Of Sun and Rain

Caesar

Alston Station, South Carolina

September 21, 1989

Cooper Heath, American shipping magnate, his intimate friend, Mills Taylor, and his first cousin, Jeff Radcliffe are nearly finished securing Cooper’s home on the Edisto River near Charleston, South Carolina, in advance of the landfall of a menacing hurricane named Hugo. The storm had already swept through the Caribbean, leaving death and destruction in its wake. Now the hurricane was about to come ashore on the Eastern Seaboard, possibly at the mouth of the Edisto.

They were on their way to the barn when a car appeared on the lane in the driving rain, with two occupants. It crept toward them. Cooper was the first to recognize the driver. It’s Lieutenant Barnes, with the Charleston County Sheriff’s Department.

What could he want? Jeff asked.

Whatever it is, I’m sure it can wait, Cooper said resolutely.

The lieutenant stopped the car near them and rolled down the window. Cooper, I’ve been trying to get in touch with you, he yelled above the rain. Can we talk in the barn?

Can’t this wait until after the storm passes?

No, it really can’t. Good to see you and your cousin, Jeff, together. Barnes nodded to Mills. And Miss Taylor, nice to see you as well.

Mills pulled the hood of her raincoat tightly to her head before responding, Nice to see you too, Lieutenant.

They hurried into the barn and Jeff turned on the light. The air was pungent with gasoline and oil. Barnes gestured to the policeman with him, This is Deputy Phil Parks. He’s just been assigned to my unit.

Cooper nodded to the officer and then focused his attention back on Barnes. What’s this about?

Barnes smirked and then spoke, raising his voice above the storm, Cooper, I’ve got a question for you.

Yes, what is it?

Last year, you almost drowned in a diving accident in St. John. Did you ever figure out what happened to you?

No one knows for sure, not even me.

Barnes nodded. I’ve been waiting for this moment for months. He paced the concrete floor of the barn and then glared at Cooper. Your wife, Elise, has been missing for over a year. It turns out those missing person’s posters finally did some good. I had a visit from two men who make an annual fishing trip to the Charleston area.

Cooper’s face darkened as he listened to the detective.

They’re certain they saw her at Harry’s Country Store just outside Summerville the morning she vanished. He looked sternly at Cooper and then Jeff before continuing, They remembered her because she was beautiful. Imagine their shock when they saw her photo on a missing person’s poster.

Lieutenant, what are you trying to say? What happened to Elise? Cooper asked.

The two men said a man was with her in a red Mercedes. Barnes looked intently at Cooper. I showed them your photo first. I was certain they would identify you. They studied it, but said the man who was with her had lighter hair.

The detective turned to Jeff and said, Next, I showed them your photo. Guess what? They both said you were the man with her that morning. Barnes rubbed his hand along the edge of a stall and then looked at Cooper. We searched the property you recently purchased on the Ashley River, and we’ve just recovered a woman’s body.

As Jeff’s face drained of color, Cooper’s contorted with rage.

Cooper, I suppose I’ve made your life miserable at times. What a shame for you – your wife, and your closest friend, deeply involved.

Was it Elise? Cooper demanded.

Barnes eyed Cooper for a moment. Dental records may be the only way to identify the body. He turned to Jeff. You were having an affair with Elise Heath, and I can prove it. Cocaine and greed cause a calamitous combination. Something must have happened. Did you kill her in a drug-induced rage?

I’ve never intentionally hurt anyone in my life.

Cooper charged Jeff, grabbed him by his shirt collar and shoved him. Then he struck Jeff hard with his fist, knocking him to the ground. Get up, you Cassius!

As Jeff rose, he signaled for surrender, but then plowed into Cooper’s torso. Deputy Parks tried to pull them apart, but as he did Jeff pulled a gun from the waistband of his pants.

Barnes drew his weapon as the deputy struggled with Jeff for the handgun. Loud cracks that sounded like thunder echoed through the barn. A fine red mist flew into the air. Jeff ran toward the barn door, not knowing he’d shot someone.

Caribbean Sea

October 15, 1989

"S ail’s come loose! It’ll shred if it’s not fixed to the boom!"

