A Wild and Lonely Place Page 19

  “Connors. What’s he got to do—”

  “I’ve got to go, Gage.”

  “Well, stay in touch.” He hesitated, then surprised me. “And, Sharon—take care of yourself.”

  Mellowing in his middle years, I thought as I hung up. Or maybe he’s moved me to another one of those little mental compartments Cam was talking about. Labeled what, I wonder?

  I gripped the receiver, looking at the scrap of paper on which I’d scrawled the Santo Domingo number for Hy. I could feel the pull; a simple call to the long-distance carrier and I’d hear his voice. Reassure myself that he’d be all right.

  But I couldn’t do that.

  I’d never been able to lie to him, never even been able to hide anything from him. If I called, he’d have the whole story of Connors’s betrayal from me in minutes. It would enrage him and, in spite of his illness, he might fly here in time to disrupt my plans. Besides, talking with him might bring me down, make me lonesome. I couldn’t indulge in bad feelings now. I had to focus only on tonight and Habiba.

  I’d let the promise of hearing Hy’s voice be the radar signal that would guide me back here with the little girl.

  One last detail to take care of, but it was the most important of all. I called a number on the nearby island of Anguilla and passed along some information that greatly interested my party. Then I braced myself and went back to Rue de la Liberté to face Connors.

  * * *

  Connors insisted we go to dinner at a restaurant on the quay where the ferries left for Anguilla—a grim variant on feeding the prisoner her last meal. The sunset was hidden from view by the point that formed the west end of the bay, but its glow turned the underbellies of the clouds piled on the horizon to flame, their tops drifting away like smoke. I took a cue from the sight and—in hope of shoring up what I feared was a badly sagging rapport—began to chatter about color photography. The more I talked, the more morose Connors became, slouching in his chair and staring moodily at the darkening water.

  An attack of conscience over what he planned for me, I supposed. Well, good. Let him have a foretaste of how miserable he would feel before this night was over.

  Our goat kebabs were being grilled on an oil drum on the rickety veranda. When they came I pushed them around on the plate; the adrenaline high cut my appetite as surely as a line of cocaine. Connors didn’t notice and ate voraciously; he’d wrestled with his conscience and won.

  Back at the apartment I checked my travel bag. Nothing there that I cared about, and a good thing, since the bag would have to be abandoned. I zipped it up and took it to the living room. “Okay to store this here?” I asked.

  Connors nodded and stowed it in a closet. “All set?”

  “Guess so.”

  “Those clothes don’t look too great for swimming.”

  “I’m wearing my suit underneath.”

  “Then let’s get this show on the road.”

  1,000 Feet Above The Caribbean Sea

  May 24, 10:43 P.M.

  The L4 Buccaneer skimmed above the glittering moon-shot water on a due-south course. Darkness enveloped us, and the roar of the engine made conversation impossible.

  I was sitting in back, rather than up front with Connors. At first I’d climbed in beside him, fiddled with adjusting the seat, then announced I’d be more comfortable if I could stretch out preparatory to my long swim. He accepted the reason without question.

  I began my preparations, moving slowly so nothing would alert him. It’s all in the timing, I told myself. Don’t rush.

  Don’t rush, and don’t think ahead. Concentrate on each step, and then the one after it.

  When I was ready I leaned forward. Tapped Connors on the shoulder and asked through the headset, “How much longer till we get to Marlin Landing?”

  “Ten minutes, give or take.”

  I’d timed it perfectly. “Okay,” I said, “we’re changing course.”

  “…What?”

  I brought up the pistol that I’d carefully removed from the waterproof pack and jammed it against the base of his skull. “It’s loaded, and I’m prepared to use it. Do exactly as I say.”

  Alarm tightened his features. “Are you insane? What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  “I’m a whole lot more sane than you and Zeff Lash were when you concocted your plan to get rid of me. You must’ve thought it would cancel out a hell of a big gambling debt if you did Klaus Schechtmann and Dawud Hamid a favor.”

  Abruptly he averted his eyes. That and his silence were all the confirmation I needed.

