48 Hour Short Story Contest

The Garifuna man nudges the gun toward me with the tips of his thick, black fingers. Our gazes lock. His brown eyes, with their red-flecked sclera, search mine. “I am not asking what you want this for.” He speaks with the thick accent that was once familiar to me. “But I tell you this: you be discreet, yes? We must not become the next Aruba.”

“I understand.” He draws his hand back as I speak in Kriol. “I won’t do anything to hurt the tourist trade.”

He smiles and nods, spreading his arms wide. “My apologies,” he says in the same language. “I was told you would be American.”

“I am.” I flip an envelope across the counter. We both take a moment to inspect our acquisitions. His is a stack of American $10 and $20 bills, nonsequential and unmarked. Mine is a Browning nine with a stubby silencer and a full clip.

He switches back to standard English. “Thank you. Your ride is outside.”

My Hawaiian shirt hides the bulge of the gun in my waistband, and I give the dark man a small salute, which he ignores.

The ride from Dangriga to Hopkins is shorter than it used to be; they’ve paved most of the road, and Hummingbird Highway is straight and smooth through orange groves and banana plantations. There are fewer trees than I remember, and more villages. The driver bounces his head, a grin splitting his face as he nods in time with some Punta band. I lean back and relax, blinking at each passing bicycle, bus and citrus truck.

The slamming of the Land Rover’s door wakes me, the Browning’s handgrip poking my belly as I start from a dream I’ve already forgotten. By the time I walk around the back, the grinning driver has my bags out. I slip him a five and he shakes my hand, his grin gone impossibly wide.

My stomach rumbles at the smell of cooking rice as I convince the desk clerk that I am who I say I am – even though I’m not. “Ah, Frank Donegan!” The name on the plump woman’s tag is Rosa, and she wears cat-eye spectacles. “You have a package waiting for you.” She hands it over; it looks a lot like the envelope I gave the man in Dangriga, only less bulky. She also gives me the Glover Reef Lodge booklet, and a key. “Your room is right off the Lunar pool,” she explains. “Just follow the path to your right, and have a wonderful stay!”

The bed is inviting, but business first. Flipping open my laptop, I let it boot up while I stash the gun in my suitcase and take a piss. It’s ready by the time I’m done, and I slide the flash drive from the envelope Rosa gave me, plugging it into the USB port on the side of my laptop. This, too, takes a moment to come up, so I head to the fridge and pull out a Coke. A real Coke, made with sugar, not the degenerate corn syrup formula they serve back in the States. I can’t find a bottle opener, but after some work with my room key, the cap comes off. I drink half of it in a few gulps, and I find myself twirling the bottle cap around the fingers of my left hand as my orders come up.

Ann Christa Richard, age 26, long brown hair, pretty face according to the photo they included. The words of the gun dealer come back to me as I picture a target framing that face: yes, this has the potential for another Aruba.



“Well, I think we should go snorkeling tomorrow.” I’m sitting with my back to my target. The speaker is one of the older women with her; I’m not sure which one. The accent is Southern U.S.

“That’s fine,” says the other woman, her voice betraying her New York origin. “As long as we get to see the Mayan ruins sometime.”

“Why don’t we do that Monday?” There’s my girl. Ann has a soft, melodious voice, and I can’t place her accent. Probably mid-Atlantic. “And we can go horseback riding Tuesday.”

“What if it rains?” from the nasal New Yorker. Since they can’t see me, I allow myself a smile; it almost never rains in Belize in March.

“Then we change our plans,” says the Southerner, drawling it out like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“What about today?” asks New York.

“I’m for lounging by the pool,” replies South. “Do they allow nude sunbathing here?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Ann sounds amused. “I need to brush up on my snorkeling skills.” I barely hear this over the hiss of the wind. “I guess I can do that in the pool.”

After lunch, I head to the lobby to sign up for snorkeling on Sunday, the Mayan tour on Monday, and the horseback expedition on Tuesday. Just another tourist staking his claim to the excursions, and if there’s ever any question later, the record will show Frank Donegal signed up for them before Ann Richard did, not after. I spend the afternoon on my cabin’s patio, watching Ann snorkeling in the pool. I drink Coke after Coke, twirling the caps around my fingers and wondering how I’m going to get her alone.



I’m sitting across from the three of them, watching Glover Reef Lodge dwindle behind the boat. Beside me is a couple on honeymoon; behind me is the tour guide. Ann’s wearing a hat tied under her chin, wide brim flapping in the wind. New York – who introduced herself to me as Lesley as we boarded – gave up on her own hat; she sits clutching it in white fingers, blinking in the sea spray. The Southerner, Leanna, keeps shifting and pulling at her turquoise one-piece, casting glances my way as she picks at her swimsuit.