Marcel, take the helm. Head’er into the wind!

Careful, Radcliffe, the seas are treacherous!

The rain was like mortar shell, and sea spray whipped into his face. Jeff was almost to the boom when it swung wildly and struck him in the head. He fell to the deck. A safety line connected to his lifejacket and harness kept him from being swept overboard. He grabbed the railing to pull himself up to his knees, and then inched toward the center of the boat. Lightning struck the surface of the ocean, illuminating the deck. The sail was in reach. He lurched for it.

Struggling with a tie-down rope, Jeff wrapped it around the boom to bind the sail. He tied two additional binders before another wave swept across the deck, almost knocking him down again. He clutched the ship’s railing as he crept back to the helm where Marcel Renaud awaited him.

"Mon Dieu, I have never seen the likes of this kind of storm!"

Jeff wiped the corner of his mouth and tasted iron. Even in the darkness, he realized that blood and not just rain spilled from his brow. He went through the hatch into the companionway down the ladder into the cabin. Sloshing through seawater, he grabbed a towel from the galley and put it tightly against his forehead, trying to stop the flow of blood. He stumbled back through the flooded compartment and then returned to the helm where Marcel was at the controls.

"Tu as une mauvais coupe!" Marcel cried out.

The boom hit me in the head.

"Go down below! I will call for you if I need help! I have the Elena under diesel power!"

No! I’ll stay with you on deck!

What? Do you have a death wish? Marcel pointed to the cabin. Go! Now! I will call you if I need you.

Jeff descended into the cabin and went to the galley. He braced himself behind a built-in-table, then pressed the towel against the cut on his forehead. The sailboat again pitched to one side almost keeling over. Pain wracked his head. He heard cries for help, but they were from long ago.

Jeff remembered another storm, a similar one that had killed his uncle and cousin. Jeff had thought over and over, Cooper should have stayed with the boat and left me to the sea. But nothing would change the fact that after a freak wave had struck their sailboat and Jeff had been washed overboard, his cousin jumped into the ocean to save him. The two cousins then watched in horror as a wave broadsided, then rolled the boat on her side, drowning both father and son.

"Radcliffe, wake up. J’ai essayé de vous réveiller."

At first the voice, with its French accent, was unfamiliar. Jeff concentrated, and then squinted as diffused daylight blinded him. Marcel sat across from him on a bunk. Jeff studied Marcel’s worried expression, then winced. What happened to me?

Do you remember the storm?

Yes.

"I’m afraid you, how do you say, frappé, Marcel said with a tap to his head. I have done my best to stitch you, but you need a doctor. There is just one problem: we seem to be stuck on a reef. Elena is … how do you say … ruptured?" Marcel put his hand to his back.

You mean the keel is broken?

Yes, it is her back. She is like you. Cracked open? He smirked with a wave of his hand. She will be scuttled.

Marcel, I’m sorry.

Marcel shook his head. We are unable to control the acts of God, for now. We are fortunate to be stuck on the reef. Deep wrinkles formed on his forehead, and he ran his hand through his dark, curly hair. The storm has pushed us southwest. One thing is certain, we are not off Trinidad.

Where are we then?

Off the coast of South America … Venezuela. I put out a mayday, but I am trying to conserve battery power.

Sitting up, Jeff felt extremely dizzy. He rested his head on his hand. We’re listing starboard.

Yes, and we’ve got water coming in.

The boat rocked as another wave rolled over the reef. Jeff attempted to stand as the boat settled.

Please no to get up. There is nothing you can do.

Jeff sat back on the side of the bunk and slowly looked up at him.

Marcel raised his eyebrows. I wish to ask you something.

Go ahead.

"Hurricane Hugo hit your area of les Etats-Unis. How did your family and properties fare?"

I don’t know.

And your cousin, Cooper? He lives in Charleston as well—I still have nightmares about him. Almost drowning while on one of my excursions—ooh, la, what a beautiful wife, but something still bothers me about his sudden attack. Mon Dieu, it is good my dive master saw him in trouble.

Jeff shrugged. Marcel raised his chin. I confess, I thought she had eyes for you.

Jeff stared down at his feet. You imagined it.

