Caribbean Rain Read Online Free PDF

he’d ever studied. They’d make it, or not. It was the only true way of life and death, and he loved the simplicity of it. It was his mantra, his passion, his reason for living, especially now.
    The quiet, but energetic sounds of the water prancing over the dark rocks left a momentary, contented mark on his brain. He could live in a world void of the ambient cacophony of the human race, but not one devoid of the sounds in El Yunque.
    Closing his eyes, he focused on the rhythm of the water. But as usual, the sound of people brought him back to the realization that his rainforest, his island, was no longer perfect. Instead, it was as tainted and broken as everything else man tried to “improve.” It always seemed to turn to shit.
    His anger rose, and his mood turned dark as quickly as the sun became obstructed by a renegade cloud. He watched the khaki-clad rangers—one young woman and an overweight, older man—emerging from the visitors center. He clenched his jaw so tightly that his teeth began to hurt.
    Enter the screwed-up human race as the most destructive x-factor of all.
    He clamped his hands to the steering wheel, hoping to control the uncontrollable. A moment later, the two rangers stood in front of the cream-colored center, a pimple on the rainforest’s ass, gesturing to a dozen or so tourists waiting to be educated on the finer points of his beloved El Yunque.
    Educated? Like hell .
    They’d paid their money to hear what these imposters had to say, but they were only programmed voices with memorized fact sheets and shit for brains. In contrast, no one wanted to listen to what he had to say, did they? No one wanted to hear the real facts about government misuse and habitat destruction. They’d listen soon enough. They’d have no choice.
    The sun escaped the cloud and flashed its brilliance again, caressing his face with a new rush of glorious Caribbean heat.
    His heart surged with excitement. If he’d believed in such nonsense, he would have sworn it was an omen, a divine instruct, because he immediately knew what he needed to do next.
    Backing out of his parking spot, he turned right on Highway 191 for a mile, then took a quick right on Road 930. The only vehicle in the lot was a blue compact car parked near the foot of the trail that led to Mount Britton Tower. He swung in beside it.
    The tower had been one of the first atrocities to be constructed in his verdant refuge some eighty years prior. He’d always hated the idea of it, but today it would serve him and his purpose. He smiled. It would serve him well.
    Exiting the vehicle, he scoped the parking lot, then back to the entrance of the tiny road. It was just him and whoever else had walked the winding trail to the monument. He moved to the rear of the truck, pushed back the seat, and pulled out an object that gleamed like chrome in the sun. He guided it down the inside leg of his white slacks, catching on his belt. Then he adjusted his white panama hat, felt for the object underneath his slacks one last time, took a long deep breath, inhaling the fresh mountain fragrance, and started his forty-minute jaunt, like he had a thousand times before.
    The incline to the tower was over five hundred feet up and about a mile along the winding, canopied trail, but when he finally arrived at the arched stone entrance of the tower, his heart rate had barely risen—until he heard the voices at the top of the tower, laughing and carrying on like the damn fools they were.
    Fools and their lives are quickly separated.
    This fresh, inexplicable excitement of his was now enhanced by a new rush of adrenaline that seemed to lift him off his feet and carry him up the forty steps that wound around and eventually reached the top of the tower.
    A few feet from the top, he saw the source of his excitement: a plump, middle-aged couple, glued to the wall.
    The grey-haired woman was facing the wall, her skorts around one ankle, hands braced against the stones, and wide backside