The raft entered the rapids and began careening downstream. Moore stood up in the bow and used his pole as a deflector, warding the racing bamboo float off the treacherous series of flesh-cutting rocks that broke the surface of the water. They were approaching a bend in the river. Barak shouted.
“Sit on the backside, mon! Put your feet into the water. Quick, mon!”
Alex did as he was ordered; he soon understood. The drag created by his weight and his feet gave Moore the slightly slower speed he needed to navigate the raft through a miniature archipelago of hazardous rocks. The bamboo sides crashed back and forth, into and over the mounds of jagged stones. McAuliff thought the raft would list right out of the water.
It was the sound of the harsh scrapings and his concentration on the rapids that caused Alex to delay his realization of the gunshots. And then that realization was complete with the stinging, searing pain in his left arm. A bullet had grazed his flesh; the blood trickled down his sleeve in the moonlight.
There was a staccato burst of gunfire.
“You get down, mon!” yelled Barak. “Get flat! They cannot follow us; we get around the bend, there is a grotto. Many caves. They lead up to the Brae Road, mon … Ayeee!”
Moore buckled; he let go of the pole, grabbed his stomach, and fell onto the bamboo deck. Alex reached down for the oblong archive case, crammed it into his belt, and crawled as fast as he could to the front of the raft. Barak Moore was writhing; he was alive.
“How bad are you hurt?”
“Pretty bad, mon!… Stay down! If we get stuck, jump out and push us off … around bend, mon.”
Barak was unconscious. The bamboo raft plunged over a shallow, graveled surface and then into the final curve of the bend, where the water was deep, the current powerful and faster than before. The sounds of gunfire stopped; they were out of sight of the Trelawny police.
McAuliff raised his shoulders; the archive case was cutting into his skin beneath his belt. His left arm stung with pain. The river now became a huge flat pool, the waters rushing under the surface. There were stone cliffs diagonally across, rising sharply out of the river bank.
Suddenly Alex saw the beam of the lone flashlight, and the terrible pain of fear pierced his stomach. The enemy was not behind—he was waiting.
Involuntarily, he reached into his pocket for his gun. The Smith & Wesson given him by Westmore Tallon. He raised it as the raft steered itself toward the stone cliffs and the flashlight.
He lowered himself over the unconscious body of Barak Moore and waited, his arm outstretched, the pistol aimed at the body beyond the flashlight.
He was within forty yards of the silent figure. He was about to squeeze the trigger and take a life.
“Barak, mon!” came the words.
The man on the riverbank was Lawrence.
Charles Whitehall waited in the high brass by the cluster of breadfruit trees. The archive case was securely under his arm; he knelt immobile in the moonlight and watched Piersall’s house and grounds two hundred yards away. The body of the dead guard had not been found. Floyd’s corpse had been carried into the house for the light necessary for a complete search of the dead body.
One man remained behind. The others had all raced into the eastern forests and down to the Martha Brae in pursuit of Moore and McAuliff.
That was precisely what Charles Whitehall thought would happen. And why he had not done as Barak Moore commanded.
There was a better way. If one acted alone.
The single Trelawny policeman was fat. He waddled back and forth by the wooded border of the lawn; he was pacing nervously, as if afraid to be alone. He carried a rifle in his hands, jerking it toward every sound he heard or thought he heard.
Suddenly there was gunfire far below in the distance, down at the river. It was full, rapid. Either much ammunition was being wasted, or Moore and McAuliff were having a bad time of it.
But it was his moment to move. The patrolman was gunning the edge of the forest, peering down. The gunfire was both his protection and the source of his fear. He cradled his rifle and nervously lighted a cigarette.
Charles got up and, clutching the archive case, raced through the tall grass behind the west flank of the field. He then turned right and ran toward Piersall’s house, through the diminishing woods to the border of the entrance drive.
The two patrol cars stood peacefully in the moonlight, in front of the wide stone steps to High Hill. Whitehall emerged from the woods and crossed to the first vehicle. One door was open—the driver’s door. The dim interior shone over the black leather.