Ah, but if my calculations are correct, you set sail from Charleston about the time the storm was bearing down on the Eastern Seaboard. You must be a magnet for storms, yes? I ask only that I was surprised you showed up in St. John and asked to accompany me to Trinidad. I like the pleasure of your company, of course. Marcel rubbed his palms together. We know very little of each other, except for competing in yacht races. You’re, shall I say, charismatic. Less now. Anything you wish to discuss?

What, me trust an old pirate like you?

Radcliffe, you wound me.

I’ll bet.

Their eyes met. "There’s a saying in French: Après la pluie, le beau temps."

And?

My friend, the darkest hours are just before the dawn.

Another wave rocked the boat. Elena shuddered and groaned like a wounded animal before settling back on the reef. If we are not found soon, we’ll use the dinghy to get to shore, Marcel said with resignation.

Wind howled through the cabin, and above the sound was the faint hum of a motor. Marcel closed his fist to signal silence. The noise grew closer.

I think we are in luck! Marcel jumped up, sloshed through standing water, and ascended to the deck. "Hola!" Jeff heard him shout.

In an attempt to stand, Jeff was overcome by dizziness that leveled him to his bunk. He heard a conversation in Spanish, and after a few minutes, Marcel returned.

Venezuelan fishermen up top. They take us to Puerto San Marcos, which is at the mouth of the Río Renacido.

So you speak Spanish?

I am multitalented.

I think multilingual is the right word.

"I am that too. Now come on, pauvre âme. Marcel gave Jeff his right hand to pull him up. Mon Dieu! Radcliffe, you are hot. I fear you are burn up with fever."

Jeff stumbled with Marcel supporting him. You walk like a drunk.

I think I’m going to be sick.

Hang on! Almost on deck.

Outside, Jeff grabbed the nearest railing. With nothing in his stomach, he suffered a bout of dry heaves. When he lifted his head, sun blinded him. Jeff eyed the three fishermen, his and Marcel’s rescuers, but then collapsed, unconscious, to the deck.

Before Jeff opened his eyes, he smelled a faint scent of roses. In the darkened, unfamiliar chamber, he saw the silhouette of a woman standing near a window. The blinds on the window were partially open, allowing dim light to pass between the blades. The silhouette moved toward him.

Elise? he said weakly.

No, I’m Callie Forte, Dr. Callie Forte.

He squinted to bring the figure into focus.

Can I get you anything?

Yes, ma’am. Water, please.

Dr. Forte poured him a glass from a pitcher that was on a table. Here you are. Drink it slowly.

Jeff leaned up on his elbow and carefully drank from the glass until the water was gone. Where am I?

You’re at the home of Father Gilberto. You needed a hospital, but there are no hospitals near Puerto San Marcos.

You’re American?

I’m from Atlanta, Georgia.

Great town.

I detect a Southern accent.

I’m from South Carolina. How long have I been here?

This is the third day.

I remember . . . the blow to my head.

You knocked your head good, but I’m more concerned about you showing symptoms of withdrawal. What were you taking?

Cocaine, mostly, uppers—

Well, you’ve come to the right place. Drug trafficking is commonplace here, and Colombia is right next door.

Have you been here with me the whole time?

For the past two days. Father Gilberto radioed me. I was vaccinating children in a village about forty miles away. It took me a day to get here. The roads are washed out from the storm.

Jeff held up his arm and found red marks on his skin. It feels like bugs are crawling on me.

In layman’s terms, they’re called coke bugs. It’s one of the symptoms of cocaine withdrawal. I have medication that should help. I’ll be right back.

When she returned, she had a tray with a bowl of soup. After she helped him sit up in bed with pillows behind him, she put it on his lap.

She sat down in a chair opposite him. I’ve spoken with Mr. Renaud. You two were lucky to survive the storm. It was bad on land. I can’t imagine what it was like at sea. He also told me that before the storm you hadn’t felt well for several days—perhaps depressed. Is there anything I can do to help you?

Jeff shook his head, then took a sip of the soup. Even though his thinking was unclear, he knew to change the subject. How did you get from Atlanta, Georgia to Puerto San Marcos, Venezuela?