The engine noise dulls to a low throb, cutting off as the guide slings the anchor. We all move to the sides and dip our masks into the crystal water, taking turns rubbing dish soap into them. This puts me next to Ann. “I’m nervous,” she tells me. “I’ve never done this outside a swimming pool.”

I smile at her. “You’ll be fine.” I flirt with the notion of ‘accidentally’ drowning her, but surely the guide is conversant with emergency procedures. I will have to wait for a better opportunity. “Just relax and breathe steady through your mouth.” I’m using my careful American accent, wanting to betray no hint that I grew up near here.

It takes me an extra moment to pack Vaseline into my mustache; without it, my mask will not seal and I’ll inhale water. By the time I’m done, the others have all splashed overboard, including the guide. Leanna is flailing around like a friendly dolphin, and the guide is steadying her, speaking in a calm voice of the need to just relax and float. In the water, I tap Ann, who is breathing too hard, too fast. Pulling the snorkel from my mouth, I urge her to do the same. She does, treading water and looking at me. “Remember, just breathe easy.” Lesley floats by, directing herself by tiny movements of her flippers. “Watch her. You will float. If your snorkel starts filling up, just blow it out like this.” I demonstrate, and Ann uses one hand to replace her own snorkel. I watch her freckled cheeks puff up as she blows spray from the tube.

Underwater is a colorful wonderland of coral and fish. I find myself repeatedly blowing out my nose, my mask filling up with seawater despite the Vaseline. I cut my excursion short and return to the boat, toweling off and slathering on more sunscreen. The shoreline tilts with the boat, and the occasional splash of a flipper and squeal of laughter comes to me from across the water. Tomorrow, maybe. I can see the headlines now: “Murder at the Mayan Ruins.” But no – to do this right, I cannot make headlines.

Back at the dock, Lesley stops me before I can walk away. “Ann tells me you helped her with the snorkel, but then you disappeared.”

I pinch my mustache. “This thing’s gotten too long. I should have shaved first. How did she do?”

Lesley smiles. “Oh, she caught on real fast.” She looks around and leans forward, eyes sideways. “Better than Leanna did.” I’d noticed that, but Leanna would have had no problem just floating. “Anyway, we thought we’d ask you to dinner tonight, so you’re not eating alone.”

I open my mouth to decline, but close it again as I realize there’s one sure way to get Ann alone, and dinner is the usual first step to such a stratagem. Turning the expression into one of surprised delight, I nod. “Thank you! That’s very nice of you. How does six-thirty sound?”



This time, I’m trapped between Ann and Leanna in a bouncing tour van. Lesley is in the front seat, and a couple with three hyperactive kids takes up the other two rows. Ann is quiet, looking out the window; Leanna tries to make small talk. Where am I from? What business am I in? Everything, in fact, but Why am I traveling alone? I answer as Frank Donegal would be expected to answer, perhaps a bit cryptically because I’m not at liberty to say exactly what I do at the brokerage, surely you understand. I try to seem surprised when I find out she works in research at Princeton with Ann and Lesley.

It’s Leanna talking but I’m aware of little more than my bare knee rubbing against Ann’s with every shift of the tour bus, and each time the driver slows to climb the speed bumps the locals call “sleeping policemen,” it seems the big woman pushes closer to me, which in turn forces me into Ann. Finally, Ann leans forward, looking past me and her friend. Following her gaze, I see there’s about a foot of empty seat to the older woman’s right. “Could you scoot over a bit?” Ann asks her, with a brief glance at me. “I’m getting squooshed.”

“Oh, sorry.” Face red, Leanna bounces herself over, giving me breathing room to my right. I inch over toward her; Ann takes a deep breath and lets her knees relax – which puts her right knee against mine once more.

The Maya Mountains are warmer than the coastal plain, but less humid. We climb a few stairs to the Nim Li Punit visitors’ center. The white buildings are open and bright, and we spend a half hour wandering around, snapping digital photos of the stones. One of them depicts a stylized shaman with an enormous, intricately carved hat. “Nim Li Punit takes its name from that stone,” explains our guide, a Mayan named Juan. “It means ‘The Big Hat,’ and the name is modern. We don’t know what the ancient Mayans called the site, but we know it was both an astronomical observatory and a religious center…” I know the history, and tune out the guide while looking off the balcony over the lush Southern Plain.

Elsewhere, the trees are old and spread thick foliage over the mossy rocks, providing welcome shade from the tropical sun. The Maya never used the wheel, which most historians have interpreted as a cultural anachronism – they otherwise had an advanced science and technology. But the Maya were in contact with other Central American cultures, and surely could have had the wheel if they chose. Why did they not? I think it was because the wheel was sacred to them, perhaps because they thought of time itself as wheels within wheels; to use the wheel for something as mundane as transportation would sully it. The ancient Mayan wheels stop in just less than seven years – the end of their calendar is near the end of our 2012. I wonder if anything will mark the occasion.