The keys were in the ignition. He removed them and then reached under the dashboard radio and ripped every wire out of the panel. He closed the door silently, ran to the second car, and saw that its keys were also in place. He walked rapidly back to the first car and as quietly as possible unlatched the hood. He yanked off the distributor cap and tugged at the rubber lid until it sprang loose from the wires.
He returned to the second vehicle, got in, and placed the archive case beside him. He pressed the accelerator several times. He checked the gearshift mechanism and was satisfied.
He turned the key in the ignition. The motor started instantly.
Charles Whitehall backed the patrol car out of the parking area, swung the wheel, and sped off down the drive.
19
The doctor closed the patio door and walked out onto Bengal Court’s terrace, which connected Alison’s and McAuliff’s rooms. Barak Moore was in Alison’s bed. She had insisted; no comments were offered, the decision was not debated.
Alex’s upper left arm was bandaged; the wound was surface, painful, and not serious. He sat with Alison on the waist-high terrace sea wall. He did not elaborate on the night raid; there would be time later. Sam Tucker and Lawrence had taken positions at each end of the patio in order to keep any wanderers from coming into the small area.
The doctor from Falmouth, whom Lawrence had contacted at midnight, approached McAuliff. “I have done what I can. I wish I felt more confident.”
“Shouldn’t he be in a hospital?” Alison’s words were as much a rebuke as a question.
“He should be,” agreed the doctor wearily. “I discussed it with him; we concluded it was not feasible. There is only a government clinic in Falmouth. I think this is cleaner.”
“Barak is wanted,” explained Alex quietly. “He’d be put in prison before they got the bullet out.”
“I sincerely doubt they would take the trouble to remove the bullet, Mr. McAuliff.”
“What do you think?” asked Alex, lighting a cigarette.
“He will have a chance if he remains absolutely still. But only a chance. I have cauterized the abdominal wall; it could easily rerupture. I have replaced blood … yes, my office has a discreet file of certain individuals’ blood classifications. He is extremely weak. If he survives two or three days, there is hope.”
“But you don’t think he will,” stated McAuliff.
“No. There was too much internal bleeding. My … portable operating kit is not that good. Oh, my man is cleaning up. He will take out the sheets, clothing, anything that has been soiled. Unfortunately, the odor of ether and disinfectant will remain. Keep the outside doors open when you can. Lawrence will make sure no one enters.”
Alex slid off the wall and leaned against it. “Doctor? I gather you’re part of Barak’s organization, if that’s the word.”
“It is too precise at this juncture.”
“But you know what’s going on.”
“Not specifically. Nor do I wish to. My function is to be available for medical purposes. The less involvement otherwise, the better for everyone.”
“You can get word to people, though, can’t you?”
The doctor smiled. “By ‘people’ I assume you mean Barak’s followers.”
“Yes.”
“There are telephone numbers … public telephones, and specific hours. The answer is yes.”
“We’re
going to need at least one other man. Floyd was killed.”
Alison Booth gasped. Her eyes riveted on Alex; her hand reached out for his arm. He covered it gently. “Oh my God,” she whispered.
The doctor looked at Alison but did not comment on her reaction. He turned back to McAuliff. “Barak told me. There may be a problem; we do not know yet. The survey is being watched. Floyd was part of it, and the police will find out. You will be questioned, of course. Naturally, you know absolutely nothing; wear long sleeves for a while—a few days, until the wound can be covered with a large plaster. To replace Floyd now with one of our men could be a self-induced trap.”
Reluctantly, Alex nodded. “I see,” he said softly. “But I need another man. Lawrence can’t do triple duty.”
“May I make a suggestion?” asked the doctor with a thin smile and a knowing look in his eyes.
“What’s that?”
“Use British Intelligence. You really should not ignore them.”
