13
When he awoke, there was someone in the cabin with him. He sensed it immediately, although he could see nothing. He listened to the sound of someone breathing, the soft scrape of a shoe on the rough floor. He tried to sit up. The darkness seemed a little lighter, less tangible and he wondered if it were close to dawn. He had no way of knowing the time. The man who had come in stood near the door, waiting and listening. The sound of the bed springs as Sam sat up seemed to help him toward a decision. He moved forward toward the bed where Sam waited for him.
"Chico?" the man whispered softly.
"Yes," Sam said. The voice was familiar. He knew it, but it took a moment to identify its owner. It was the Cuban detective, the insurance cop. "That you, De Silva?"
"Not so loud, chico."
Sam stood up. He wanted to believe it, but he knew that this was not possible. Nobody knew he was here at Johnny Capp's camp. He had been alone for an eternity with no one to help him and he found it impossible to accept the other man's presence at last. He wavered on his feet and stumbled and De Silva made a hissing sound and caught him before he could fall and make a greater disturbance. The man smelled of rum and hair pomade and Cuban tobacco. His laughter was silent, shaking the arm that supported Sam.
"You can walk, chico?"
"I'll walk," Sam said.
"It is not far. But we must go quickly."
"Where?" Sam asked.
"Does it matter? Away from here, that is all."
"There was a guard-"
De Silva chuckled. "He sleeps in peace. I am committing one crime after another, chico. For your sake. Your lady was desperate to find you and your friend, Benny Suarez, suggested this place. So we are here. They have not treated you kindly, that is obvious. There will be time in the future to make amends for that, however. Come."
Sam started forward, leaning on the thin man and then halted. "Which lady?" he asked suddenly.
"Senorita Terhune, of course. Charming."
"Good," Sam said. "Let's go."
It was almost dawn. The cool sea wind was a soothing balm across Sam's face. Johnny Capp's fishing cottages were all in darkness and the big house looked empty, too. The body of a man lay sprawled face down in the sand to one side of the cabin they quit. It was the stocky partner of Al. De Silva paused and knelt beside him and carefully turned his head so that he could breathe without choking on the soft sand.
"We do not wish to add this man to the weight already on our conscience," the Cuban grinned. "Are you all right, chico?"
"Lead the way."
A faint light shimmered over the eastern horizon of the sea. A morning breath of wind rattled the scrubby palmettos of Capp's fishing camp. The sea was calm, pearly and smooth in the growing radiance. Sam walked stiffly, staggering a little, putting all his strength into the effort. Anger and resentment grew in him. He wanted to pause at the house and get his hands on Johnny Capp and choke the life out of the little man. It would do no good, he knew, and Capp was only secondary to Deputy Frye and even Frye was not the answer. The chain of guilt went on to Ashton and perhaps even farther. He did not know where it ended. All he was aware of was a burning desire to even the score for what had been done to him during the night. He knew he would never forget it. It would haunt him on future nights as a symbol of what could happen among men and he knew his sleep would be uneasy until he had retrieved his sense of pride.
A light bloomed in Capp's big house as they skirted the back end of it and De Silva froze in the gray shadows near the kitchen door. Sam halted with him. His legs trembled and his knees were rubbery. He did not know how much farther he could go. He watched De Silva take a gun from his pocket. The morning light made the dark barrel look wet. The lighted window was on the second floor. They could hear no movement from up there. Sam looked at the two cars parked nearby on the sand. He saw none that could belong to Hank Frye, but then the deputy would not be using one of the official cars now, he reasoned, and it was possible that Frye was still here.
De Silva touched his arm. "Come, chico."
They moved down toward the beach as silently as possible. Once Sam stumbled and kicked a tin can, sending it in a rattle of metallic clangs and bangs down the slope to the sand.
The noise seemed deafening. A man's voice suddenly called irritably from the back door of the camp building. He was calling to a dog. De Silva's face looked sharp, slashed out of darkness as if by a hatchet.