  My anger rekindled. Easy now, I cautioned myself.

  I said, “Your new course is due northwest. Rendezvous Bay. Got that?”

  “…Yeah.”

  “Good. Set it and don’t deviate. I’ll know if you do. I guess Hy didn’t mention it, but I’m a pilot myself.”

  Connors muttered something I couldn’t catch. Garden-variety expletive, no doubt. He began correcting course, and in a few moments the seaplane’s wing dipped and we made our turn.

  Connors remained silent for a while, but eventually his curiosity overcame him. “Why Anguilla?”

  “I’m not sure you really want to know.”

  Eighteen

  When I last saw him Cam Connors was trying to convince the Anguillan authorities that he didn’t know how the packet of cocaine had gotten under the front passenger seat of his seaplane. The American tourist who had alerted them by phone that her charter pilot planned to smuggle the drugs in at Rendezvous Bay that evening was released into the hands of the Reverend Michael Gadieux, pastor of a nearby Seventh-day Adventist church.

  Gadieux, a tall dour man, was silent as we drove away from the police station. I gathered he disapproved of Regina’s method for getting Connors out of my life and into a place where he couldn’t contact anyone on Jumbie Cay, but it seemed to me that Cam wasn’t being punished nearly enough for conspiring to turn me over to Schechtmann and his people. In the end he probably wouldn’t be charged with anything. There was no real proof that the drugs were his; only my smeared fingerprints were on the bag that Regina had confiscated from a Central American refugee earlier that year; and since I was leaving the island, there would be no witness against him.

  Gadieux drove along a paved two-lane highway toward the west end of the island—on the left-hand side, as Anguilla was a British dependency. We passed through small settlements that were largely dark at this hour; I could tell little about my surroundings and quite frankly didn’t care. This island was only a stepping-stone to Jumbie Cay.

  Finally we turned onto a dirt secondary road; the car’s headlights showed it cut straight through scrub vegetation toward the sea. At its end I saw a few lights, and as we drew closer I heard music—not the hard-driving beat I’d become accustomed to, but jazz with a faint calypso rhythm. Gadieux stopped the car at a low white frame house where a number of vehicles were parked.

  “He’s expecting you,” he said. After a momentary hesitation he added, “Good luck.”

  I thanked him and got out, crossed sandy ground to the house. At its side was a latticed area; I stepped in, saw it led to a ramshackle deck overlooking the water. Below, the waves broke gently on a rocky beach; the wind blew warm and steady, dampening my skin with salty spray. Light spilled across the deck from windows and leaked around the door to my left.

  When I knocked the music stopped abruptly. A male voice said, “Okay, we’ll break till tomorrow night. I got business to take care of.”

  Voices murmured, chairs scraped, objects thumped. The door opened and a bony-faced man with very dark skin, a piratical blue headband, and a gold hoop earring looked out. Behind him two other men and a woman were stowing instruments in cases.

  “Ms. McCone?”

  “Yes. Mr. Fisher?”

  “Lloyd.”

  “Sharon.”

  That established, he let me inside. The musicians brushed past me with their cases, nodding in greeting. Lloyd said, “A sideline. We
play gigs at the tourist hangouts on weekends.”

  “And during the week?”

  “I take more tourists out on sight-seeing charters. Visitors from your country are Anguilla’s economic base. It’s not the sleepy little island I remember from childhood.”

  “You’re a native?” He didn’t sound like one.

  “Originally, but my family moved to Florida when I was around eight. A few years ago when the developers finished ruining Fort Myers, I decided to move back—just in time to watch the developers ruin Anguilla.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  “On its way. But let’s get down to business. You want to go to old Zebediah Altagracia’s place.”

  “Yes. His daughter said you’re familiar with it.”

  “I am. The old man’s doctor lives here on Anguilla; I take him over there to make periodic house calls.”

  “Altagracia’s ill?”

  “No. The house calls are an excuse to play cards.”

  I looked at my watch. It was already after one. “How long will it take to get there?”