“Get some sleep, Sam. Lawrence, you do the same,” said Alex to the two men on the terrace. The doctor had left; his assistant remained with Barak Moore. Alison had gone into McAuliff’s room and shut the door. “Nothing will happen tonight, except possibly the police … to ask me questions about a crewman I haven’t seen since early afternoon.”
“You know what to say, mon?” Lawrence asked the question with authority, as if he would provide the answer.
“The doctor explained; Barak told him.”
“You must be angry, mon! Floyd alla time a no-good thief from Ochee. Now you know: supplies stolen. You drum-drum angry, mon!”
“It doesn’t seem fair, does it?” said Alex sadly.
“Do as he says, lad,” countered Sam Tucker. “He knows what he’s talking about.… I’ll nap out here. Hate the goddamn bed, anyway.”
“It isn’t necessary, Sam.”
“Has it occurred to you, boy, that the police may just come here without announcing themselves? I’d hate like hell for them to get the rooms mixed up.”
“Oh, Lord …” McAuliff spoke with weariness. It was the exhaustion of inadequacy, the pressure of continually being made aware of it. “I didn’t think of that.”
“Neither did the goddamn doctor,” replied Sam. “Lawrence and I have, which is why we’ll stand turns.”
“Then I’ll join you.”
“You do enough tonight, mon,” said Lawrence firmly. “You have been hurt. Maybe policemen do not come so quick. Floyd carry no papers. Early morning Sam Tuck and me take Barak away.”
“The doctor said he was to stay where he is.”
“The doctor is a kling-kling, mon! Two, three hours Barak will sleep. If he is not dead, we take him to Braco Beach. The ocean is still before sunrise; a flat-bottom is very gentle, mon. We take him away.”
“He makes sense again, Alex.” Tucker gave his approval without regret. “Our medical friend notwithstanding, it’s a question of alternatives. And we both know most wounded men can travel gentle if you give ’em a couple of hours.”
“What’ll we do if the police come tonight? And search?”
Lawrence answered, again with authority. “I tell Tuck, mon. The person in that room has Indie Fever. The bad smell helps us. Falmouth police plenty scared of Indie Fever.”
“So is everybody else,” added Sam, chuckling.
“You’re inventive,” said McAuliff. And he meant it. “Indie Fever” was the polite term for a particularly nasty offshoot of elephantiasis, infrequent but nevertheless very much a reality, usually found in the hill country. It could swell a man’s testicles many times their size and render him impotent as well as a figure of grotesque ridicule.
“You go get sleep now, McAuliff, mon … please.”
“Yes. Yes, I will. See you in a few hours.” Alex looked at Lawrence for a moment before turning to go inside. It was amazing. Floyd was dead, Barak barely alive, and the grinning, previously carefree youngster who had seemed so naive and playful in comparison to his obvious superiors was no longer the innocent. He had, in a matter of hours, become the leader of his faction, lord of his pack. A hard authority had been swiftly developed, although he still felt the. need to qualify that authority.
Get sleep now … please.
In a day or two the “please” would be omitted. The command would be all.
So forever the office made the man.
Sam Tucker smiled at McAuliff in the bright Jamaican moonlight. He seemed to be reading Alex’s thoughts. Or was Sam remembering McAuliff’s first independent survey? Tucker had been there. It had been in the Aleutians, in springtime, and a man had died because Alex had not been firm enough in his disciplining the team regarding the probing of ice fissures. Alexander Tarquin McAuliff had matured quickly that springtime in the Aleutians.
“See you later, Sam.”
Inside the room, Alison lay in bed, the table lamp on. By her side was the archive case he had carried out of Carrick Foyle. She was outwardly calm, but there was no mistaking the intensity beneath the surface. McAuliff removed his shirt, threw it on a chair, and crossed to the dial on the wall that regulated the overhead fan. He turned it up; the four blades suspended from the ceiling accelerated, the whir matching the sound of distant surf outside. He walked to the bureau, where the bucket of ice had melted halfway. Cubes were bunched together in the water, enough for drinks.
