Shades of Evil

by Cave, Hugh

  "All right, then. I'll consider it some kind of insurance." Will smiled and shrugged at the same time. The stone was probably not worth anything like what the woman was asking, he told himself. For one thing, it was darker than any opal he had ever seen before, though a kind of spectral fire did seem to burn inside it.

  But who cared if the old Indian woman was engaged in a minor con game? His trip with Vicky to Mexico City had been unexpectedly free of friction so far, and if he could keep it that way for a few hundred dollars, he would be a fool to start counting pennies.

  After a beautiful, fiery hot breakfast in the morning, Vicky had gone to give the Indian woman the three hundred dollars, and when they left Pachuca an hour later, the opal was in her handbag. A few weeks later, back in the States, she had had it mounted in a gold band for the little finger of her left hand.

  She had worn it almost continuously ever since, and had never ceased to claim it was a source of power.

  "When you threatened Ima with your ring, what did she say?" Will asked her now.

  "Say? Nothing."

  "Nothing at all?"

  "Well, she mumbled something about having no quarrel with me, if you call that something. And if you noticed, she was very, very polite to me when she served dinner."

  "I didn't notice. Ima is always polite."

  "All right, if you say so. But unless you want trouble here, just warn her to keep her distance when I'm around."

  17

  The Power of Obeah

  At the police station in Wait-a-Bit the corporal was obviously not overjoyed to be receiving visitors. "Mowatt won't talk to you," he predicted, rising with an elaborate shrug from behind his desk. "But come along if you like."

  "Both of us, I hope," Will said.

  "Why both?"

  "If Mowatt does talk, I may not understand what he says."

  The Red Stripe could see the logic in that. He shrugged again and led them to the lockup.

  Stepping past him, Will walked part way across the cell and halted as though stopped by an unseen barrier. In astonishment he gazed at the man seated before him. There was a cot in one corner of the room. There was a chair. But the fellow was using the floor.

  Ken Daniels said softly, "Uh-oh. I half expected this."

  Keith Mowatt was no longer the husky, defiant man Sam and Will had left here. Not the confident fellow who had strutted into Sister Merle's house wearing Juan Cerrado's dyed field boots. His skin now was the color of wood ash. He sat with his back against the wall and his arms loosely draped over his drawn-up knees.

  His shoulders nearly met under his drooping head, looking as though all the bone had been extracted from them. He showed no interest whatever in his callers.

  "Go ahead," the corporal said from the doorway. "Talk to him."

  Will advanced a step. "Mowatt, do you remember me?"

  No response.

  "Look at me, Mowatt. Mr. Norman and I had you brought here after we saw you wearing Mr. Cerrado's boots."

  The head slowly came up, twitching, and Will saw the man's eyes. They resembled brown and white balls of glass with streaks of crimson in the white, and seemed unable to focus. After a long struggle they finally fixed their gaze on his face, but with no sign of recognition.

  Will looked helplessly at Ken Daniels, and the bearded man stepped to his side. "Hey, Keith." His voice was light and teasing. "You 'member me, Ken Daniels? Drive a taxi in Christiana and Devon? You know me, man."

  "It won't work," the corporal said behind them.

  "You 'member how the corpie here did come get you at your house, Keith, and your woman Celia was there? How him did bring you here and question you 'bout Cerrado's boots? You 'member that, Keith? Think, man."

  "It won't work," the corporal repeated. "We've done all this."

  "What wrong with him, then?" Will demanded.

  A shrug. "Maybe the hospital can find out. As I told Daniels yesterday, we're taking him there this morning."

  Abandoning his attempt to communicate with the man on the floor, Ken said with a frown, "Did he just suddenly become like this, Corpie?"

  "No. It was gradual."

  "Beginning when?"

  "The day after we brought him here. He was all right when he ate his supper and went to sleep that night. In the morning he wouldn't eat or talk, just sat on his cot looking into space. Next day he moved to the floor, and he hasn't stirred since."

  "Not even to go to the bathroom?" Will asked. There was an odor in the cell indicating that Mowatt had relieved himself somewhere, but it was not strong.