  “Not very. I’ve got a high-powered speedboat.”

  “I’ll need a couple of hours of darkness to operate in.”

  “You’ll have them, but we better get started.”

  * * *

  Lloyd cut the speedboat’s power a good ways from shore. All I could make out were orange lights that blinked irregularly—tree branches moving across them in the sea breeze, I guessed. He said, “I could go in closer, but that might alert the wrong people. Can you swim it?”

  I measured the distance with my eyes. “Yes.”

  “Okay. You strike out for those lights; they’re on Zeb’s terrace. When you get closer you’ll make out a concrete pier anchored to the rocks. The current’s strong through there, so swim hard or you’ll get sucked past the pier to the south. When you grab onto it, be careful; it’s crumbly and jagged in places. Up top there’s a gap about halfway down where it’s fallen apart and been bridged with some planks and a board; watch that, too. At the end of the pier you’ll find a path through a palmetto grove; it ends at the terrace. Zeb’ll be waiting for you on the veranda.”

  While he spoke I shed my sandals, stripped to the bathing suit I wore under my shirt and trousers, and carefully removed the tape that held the waterproof pack in place. It was considerably lighter than before, as I’d ditched the gun in the seaplane for the Anguillan authorities to discover. Now I stowed the pack in a pocket by the seat. I wouldn’t need money, documents, or credit cards on Jumbie Cay—and if I didn’t return to the boat, I’d never need them again.

  Lloyd added, “I’ll be waiting where you told me. Can the kid swim?”

  “I don’t know. If not, I can help her.” I hesitated, gazing at the shifting pattern of lights on shore. “Look,” I said, “if…something happens and we’re not back by daybreak, don’t jeopardize yourself. Go home, call the San Francisco number I gave you, and use the emergency code. They’ll put you in touch with a man named Gage Renshaw. Tell him what’s happened. He’ll…do something about it and arrange for you to be paid the rest of your money.”

  Lloyd nodded, looking grim. His hoop earring glinted in the low light from the instrument panel.

  I stood up, sat on the boat’s side, swung my legs over.

  “Remember to watch that current,” Lloyd said.

  * * *

  Black star-shot sky, blacker water. Orange lights in the distance. I’m all alone. Should be afraid, but I’m not.

  Waves gentle, water warm. Soft tropic breeze against my face.

  But my limbs don’t feel leaden. I don’t start to sink. I don’t want to lose myself in this dark water.

  There’s no batlike shape floating on the surface. No drowned woman with blank forever eyes. Just me. Me and my determination to get to Habiba.

  I’m swimming strong and steady for shore. Easily winning my battle with the current. And I’m not even winded.

  * * *

  By the time the battle was over I was winded. I pulled myself up onto the pier and lay on its rough concrete, gasping and spitting seawater. Then something stung the back of my neck and buzzing assailed my ear. A second sting on my forearm, and I leaped up, swatting furiously. The concrete was uneven and crumbling; it lacerated my bare soles as I ran along. The board that bridged the gap rumbled and pitched under my weight. I teetered, in danger of plunging back into the water, regained my balance and rushed ahead toward a sandy path bordered by conch shells.

  Palmetto and sea grape grew densely there, and mangrove roots encroached. Dry fronds rustled overhead and taller trees creaked and sighed. I felt my way through the darkness, alternately pushing branches aside and slapping at the persistent insects. The path went straight for a ways, then hooked back toward the sea. I’d begun to wonder if I’d taken a wrong turn when I swept through a thick stand of palmetto onto a tiled terrace. The lights I’d been homing in on were imitation torches mounted on poles along a low wall that bowed out above the water.

  The terrace contained nothing but a dead coconut palm in a central planting area; there were deep cracks in the tiles. Cracks, too, in the walls of the single-story pink stucco house on its far side. The house’s veranda faced me, three wide steps leading up to it. Its sagging roof was supported by columns to which stout vines clung, their peach and purple blossoms draping down onto the railings and emitting a scent so sweet it cloyed.