The Browning weighs down my day pack, and I check it again and again to ensure no telltale bulges appear.



The trip back is quiet, with even the kids tired out from their hike through time. I’ve volunteered for the back seat, and a little girl is asleep next to me, her feet just touching my leg.

“How about dinner again?” offers Leanna when we’re back, a shy smile on her round face.

“My legs are cramped,” I protest. “I was thinking of biking into Hopkins, getting some exercise.”

“Oh! Mind some company?”

I have no way to refuse, so we get on four of the free Schwinns provided by the resort and set off bumping down the dusty road. Leanna bows out early, complaining of her knees, leaving three of us. Arrange an accident? Fake a random shooting by some villager? The brown-skinned natives smile and wave as we bike in, the dirt turning back to tarmac under our soft wheels. Many hammocks are occupied, and cooking smells fill the rude streets. I buy us Cokes at a fly-infested fruit stand. The poorest slum in America has mansions, compared to the houses of Hopkins, and I decide that I cannot frame one of these people for a double murder. It will have to be the jungle.



The Central American rainforest is dark. Past hanging vines and drooping palms we ride, the breeze from the mountains chilling bodies dressed for the coast. In a clearing, we leave the horses to graze while Juan leads us down a narrow path, past ant trails and jaguar tracks to a rocky waterfall. The hike has warmed me again, and the sun is high and shining through a break in the canopy above; I’m glad to strip my sweaty shirt and shoes, and wade in the ice-cold water. I throw my shirt at my day-pack and plunge into the pool below the waterfall, gasping as I come up chilled. The clearing takes on a sharp clarity, and I risk a glance back at my stuff. The guide is there, talking to Leanna. Then I’m under the waterfall, its icy water pounding my back as I swim into the dark cavern beyond.

The world is muffled here, my breath echoing off the rocks. There’s a splash, and I see Ann’s backlit head spring from the water. “Whoo!” She shakes her head, drops glittering off her wet hair. “Cold! Oh, it’s so beautiful back here.” Then she’s next to me, looking out at the clearing distorted by the white waterfall. “Oh, I wish I could be here forever!”

And you can, I want to say, because there is no better time than right now: I could hold her to the bottom of the pool for as long as it takes, then swim out, feigning innocence. “Where’s Ann?” they would ask. “I don’t know – I thought she was with you,” I’d reply. And they’d search for her and find her drowned from the cold and heartless water.

Ann sees me looking at her and smiles. With a splash of silver she’s on me, her lips pressed against mine. And then it’s over; she moves away, giggling.



Ann traces my lips with her finger. “We should go to dinner,” she says in a low voice, even though there’s no one else around to hear. Her bare leg moves against mine, recalling our recent touch of skin on skin and almost making me want to do it again.

“Later,” I tell her. “I’m exhausted.”

“Well, we can just lay here a while,” she says, snuggling closer. The room drifts away…

…coming back to sharp focus as I emerge from a dream like a swimmer from a pool. I’m cold, and I realize that Ann isn’t in the bed, and someone has just called my name. I turn my head to see the muzzle of my silenced Browning in the twilit room, and behind it, a tear-streaked Ann in shades of gray. She’d said my name, and it wasn’t “Frank” that she’d uttered. “I should kill you right now,” she spits.

My heart pounds. “Ann, wait-“

“Who paid you, Everette? I can’t believe I fell for it, oh God…” her voice trails off, but she doesn’t look away, her eye framed by the reversed sights of the pistol. I risk a glance around; she’s got my computer open, my orders up on the screen. Stupid of me. Why didn’t I destroy them like I’d been trained? “This is about the alternative energy research, isn’t it? I should kill you right now,” she says again, then backs away. “But I won’t. You know why? Because I’m not like you. I care about people. And this power source will belong to all of us, all the people, and no oil company will be able to stop it.” She’s moving toward the door, tracking me with her gun. Her hip dislodges a half-full Coke bottle, spilling it, sending the cap skittering. “Goodbye, Frank,” she whispers, and she’s gone.



Time to get out of here. I throw my clothes into my bag, but stop with a black sock in my hand.

I never packed a black sock.

Taking a deep breath, I kick the bag across the room and slip into my swim shorts. No point in running. I’m a dead man anyway.

Slicing into the bracing water of the Lunar pool, I flip over so I’m on my back. As long as I can keep breath in my lungs, I float. I hold my breath, and then let it out, but before I can sink I inhale again. Hold. Out. In. My breathing cycles as my limbs stretch out around me. Above, chased by the wind from the sea, the stars of my youth turn in their ancient courses.