  "If he's done anything like that, it's in his pants. He never once asked for the toilet."

  "In all that time?"

  "As you can see, there's something wrong with him. With even that part of him, it looks like. You notice his pants aren't stained. He's worn that shirt from when he came here, too, and there's no sign of sweat on it."

  "Try him once more, Ken," Will urged.

  Ken leaned over the prisoner and grasped his shoulders, at which Mowatt sagged sideways and might have toppled over had the taxi man not held him upright. The drooping head rose again and the glassy eyes focused on Ken's hovering face, but only briefly. Then they closed again and the head slumped back to its original position.

  "Listen me, Keith," Ken said, seeming now to choose his words with special care. "Me think me know what is wrong here. Who it was came to see you? Your woman?"

  No answer.

  "Talk to me, man. Because it's a lie what she told you. Sister Merle can't do nuttin' to harm you."

  The prisoner seemed not to hear.

  "You must have to believe me, man," Ken persisted. "Sister Merle is not no real obeah woman, no matter what she say. If she is so, why she must had to employ Manny Bignall and Nevil Walters to kill the United Nations feller, huh? You hear what me saying? If she is truly able to punish you for wearing the boots, why she didn't kill Mr. Cerrado the same way?"

  The man on the floor simply leaned back against the wall and sat there, a breathing scarecrow with his eyes shut.

  The taxi man straightened. "Am I right, Corpie? Did his woman come here?"

  "As a matter of fact, no, she didn't. Nobody been here to see him. Not a soul."

  Ken peered at the seated man again, then frowned at Will. "Seem like I was right when we had our talk about obeah, Mr. Will. A victim don't have to be told he been selected."

  Will nodded.

  Turning back to the corporal, Ken said, "Will the hospital be able to do anything for him, you think?" The Red Stripe only shrugged.

  There was no point in continuing, Will decided. With a nod to Ken he thanked the policeman and made for the door.

  At the Land Rover he said, "You drive, will you, Ken?" and climbed in the other side, wanting to do some thinking. After a while he said with a scowl, "What do we do now?"

  "I believe we should go to Gourie Forest."

  "But the Christiana police said—"

  "I know, but I doubt they will look in the cave." Ken jerked the wheel to let a bus go by, and because it was demanding more than its share of the road and traveling too fast, he softly cursed the driver. "There are supposed to be men around here who know that cave fairly well," he said then. "I don't know who they are, but I can ask and try to hire one."

  "You mean we'll need a guide?"

  "I am a coward in such places, Will. Besides, Gourie is said to be dangerous."

  "How long will it take you to locate someone?"

  The wide shoulders moved in a shrug. "In any case, we can't go to the cave until you tell your wife where you will be. Also, we'll need equipment of some sort, I suppose. Why don't I drop you at the house and come back for you after lunch?"

  Will frowned at his watch. "It's only ten past eight."

  "As soon as I can, then. But finding someone who knows the cave and will take us there may not be easy."

  At the house, Vicky was up and having her breakfast. Will saw at once that Ima was keeping her
distance as much as possible—was, in fact, acting as though she were somewhat afraid—and wondered whether the opal ring with its so-called powers might indeed have intimidated her. The ring was very much in evidence on Vicky's hand.

  "Can you fix me something, Ima?" he asked. "Coffee and a couple of soft-boiled eggs, maybe?"

  "Of course, Mr. Will."

  "So it's 'Mr. Will,' is it?" Vicky said when he joined her at the table. "How long have you been here?"

  "You heard her call me that yesterday."

  "Did I? Perhaps I wasn't paying much attention then."

  "And now you are?"

  "Very much so, now that I know what she is."

  Will peered across the table at her. "I'm surprised you didn't try to make friends with her when you found out she was a hounsi."

  She shrugged. "Voodoo doesn't interest me. It's just another religion."

  "You were possessed at a service once, if you remember."

  "I was a neophyte then, merely groping. Did you talk to your man in Wait-a-Bit?"