When I was twenty-three, I made a vow to help people who were less fortunate. After medical school, I worked in Mexico for a few years. There was a need for a doctor here, so I came. Most of my work is funded by the Catholic Church.

Are you a nun? You don’t look like a nun.

Watch yourself, Mr. Radcliffe.

Aren’t you going to tell me?

Are you finished with the soup?

Yes, ma’am.

She took the tray from his lap. You’ve been very talkative in your sleep.

Jeff was unable to keep eye contact with Dr. Forte.

Don’t worry. I’m a firm believer in the doctor-patient privilege.

She left the room, taking the tray with her. When she returned, she refilled his water glass then handed Jeff the glass and three pills to take.

He lifted the bed covers and looked at the undershirt and boxers he was wearing. Whose clothes do I have on?

Miguel’s. He’s about your size.

Who’s Miguel?

He’s a young man who lives at Our Lady of the Sea. He helps Father Gilberto in the church.

I see.

Lie down and get some rest. I’ll check on you later.

Jeff placed his head on his pillow. Thank you for your help.

You’re welcome. She left the room, shutting the door behind her. His eyes followed her.

He thought of Elise Heath. Dr. Forte reminded him of her. They had the same golden-blonde hair and blue eyes. He hit his fist on the side of the bed, and then buried his face in the pillow.

A crack of thunder split the air. Jeff was in a dogfight for his life in the barn on Cooper’s farm. Jeff screamed out. Someone shook him. A gentle voice said, There now . . . wake up. It’s going to be all right.

No, it’s not, he murmured, but wasn’t sure if he said it aloud or in his mind.

As he focused on where he was, Jeff remembered he was in a room in Father Gilberto’s home. He found that Dr. Forte was back in his room. She said, Mr. Renaud is making breakfast for you. I’ve some errands to run and patients to see. Rest until I get back.

Yes, ma’am.

It was then that Marcel came in with a tray of bread, eggs, and steaming hot tea.

I have something for you. Try to stay awake long enough to eat it, Marcel said jovially.

I’ll try, but I don’t know about eating your cooking.

All Frenchmen are wonderful chefs.

Yeah? Jeff said raising his eyebrows.

I am going to stay with you while the doctor is away.

You don’t have her bedside manner.

Of course I do.

Well, you don’t have her good looks.

Now that, I cannot argue with.

Dr. Forte sighed. Gentlemen, enough sparring. I’ll be back as soon as I can.

Thank you, Doctor, Jeff said as he took a sip of tea.

Mademoiselle doctor, how do you spell your last name?

F-o-r-t-e.

In French that means strong, Marcel said rubbing his hands together.

I learned that in my sixth-grade French class. She winked at Jeff as she left the room.

How are you feeling? Marcel asked.

A little better.

Tomorrow, I am going out with the fishermen who rescued us. They will help me salvage valuables from the boat, if she hasn’t already sunk. Is there anything that you wish me to retrieve . . . other than your passport?

Marcel, I don’t have one.

This could be a problem.

Why are you worried about me?

"What is the line at the end of Casablanca, as Humphrey Bogart and Claude Rains stroll away into the mist together? ‘I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’" Marcel waved his hand in the air.

Thank you, Marcel, but you’d be better off if you distanced yourself from me, and the sooner, the better.

Marcel shook his head. When you’re up to it, Father Gilberto wants to see you.

Jeff sipped the last of the tea from his cup. Anything in particular?

Oh, the usual things . . . salvation of your soul . . . absolution from your sins.

I’m not sure he can help me.

"Don’t be hard on yourself. Dors maintenant."

He picked up the tray and left the room, closing the door behind him.

The images of Jeff’s nightmare came back to him. He had been in a fight with two policemen in the barn on the property of his first cousin, Cooper, and before that he had fought Cooper. At a point he could still recall, Jeff held a gun and in a struggle over the weapon, the gun discharged. In desperation, he’d run from the barn to Cooper’s boat, the Miss Elise. The officers pursued him, and another fight ensued aboard Miss Elise. He remembered that one of the policemen fell into the river, and the other was knocked unconscious but came to as they neared Bohicket Marina. Jeff’s haunted thought: I watched him get to his feet, lose his balance, and fall overboard. I could have helped him. Dear God, forgive me.