The man did not call again. They went on.
He saw their destination at a time when he thought he had reached the limit of what endurance was left in him. It was Benny Suarez' fishing boat, backed up into the mangroves that melted into the quiet waters of the key shore. As they approached, the motor was started. Sam staggered knee-deep in the water and Benny appeared in the cockpit, extending a thin, brown hand. Somehow he was helped aboard. Benny handed him a bottle of rum. The little man's face seemed etched by torment. He made soothing sounds to Sam and Sam drank the rum, feeling it explode inside him. He started to shake and tremble. Benny was talking to him, but he could not understand the fisherman's words. They made a meaningless jumble of sound beyond the range of his perception. He was aware of the boat starling away from the shore, heading into the intensifying light of morning that spread over the sea and he knew that he was safe. He drank some more rum sitting in the cockpit. De Silva came over to him.
"You will be all right now, chico."
"Where are we going?"
"Shrimp fishing," De Silva grinned. "We will stay out all day while you rest. Nobody will think to look for you aboard. Later, we will come to the dock at Key West and we will discuss what to do with you."
"Fine," Sam said.
He felt himself slip down into the warm darkness of sleep even while De Silva was stripping off his torn and matted clothing to inspect the damage done to him during the night. He gave himself up to the darkness, the rum cradled pleasantly inside him.
***
The day passed quickly. Twice he awoke and ate and then slept again. Each time he felt a little better. His body was stiff and sore, but no serious damage had been done, nothing that wouldn't work out with renewed activity. His headache went away toward evening. Huge cumulus clouds were piled up in the northern sky moving down toward the fragile line of the keys that dotted the sea. He was aware of Benny methodically fishing, catching very little but attending to his business with a pale, sullen attitude. He slept again.
They did not turn into the pier at Key West until several hours after darkness. Benny's wife, Estella, was waiting for them, with Ellen Terhune. Both women came aboard quickly. Estella had fresh clothing for Sam and he dressed gratefully. He told himself he felt fine and he smiled at Ellen's concern over the bruises on his face.
"They'll go away," he told her. He was glad to see Ellen. She looked crisp and clean and fresh. She looked good. He tried to grin, but his mouth still hurt. "It wasn't too bad," he said.
"But what did they want of you?" Ellen asked.
He told them, while they sat in the little cabin of the fishing boat. The pier was deserted. No one else came aboard. He didn't want to talk about what had happened to him, but he knew he owed them what information he had. These were his friends. He looked around at them crowding the little cabin and felt grateful for them. Ellen's firm hand was cool in his. They were all risking prosecution by being here. It was Estella who seemed the most troubled by the danger, however. Her face was drawn; she looked haggard. Once she had been a very beautiful woman, Sam remembered, but the years had not been friendly, especially since Benny had turned to manual labor in the fishing fleet. She resented the lowering of her social status, hating the endless struggle to make ends meet through the hard, lean years that had followed the tragedy at Isla Honda. While he talked, it occurred to Sam that he knew very little about Estella. Her eyes constantly sought Benny's face, but he did not return her glances. It was almost as if they had quarreled about something-perhaps because of the risks Benny was taki
ng for him. Estella had every right to be hostile, he reflected, seeing everything they had built up and saved so painfully being jeopardized all over again. He decided he had no right to put them all in further danger. Throughout the day, in the moments between sleeping, he had planned the next step to be taken. He could not ask their help any more. It wasn't fair to drag them deeper into this.
He did not tell them everything that happened. He was aware of De Silva's bright, inquisitive eyes upon him and he kept his conviction about Charley's murder to himself. He could not prove it had been murder instead of suicide. Yet in thinking back over Frye's and Ashton's reactions to his accusation, even while they had been trying to get information from him, he felt an exultation that made him forget the immediate problems. He had no evidence, but the fear in the deputy sheriff and Ashton's disturbed voice indicated that the evidence might exist. Somehow he would find it.