  He told her what had happened there, and that Ken and he were planning an afternoon visit to the cave. She would not want to accompany them there, he knew. In Haiti he had explored a number of caves with Sam Norman, and she had always found other things to do. Not that he blamed her. Exploring wild caves in the Caribbean was a far cry from strolling through lighted tourist caverns in the States.

  "I think I'll walk up to the village," Vicky said. "If Saturday is the big shopping day, it should be interesting. Can you give me some Jamaican money?"

  He did so. She finished her food and went into their bedroom, leaving him alone at the table, as Ima returned with his breakfast. He took his time eating and had only just finished when Ken Daniels turned up again.

  "I found a fellow in the market who claims to know the cave. He says we ought to have hard hats and carbide lamps. He can get the hats, he's a bauxite worker, but for the lamps he would have to go to Kingston and maybe wouldn't find any even there."

  "Can't we use flashlights?"

  "We'll have to, it seems. I gave him some money and he's looking for some now, as well as some rope, in Christiana. We're to pick him up in an hour at the post office."

  "You need some breakfast," Will said.

  "Thanks."

  "Come tell Ima what you want." He led Ken into the kitchen, where the taxi man said simply, "Me dyin' fe hungry, Ima," and the housekeeper smiled back at him. There was a small formica-topped table in the kitchen, with two chairs. They sat there.

  While Ima produced a prodigious breakfast of warmed-over rice, fried eggs, and steaming tea with condensed milk in it, the taxi man said quietly, "I learned something else, Will. Something that makes a trip to Gourie Cave a necessity, I think."

  Will gazed at him and waited.

  "When I talked to the fellow who is taking us in there, Waldon McKoy, his name is, he told me the name of the one man in this district who really knows that cave. You know why we can't use him?"

  "Why?"

  "He's in the Wait-a-Bit lockup. Unless they've already taken him to the hospital."

  Will looked at him in silence again, then said, "So now you believe we're likely to find what we're looking for in there."

  "Mr. Cerrado, at any rate. Mowatt had his boots." The handsome Haitian woman at the stove turned swiftly to stare at them.

  "You think we'll find Sam Norman too?" Will asked, hating the sound of his own voice. Sam and he had been close friends for a longtime, and had shared a lot. At the prospect of finding Sam dead in a cold, wet underworld, he felt a coldness welling inside himself and a wetness blurring his eyes.

  Into the kitchen now, interrupting his thoughts, came Vicky, and at sight of Ken she stopped short. Ken rose. Politely he said, "Good morning, Mrs. Platt," not this time offering his hand.

  She nodded. To Will she said, "I'm going now. When shall I expect you back?"

  By turning his head he silently passed the question to Ken.

  Ken shrugged. "Day and night will be all the same in there. If we find anything to keep us going, I don't suppose we'll want to come out and have it to do all over again."

  Vicky seemed indifferent. "Whatever you say. I'm sure I can amuse myself."

  "We can drop you off in Christiana, Mrs. Platt," Ken offered. "We'll be going that way."

  "Thanks. I prefer to walk."

  Will frowned after her as she departed. Had the words "amuse myself" meant anything special? Probably not. More than once, he was sure, he had read into her remarks meanings she had not really intended. He looked at his watch, then at Ken. "What time did you say we're to meet your friend?"

  Ken's plate was almost clean. "We can leave now. If I know McKoy, he'll be there waiting." Popping the last heaping forkful of rice into his mouth, he pushed back his chair. "Thanks for breakfast, Ima," he said, then for the first time seemed to notice Will's shoes. "You don't have anything more suitable than those? Water boots, say? It'll be wet in there."

  "Do cavers wear water boots? I don't think so." Will saw himself sliding and stumbling in loose-fitting rubber boots through a wet, black underworld, and guessed the taxi man knew no more about caves than he did. "Forget it. I'm all right with what I've got. How about yourself?" He frowned down at the well-worn dress shoes on Ken's broad feet.

  "I don't own any water boots, Will."

  "Shall we stop and buy you a pair? On me?"