  I remained where I was, flat brown leaves scudding around my feet. I could see no lights in the house, could hear nothing above the crash of the surf beyond the terrace wall. Then I spotted a red ember glowing on the veranda; it moved, grew brighter, described an arc, and went out. Almost immediately whoever was there lighted another cigarette.

  “You are very prompt, Miss McCone.” The British-accented voice was a man’s, made gravelly by age.

  I moved toward the veranda and mounted the steps. “Mr. Altagracia?”

  “Who else would I be? Don’t ask unnecessary questions.”

  I located him in the gloom some six feet away, reclining on an ancient aluminum chaise longue under a louvered window that opened into the house itself. He was long-boned and gaunt, clad only in a pair of madras shorts. His head was completely bald, but a thick white beard hung halfway down his chest, vivid against his dark skin. He regarded me testily through gold-rimmed glasses.

  “Don’t just stand there.”

  I approached him, acutely aware of the skimpiness of my bathing suit. A mosquito nailed me solidly on my thigh. I swatted, missing it. Another got me on my bare midriff. I swatted again.

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” Mr. Altagracia reached for a can of insect repellent that sat among a welter of objects on a rusty metal TV tray and extended it to me. “Use this. Then put on that shirt hanging on the chair over there. I’m not so old that I can’t be distracted by the sight of so much female flesh.”

  I sprayed on the repellent, then donned the shirt. It came to mid-thigh, and I had to roll up the sleeves four turns.

  “The shoes under the chair are for you, too. Abandoned by my daughter when she fled this den of iniquity.”

  They were rubber thongs, close to my size. I slipped my feet into them and turned around.

  Mr. Altagracia looked me over and nodded. “It isn’t Paris couture, but it will do. Bring that chair over here and sit down.”

  Regina had warned me her father was a curmudgeon, but she hadn’t mentioned his fondness for giving orders. Well, from years of experience with my military father, I knew how to deal with the likes of him. I picked up the light aluminum chair and set it on the other side of the TV tray. Sat and looked attentive.

  “I know you’re not deaf, but have you by chance become mute?”

  “No, sir, I’m just economical with words—even if I do ask unnecessary questions.”

  He frowned and his lips pushed out belligerently. “You think I’m a cantankerous old man.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does no
t.”

  “Good. Let’s get down to business.”

  He hesitated, eyeing me thoughtfully. “I like a young woman with spirit.”

  “And I like a cantankerous old man who agreed to help me sight unseen.”

  “We will work well together, then. I assume everything has so far gone according to plan?”

  “Yes. The pilot’s in custody on Anguilla, and Lloyd Fisher’s moving into position off Goat Point. You told your daughter that the little girl has arrived. Were you able to find out how she is?”

  “Lucinda Mumms, woman who lives down the road, cleans for them out at the compound. I pay her to keep me informed about what goes on there. She says the child is very unhappy; she doesn’t cry, but Lucinda can tell she’s very upset.”

  Habiba wouldn’t cry—any more than I at her age.

  “Did Lucinda find out if they know I’m coming?”

  “They do, but they’re not worried because they believe Nel Simpson will deliver you to them. The child’s father thinks you were sent by his mother. He is very angry and determined to retain custody of her.”

  “So the approach you suggested on the phone with Regina will probably work.”

  “It will work.”

  “If we can get into the compound to see Habiba.”

  Zebediah Altagracia stared haughtily down his long nose at me. “We will be welcomed with open arms.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Don’t question me, young woman! Of course I am sure. In many ways this is still my island; the people who have lived and worked here all their lives did not change their loyalties, and Klaus Schechtmann knows that. Why do you think he encouraged me to remain after the sale? Mr. Schechtmann was afraid to be left to the mercy of what he considers a subspecies, and a savage one at that. I am here to keep the peace. As a result, Mr. Schechtmann grants me certain privileges.”

  “Such as?”

  Mr. Altagracia smiled demonically and reached for a phone that sat in a drift of newspaper on the TV tray. “Such as the privilege of calling him in the middle of the night.”