The Mark of Cain

by William J. Coughlin

  “Why?”

  “If there’s enough fuel, I’m going to take it to San Bonaparte.”

  “You mean after the hurricane,” Johnson said.

  Cain shook his head. “No, now. If I can stay in the eye, I should have enough time to get there before the storm hits again.” He paused for a moment, seeing the shock in Johnson’s face. “This job is almost finished. I want to get it over with.”

  “You have to be nuts,” Johnson protested. “Nobody would sail out to sea in the middle of a hurricane. You’ll be killed.”

  Cain’s slate eyes seemed almost kind as they regarded Johnson. “One way or the other I have to get to that island. If I come in after the storm, they can rally their forces, and I won’t stand much of a chance. But if I come in just before the hurricane, everyone on the island will be battened down for the storm, and I can get ashore in relative safety. It would be best, really, if the hurricane and I arrived about the same time.”

  Johnson swore and turned to Soldier. The big man had cut away the sea-soaked dressings on Slick’s leg and was using gauze from the salvaged medical kit to clean up the black man’s wound. “Soldier, talk this madman out of it.”

  Soldier was too busy to look up as he spoke. “You said the eye would probably give us about an hour’s respite from the storm. That would be enough time to get to San Bonaparte.” Slick lay quietly as Soldier cleaned the swollen tissues of the wound, a drug-induced smile on his lips.

  Johnson started to protest again, but stopped, swearing silently to himself. He walked away, climbed aboard the boat, and disappeared into the hull.

  “What’s it look like?” Cain asked Soldier.

  The big man looked up. “The bone is broken for sure, but not bad. The bullet wound is through and through, clean enough from the looks of it. But his leg’s been in salt water, and the tissues don’t look too good. I’m no doctor, Cain, but if that leg doesn’t get infected from being washed in all that dirty sea water, I’ll be very surprised. A doctor is going to have to work on it. Slick will need more than the antibiotics we have in our kit if that leg is going to be saved.”

  Cain nodded.

  “Maybe we should take him with us.”

  “Us?” Cain asked.

  “When we go to San Bonaparte, you and me, we can take Slick along, and get him to a doctor over there.” Soldier bound up the wound with clean bandages and then began to reconstruct the rough leg splint.

  “I was planning on going alone, Soldier. Like Johnson says, it’s dangerous. There’s no reason to risk anyone else.”

  Soldier secured the splint and checked it for fit. He stood up and wiped his hands on his trousers. “I’ll go with you.”

  Cain looked at the thick-set man and smiled. “Soldier, you aren’t becoming sentimental over all this, are you?”

  He shook his head. “No. When we attacked, I sprayed the work area pretty good. I nailed three or four of them, but I also cut their radio to pieces. I checked and the radio in our boat doesn’t work either. There is nothing in the least sentimental about my position, Cain. If you get killed, we are stuck here on this waterless island. I’ve served in the desert, and I have seen men die of thirst. I don’t care to go that way, my friend.”

  “They have water here.”

  “Not much. We put a few holes into their tank during the fighting. So if you go to San Bonaparte and are killed, we may die too, but a great deal slower.”

  Cain thought for a moment. “You’ve a pretty good point there, Soldier.” Cain spoke but this time with no smile. “We’ll take everybody.”

  Johnson walked up and caught only the last part of Cain’s statement. “Not everybody. I’m no damn fool, I know these storms, and only a madman would sail out in the middle of a hurricane’s eye. Cain, the storm could veer, or the eye could be smaller than I figured. Too much could go wrong. You saw what a hurricane is like. No boat could stand up to it. Hell, we were almost killed coming in here.”

  “Suit yourself,” Cain said. “But there is no radio here and very little water. If something happens to us, you’ll be stranded out here. And the only people who might come looking are the playmates of our friends there.” Cain nodded at the bodies. “Then you will be shark food. Either way it’s a bad way to end up. I think you should come with us.” Cain hoped he could persuade Johnson. They could use his boating skill and ability to navigate the way back to San Bonaparte.