  "No. Buy me a new pair of shoes if I ruin these" There was an imp in Ken's grin but it swiftly vanished. "If you're ready, let's go. Bye, Ima."

  The woman at the sink did not answer, and on reaching the door Will looked back at her. She stood there with her long-fingered hands clasped under her breasts, her shoulders drooping, and tears on her cheeks.

  Still a handsome woman but older now, Will thought. Much older.

  18

  A Special Grief

  The man waiting on the asphalted slope in front of the post office was in his late twenties and wore no shoes at all. Only about five-two, weighing no more than one hundred-twenty pounds, he had on faded khaki pants, an undershirt that would never be white again, and a knitted red and yellow stocking cap.

  Tossing some gear into the back of the Land Rover, he climbed in and said almost nothing until, in Gourie Forest, they reached a picnic area and he ordered Will to stop.

  Just ahead, the forest road disappeared to the right among tall pines. A path angled off to the left; another went straight on. At the point where the paths began stood a hexagonal open shelter with a concrete floor and a shingled roof, apparently a place for visitors to escape an unexpected rain or cook a meal.

  Donning a proffered hard hat and following their guide down a sloping track to the cave entrance, Will found himself confronted by manmade stone steps leading down into darkness.

  "The Forestry Department built these," Waldon McKoy explained, "because getting down into the cave was too dangerous. You could slip and break your neck." Handing out flashlights from his knapsack, he went carefully down the curving steps and waited for Ken and Will to reach him, then aimed his beam to the right where it revealed a boulder-choked stream some eight feet wide emerging from under a low roof of rock.

  "That's the way the picnickers go, but they don't go in very far—just under the ceiling there and on to another entrance about fifteen minutes from here, where they climb out and say they've explored Gourie. Beyond that other entrance, though, there's a narrow passage that leads to a whole spider web of tunnels on two levels. Upper Gourie, it's called. The rest of the cave is to our left here."

  As he turned, his light revealed a low-ceilinged tunnel into which the stream abruptly vanished after its journey through the roofless chamber in which they stood. "We have to climb over that big rock there. Then it gets pretty nasty, with a whole series of cascades and pools. There's a drop where you need a rope ladder, and a place where you have to crawl through a long, muddy sump."

  He paused, eyeing them. "Crawl, I said, not wade
, because there isn't always room to stand up. At the end of the sump you have to squeeze under a low-hanging roof with only a couple of inches of air space when the water's low, none at all when it's high. We used to think the cave ended there."

  "It doesn't?" Ken asked, looking none too happy.

  "No, it goes on and gets worse. This is one of the longest caves in the island, and if it rains hard outside while you're in here, this stream can rise up without warning and trap you." Again he paused to peer at their faces. "The known part of Gourie is almost three miles long. Only God knows how much more there is of it."

  Will said, "If you had to hide a body in here, would you take it upstream or down?"

  "Upstream." McKoy pointed to the right. "I'll tell you why. To get far enough downstream to hide anything like a body, you'd have to go beyond the place where the roof is so low. I don't think anyone in his right mind would try that, when this way would serve the purpose just as well. Nobody ever goes upstream past the other entrance I told you about. A body could be in there for years and never be discovered."

  "Ken, what do you think?"

  "He's the expert, not me. I'm scared right here."

  "Let's go, then, McKoy. If we don't find anything upstream, we can always turn around."

  With a nod, their guide stepped into the stream and led them into a cold, damp darkness where the only sound was the whisper of flowing water. Trailing him, with Ken Daniels bringing up the rear, Will shivered with more than the cold as the water splashed about his ankles and filled his shoes.

  They wormed their way under the low-hanging roof into a broad passage where rock pillars loomed like stone specters silently on guard. Twenty minutes later, after halting to play their flashlight beams into potential hiding places, they passed the exit used by picnickers, and the easy part of Upper Gourie was behind them.

  A narrow slot to the left now led them into total darkness again, and McKoy said warningly, "We better go slow here. If anyone carried or dragged a body this far, they might have just dumped it and hoped nobody would come here with a light bright enough to discover it." He looked back. "You fellows okay?"