Al-Qaeda, St. John
Chris Sheehan

In the wash, he could see track marks from the excavator, trailer, receding. A few broken chain links turned in the foam and sand; it was early, high tide -- the excavator parked just outside the tide's reach, obscuring the single-engine plane. He took a picture of the plane, shattered float, let his ankles in the water and watched the feral donkeys -- a male, three females, foal -- play by the lounge chairs and cabanas. The plane pushed against the tide; the beach was empty, the sand combed. He watched the foal buck and rear. He thought a moment of the people in the plane, if they were okay. He rubbed out his cigarette, buried it.
"Cole," she said. "Cole. Is that you?"
"It's me," he said.
He could see her squinting through water, conditioner, one leg placed against the slate tile, shaving. He went out to the patio, looking on the tennis courts, manicured grass, ocean, palm trees. He put his cigarette out on the railing, placed it in an empty Red Stripe bottle. He stepped back inside when he heard the water turn off.
"Cole," she said. "Cole."

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