  Johnson’s worried expression reflected his indecision. “That boat,” he said, gesturing at the craft in the well, “is specially built for speed. She has two big gas engines in her and her fuel tanks are almost full. If you could keep her directly in the center of the eye, you might make it, providing the eye passed over San Bonaparte.”

  “And if it didn’t?” Cain asked.

  “Then you would have to stay in the eye. Eventually the damn thing would run out of gas—these babies don’t have the range that the diesels do—and that would be the end.”

  “Will you come with us?”

  Johnson looked at the bodies scattered around the area. “Well, they wouldn’t be much company.” He spit before speaking. “There really isn’t very much of a choice, Cain: death by thirst, shark, or hurricane. I suppose I’d have the best chance going back with you.” He paused. “I still think we should stay here until the storm is over. Those caves will provide a natural shelter.”

  “Maybe, but this job is only half done. We need some sort of proof of what happened to the Hamilton boat. Only Van Pelt has it. Considering the odds, the only chance we’ll have is to come in with the storm and surprise them.”

  “Cain, let me make one thing clear to you.” Johnson’s voice was even but with the flat tone of fatigue. “There isn’t going to be any ‘we’ in this. I was hired to be a boat driver, nothing more. I’m just going along because I have no alternative. I don’t want to end up like Eddy.” He paused, his tired eyes fixed on Cain. “By the way, if any of this comes to court, I’m going to tell the truth, nothing more, nothing less.”

  “We don’t have much time,” Cain said, turning away from Johnson. “Soldier, we better blow this place up.” He looked back at Johnson, a humorless smile on his thin lips. “We don’t want to leave all this evidence lying around.”

  Johnson watched as Cain and Soldier began dragging the bodies into the caves, setting explosive charges at various angles. Johnson shrugged. It was strictly their business. He found the hand crank and opened the large sliding door. Then he climbed aboard the boat and backed it out into the junk-covered water of the small harbor.

  Johnson felt a tightening in his throat as he watched Soldier pour gasoline along the base of their beached boat. Like all boatmen he always developed an attachment for a boat, not unlike the attachment people formed for their pets. He looked away as Soldier flicked a match and the flames shot along the underside of the exposed hull.

  Cain appeared at the structure’s opening. “You all set to go?” he called.

  Soldier climbed aboard the boat. “Yes, we’re ready,” Johnson yelled back.

  Cain disappeared and then came out running. He vaulted from the shore, leaping into the cockpit. “Get us out,” he commanded. “Fast!”

  Johnson backed the craft through the small opening into the sea. The boat rocked as it was caught up in the rolling pitch of the turbulent water. The engines’ deep roar echoed against the island as he pushed the throttle forward.

  “Better move it, Johnson,” Cain said as he walked into the cabin.

  Johnson spun the wheel, turning the craft north, the direct heading for San Bonaparte. He listened to the motors. They sounded all right, full and powerful, their timing in perfect unison. He hoped the motors were good, for if anything happened now, there would be no salvation. He eased the throttle forward a bit more, and the long boat began to rise, rolling less as they increased their speed.

  “Take a look, Johnson,” Cain said, glancing at his watch. He and Soldier had turned and were watching the island behind the
m.

  A great dusty puff seemed to blow out from the doors of the structure, and then it collapsed, sliding into the waters of the small harbor. The face of the hill seemed to roll forward, sliding over the cave mouths and burying them. Then the sound waves reached the boat, and they listened to the sound of the timed explosions.

  “Not a bad job,” Soldier said. “Even Slick couldn’t do any better.”

  Cain nodded. “It worked out pretty well. When the hurricane hits again, whatever is left will be blown away. There shouldn’t be a trace of what was there. The island will go back to the birds or whatever wild life first occupied the godforsaken place.”

  Johnson turned and devoted his full attention to piloting the boat. The black storm wall was building up on their right. He wondered if the eye was veering. If it was, they could never make it to San Bonaparte, and no trace of them would ever be found either. He pushed the throttle until the motors were running at the top of their capacity.

  SIXTEEN

  The mountain of black clouds was almost upon San Bonaparte as they came through the harbor entrance. They had no feeling of safety after their experience with the storm on Ring Key. Nothing was safe in the path of the hurricane.