He became aware of Benny Suarez' voice. "I do not understand it, Sam. I was as careful as a man could be. I do not know how I could have been followed when I went to Cap'n Joe's. How did they know of the meeting I arranged for you and Mona Somerset?"
"You are too sensitive," Estella said sharply. "It was not. your fault."
Benny didn't look at his wife. His hands appealed to Sam. "You believe me? I did not betray you, I swear."
"Perhaps," De Silva suggested, "it was Mona herself."
"Perhaps," Sam said.
"The fact is," De Silva went on, "Frye did know of your rendezvous with the lady and the information could only have come from Benny or Mona."
"It was not Benny!" Estella said sharply.
"Then it must have been the lady."
Ellen Terhune said nothing. Sam thought she was a little remote now; her face told him nothing. He did not blame her for what thoughts she must have at this moment, yet he was grateful that she did not express resentment about his meeting with Mona. More and more he was aware of qualities in this girl that he had taken for granted or overlooked in the past. He felt moved by a strong tide of emotion toward her.
De Silva said: "What did you tell Frye, chico, when he asked if you knew where the money was?"
"I said I didn't know."
"But they were so certain you knew. Why was that?"
"I don't know. I wish I could figure it out."
"You would not betray us by keeping the information to yourself?"
"No," Sam said wearily. "If I knew, I'd tell you."
"Benny says you think it is at the bottom of the sea."
"It's only a guess," Sam said.
"One that you never mentioned at Isla Honda?"
"No."
"Then it is not enough. They have other suspicions."
"I don't know what they are," Sam said. He was annoyed by the detective's persistence. "Maybe they think Bill discovered something and told me. But I never saw him alive that evening."
De Silva looked dissatisfied. The boat lifted and fell in the wake of a passing vessel. The mooring lines creaked. It felt hot and close in the little cabin and Sam felt they were getting nowhere. Talk was futile. He knew what he had to do and he was impatient to get on with it.
He said: "I don't know what Bill knew, but he had learned something that concerned me. He talked peculiarly implying I was in danger, when nothing had come out in the open as yet. I saw him coming down from Lundy's rooms over the garage at Isla Honda and I didn't think anything about it until today. I've been wondering what Bill was doing in Lundy's quarters. It wasn't like Bill to snoop around that way. Maybe he discovered something up there and if he did, he learned it from Harry Lundy, the boatman. That means Lundy knows something, too. Lundy has been very blustery, but underneath it all he's afraid." Sam stood up abruptly. "He's the man I'm seeing next."
Nobody said anything. De Silva's face expressed nothing. Benny frowned, deep in thought, almost as if he hadn't been listening.
"I can't stay here," Sam went on. "And I don't want any of you to risk any more for me. I'm grateful for all you've done, but I can't let you do any more. I'm going back to Isla Honda, alone."
Ellen stood up, too. "Take me home first, Sam."
"Sure," he nodded.
Benny went up on deck, than indicated that the way was clear. Sam helped Ellen off the boat. The night was cool, with a strong east wind blowing over the basin where the shrimp boats sheltered. Lights made a halo over the Naval Base nearby. Sam watched De Silva follow them ashore. The Cuban looked tired. De Silva saw Sam staring at him and smiled.
"Is it because of me, chico, that you go alone?"
"Yes," Sam said.
"You do not trust me, verdad?"
"No, I don't," Sam said.
"I am what I say I am," De Silva said abruptly. "You must learn to trust others, but I do not blame you for your suspicions. You will discover the truth soon enough."
The tall man stalked off toward the waterfront street, his figure thin and angular in his white suit. Sam frowned, watching him disappear. He shook hands with Benny and expressed his thanks. Estella looked relieved that he was actually going. Then Ellen tugged at his arm and nodded toward where her car was parked.
He walked with her into the dark, lonely street. Her car was across from several of the nightclubs patronized by sailors on liberty from Boca Chica and the Base.