A clock struck four outside Jeff’s room. He opened his eyes. Sitting across from him in a straight-back chair was a young man wearing khaki work clothes. His skin was deeply tanned, and his black hair was neatly cropped. A small brown dog with a bound-up front leg lay at his feet.

He leaned forward and put a note in Jeff’s hand. I am called Miguel. I have some English.

Jeff raised the bed covers and pointed to the undershirt he was wearing. Miguel, hi. Thank you for loaning me your clothes.

Miguel nodded and then rose from his chair. Jeff saw that he was over six feet tall and muscular. When he left the room, the small dog followed him, limping across the wooden floor. After several minutes, Miguel returned with Father Gilberto.

Jeff studied the priest’s features. He had thick black hair with some silver-gray mixed in. His eyes were dark and deep set, but he looked kind. He was several inches shorter than Miguel and slightly built. I’m Father Gilberto. How are you this afternoon, Mr. Radcliffe? He spoke with a heavy Spanish accent.

I’m feeling somewhat better.

Good. We’ve been worried about you. Fortunately, Dr. Forte was not too far away when you were brought to Puerto San Marcos.

Yes, sir. I appreciate your help.

Father Gilberto turned and gestured to Miguel, who was standing near the doorway. This is my friend, Miguel Santos. He will be checking on you. He can understand some English, but he does not speak. The priest nodded to Miguel and then turned back to Jeff. May I? he asked as he pointed to the chair beside the bed.

Yes, sir.

Puerto San Marcos is located just inside the mouth of the Rio Renacido. Our harbor is in a protected cove, natural and safe. You are welcome to stay here for as long as your recovery takes. If you would like to talk, I will be glad to listen.

Father, I’m not Catholic.

It makes no difference what denomination you are.

Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.

Father Gilberto stood up. Just call for Miguel if you need anything. He paused and ran his hand across the back of the chair. Our Lady of the Sea is not just a church. It’s a sanctuary for the helpless. Miguel is an angel of mercy for injured animals. He heals their wounds, and then finds homes for them. We’ve even had a boa constrictor here. The latest rescue dog is named Inca. I will check on you later, he said as he left the room.

Jeff turned on his side. He was becoming more cognizant of his surroundings. The room was sparsely furnished with two worn upholstered chairs, a straight-back wooden chair, a table with the water pitcher, a kerosene lamp, the bed, and a crucifix on the opposite wall. He closed his eyes and thought of Elise Heath. He remembered the day of her death, and then felt his heart pound. I had no right to be with her.

When he woke again, the room was darkened, but in the half-light, he saw that someone was with him.

Are you awake? Dr. Forte asked.

Oh . . . yes, ma’am, he uttered.

Are you in pain?

Not any worse than I’ve been having.

Dr. Forte increased the flame on the table’s kerosene lamp. Venezuela is a petrol state, but we still have electrical blackouts from time to time. She paused as she pulled her blonde hair back with a tie. Do you feel like eating?

Yes . . . a little something.

Jeff watched her leave the room, and when she returned, she had soup, hot tea, and bread for his supper. She helped him get situated, and then she sat down beside him.

Jeff sipped the tea. Earl Grey?

Yes, it’s my favorite. I keep it with me when I’m in the field.

I met a young man this afternoon. He was in the room when I woke up.

Miguel.

Yes. Why doesn’t he speak?

When Miguel was nine years old, men came to his village. Miguel was working in his parents’ garden when the men showed up. He heard shots and ran to his family’s home. Unfortunately, he arrived just as his parents and sister were gunned down. He saw them die.

Jeff winced.

Miguel escaped into the jungle and hid until the men left. It was two days before the shootings were discovered, and the intruders had massacred almost everyone in the village.

Why?

It was likely drug-related. There was a rumor that the men had accidentally targeted the wrong village. She rubbed her temples. "When Father Gilberto offered prayers for the victims, he found Miguel, terrified and hungry, hiding behind a water barrel against his parents’ hut. As far as I know, he hasn’t spoken a