”

“Why, what does Ile Chevreau mean?”

“The closest translation I can think of is ‘the kid’—the same literal meaning as la petite enfant.”

I pictured Ile Chevreau from the air. It was a similar shape to Jerry’s paintings, and there had been a number of rock piles.

“And what about the clue at Eden Rock?” she said. “The one that might have led to a location on Ile Chevreau?”

I thought of Jerry’s paintings. A map. I bit my tongue.

To my surprise, Nicole opted to go home after our flight. A quick walk around her house found the doors and windows to be secure, so we went inside and checked every room.

I walked her back to the front door.

“Your friend is right,” she said. “You are dangerous company.” She planted a slow kiss on my