Ellen drove. It felt strange to go through the city like this when every cop was on the lookout for him. He wanted to shrink down inside himself, to hide from the thousands of eyes they passed. Across Duval, the streets were less brightly lighted and not so many people were abroad. It was till early in the evening. Yet he knew the panic of the fugitive and he fought against it in silence. Ellen made no attempt at conversation. The estrangement he had sensed still existed between them and he did not know what to say that might make things better.
She parked her car across the street from her shop and the apartment above it. The sidewalks were deserted, shadowed under the row of palm trees that rustled in the east wind. In the gloom, her face was pale and set. She made no move to get out of the car.
Abruptly she delved into her purse and placed a small envelope in Sam's hand. "Take this," she said. "You'll find some money and a plane ticket inside. I've gone to a lot of trouble to arrange this for you, darling, and please don't tell me I'm foolish. Just take it and go."
"Where?" he asked.
"The pilot is a friend of mine. He'll see that the police don't stop you. The plane leaves in two hours-eleven o'clock."
"For where?"
"Cuba," Ellen said. "And points south."
"But I don't want to go to Cuba, Ellen."
"And you can't stay here on the islands. It's only a matter of time until you reach the end of your run. You're in a blind alley, Sam, and there's only a prison wall at the end of it. Everything you've done so far has only gotten you deeper into this mess."
"You want me to give it up now?" he asked.
"You can't beat them. It's too much to hope for."
"Why do you say that?"
She turned toward him suddenly, her face appealing. "I just want you to be safe and sound, Sam. I don't want you in jail and I couldn't bear seeing you beaten up again, or worse. Don't you understand? I'm afraid. I want you to leave it alone now. I'm afraid of what will happen if you go on with this crazy action of yours. You have no real proof about anything and after three years it doesn't exist any more. How could it? You've been running from it ever since Charley died and now that you've stopped and turned, you're like some wild animal at bay. You'll hurt someone maybe kill someone and that will be the end of it. I couldn't bear that, Sam. I'm afraid of tonight and tomorrow and all the days in the future."
He wanted to reassure her, but he didn't know how. There was too wide a gulf between them. He thought she would never understand how he really felt and he was in despair of getting her to realize that he could not rest until the truth was out, once and for all. He knew her concern was only for his own safety and her motives were unselfish, yet he could
not agree with any of them. It would be defeat and he was not ready for that yet, not by any means. Gently he returned the envelope of money and tickets.
"I'm sorry, Ellen. I can't give up now."
"Sam, please go. And take me with you."
"You'd want to come along?"
"More than anything else in the world."
He looked at her, disturbed more deeply than he could admit. She was telling him that he could have her on whatever terms he chose and he could not tell her that the choice was not his to make. He thought of Mona as he had seen her last on the beach, her face tormented by her past mistakes and the hopeless web of humiliation in which she lived at present. He did not know why he should think of her now. Deliberately he thrust her image from his mind.
"Ellen, I can't," he said. "I can't run away any more. I've got to stand still and take whatever comes. I've had enough of it. I don't like it any more than you do, all this that's happening, but I didn't start it, even though I've got to finish it. If I run now, there will never be a place of peace for me anywhere in the world."
"I'll make one for you, Sam," she said eagerly. "I can do it. It doesn't matter what you've done, darling."
He stared at her. "What do you mean by that?" His voice sharpened. "Ellen, do you believe I killed Bill Somerset?"
"What does it matter?" she whispered. "I still want to go with you."
"Then you do think I did it?"
"I don't know. I don't care."
There could be no doubt about the meaning of her words. She thought he was guilty. He forced himself to speak quietly.
"I'm not going to run away, Ellen. And you can't come with me."
He felt her withdraw from him, although she did not move. She stared at the dark, windy street. He felt very much alone. Sand blew across the pavement and the sound of the surf on the public beaches nearby seemed louder than before. He heard Ellen sigh, a sound of defeat, and when she turned to him again her smile was small and forced.
Dark Destiny Page 11