“Would you like a Scotch?” he asked without looking at her.
“No thank you,” she replied in her soft British accent. Soft, but laced—as all British speech was laced—with that core of understated, superior rationality.
“I would.”
“I should think so.”
He poured the whiskey into a hotel glass, threw in two ice cubes, and turned around. “To answer you before you ask, I had no idea tonight would turn out the way it did.”
“Would you have gone had you known?”
“Of course not.… But it’s over. We have what we need now.”
“This?” Alison touched the archive case.
“Yes.”
“From what you’ve told me … on the word of a dying primitive. Told to him by a dead fanatic.”
“I think those descriptions are a little harsh.” McAuliff went to the chair by the bed and sat down facing her. “But I won’t defend either one yet. I’ll wait. I’ll find out what’s in here, do what they say I should do, and see what happens.”
“You sound positively confident, and I can’t imagine why. You’ve been shot at. A bullet came within five inches of killing you. Now you sit here calmly and tell me you’ll simply bide your time and see what happens? Alex, for God’s sake, what are you doing?”
McAuliff smiled and swallowed a good deal of whiskey. “What I never thought was possible,” he said slowly, abruptly serious. “I mean that.… And I’ve just seen a boy grow up into a man. In one hour. The act cost a terrible price, but it happened … and I’m not sure I can understand it, but I saw it. That transformation had something to do with belief. We haven’t got it. We act out of fear or greed or both … all of us. He doesn’t. He does what he does, becomes what he becomes, because he believes.… And, strangely enough, so does Charley Whitehall.”
“What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”
McAuliff lowered his glass and looked at her. “I have an idea we’re about to turn this war over to the people who should be fighting it.”
Charles Whitehall exhaled slowly, extinguished the acetylene flame, and removed his goggles. He put the torch down on the long narrow table and took off the asbestos gloves. He noted with satisfaction that his every movement was controlled; he was like a confident surgeon, no motion wasted, his mind ahead of his every muscle.
He rose from the stool and stretched. He turned to see that the door of the small room was still bolted. A foolish thing to do, he thought; he had bolted the door. He was alone.
He had driven over back roads nearly forty miles away from Carrick Foyle to the border of St. Anne’s.
He had left the police car in a field and walked the last mile into the town.
Ten years ago St. Anne’s was a meeting place for those of the Movement between Falmouth and Ocho Rios. The “nigger rich,” they had called themselves, with good-sized fields in Drax Hall, Chalky Hill, and Davis Town. Men of property and certain wealth, which they had forced from the earth and were not about to turn over to the Commonwealth sycophants in Kingston. Whitehall remembered names, as he remembered most things—a necessary discipline—and within fifteen minutes after he reached St. Anne’s, he was picked up by a man in a new Pontiac, who cried at seeing him.
When his needs were made known, he was driven to the house of another man in Drax Hall, whose hobby was machinery. The introductions were brief; this second man embraced him, held on to him for such a length of time—silently—that Charles found it necessary to disengage him.
He was taken to a toolshed at the side of the house, where everything he had requested was laid out on the long narrow table that butted the wall, a sink at midpoint. Besides the overhead light, there was a goosenecked lamp, whose bright illumination could be directed at a small area. Charles was amused to see that along with these requirements was a bowl of fresh fruit and a huge pewter tankard filled with ice.
A messiah had returned.
And now the archive case was open. He stared down at the severed end, the metal edges still glowing with dying orange, then yellow—lingering—soon to be black again. Inside he could see the brown folds of a document roll—the usual encasement for folded papers, each sheet against the imperceptibly moist surface of the enveloping shield.
In the earth a living vault. Precise for a thousand years.
Walter Piersall had buried a rock for many ages in the event his own overlooked it. He was a professional.
As a physician might with a difficult birth, Charles reached in and pulled the priceless child from its womb. He unraveled the document and began reading.
Acquaba.
The Cry of the Halidon Page 23