  They glided past sunken boats. Others were tossed up on the beach. Only one boat remained afloat. It was still moored to a dock, but the dock had been half ripped away from the land so that both dock and boat rocked in the freshening wind. The craft was doomed as soon as the storm hit the island.

  Johnson turned and spoke to the other men. “There’s no place to tie up. I’ll have to beach this thing. You’d better find something to hold onto because this will be quite a jolt.”

  Soldier pulled Slick and propped him against the wall of the cabin and then braced himself. Cain took similar precautions.

  Johnson turned the wheel slightly and pointed the boat at a stretch of sandy beach at the far side of the of the harbor. He gunned the engines and the large boat began to rise as the speed forced the water under it, lifting its smooth hull. It was only a short run before they hit with explosive force. The hull bit into the earth with a grinding screech.

  They looked at each other. Johnson was the only casualty. A small trickle of blood crept down his forehead. Otherwise everyone was all right.

  They moved fast. The prow was up on the sandy beach, but the stern still rode in the water. The boat had listed over. They took the guns and ammunition. Then the three of them managed to get Slick down without further injury. His skin was hot with fever although he had a morphine-inspired smile on his lips. They had used the last of the morphine on the trip in.

  “We better hurry,” Cain said, having to raise his voice to be heard. “This damn wind is picking up.” He looked up at the sky. The wall of black clouds spiraled up into the heavens, a black mass of whistling doom. “Let’s go,” he said.

  As if by the hand of some invisible magician the island of San Bonaparte had changed its appearance. The brick buildings in the center of town had lost their European look. All of the windows and doors had been boarded up as if the inhabitants had shuttered them and left for good. It was completely deserted. Nothing moved in the empty streets, not even a stray dog.

  Slick had been mounted on Soldier’s back. Now his head rolled back and forth as the muscular man trotted behind the others with no sign of strain or exertion. Slick’s long legs almost touched the ground, and the spectacle might have been amusing if it had not been for the danger.

  Cain jogged along, following the route Roberto had shown him. The fence presented a problem. They could not find a way to get Slick over the barrier, so they bent it down and continued on their way. Cain slowed the pace to allow Johnson time to catch up to them. The boatman was puffing from the burden of carrying the ammunition. Cain carried the guns, carefully keeping them from snagging the thick tropical growth. The bushes they passed were still wet from the previous encounter with the storm.

  Cain remembered that the boy Roberto had told him that the baron’s villa had been deserted for some time. He recalled that the villa was tucked into the lee of a ridge, the contour of the hill offering protection against the screaming onslaught of the wind to come. To Cain’s mind the location of the place was an excellent recommendation for its use.

  They arrived at the villa as a light rain began to fall. The old windows had been boarded up years before with solid weather-resistant wood. The heavy hinges had been set into the wood, and Cain knew only special tools would be able to dislodge them. He handed the other guns to Johnson and made an inspection of the outside of the building. He could find no easy way in. He returned to the front of the low-slung building and made a careful inspection of the hinges on the locked front window shutters. Taking out his long-barreled pistol, he fired two shots at each hinge, aiming so that the bullet would do a job of prying. The top hinge was popped away from the wall, but the bottom one required another shot. The sound of the shots was blown away in the increasing wail of the wind.

  They climbed in and were surprised to find the old villa completely furnished, although everything was moldy, and the sea had given the air a salty aroma, not fresh, more like the offensive odor of urine. Soldier quickly searched all the rooms with a flashlight they had brought from the boat. They were alone. They laid Slick on one of the musty beds, and he went to sleep almost instantly.

  Cain reloaded his pistol. “I’m going up to Van Pelt’s villa,” he said. “The storm will give me cover.”

  Johnson snorted. “Jesus, that hurricane will blow you into the sea, you damn idiot. You saw for yourself back on Ring Key what it can do.” He paused, trying to control himself. “Besides you’ll never get inside the place. They’ll have it buttoned up tight, just like every other sensible homeowner here.”

  “We’ll see.” Cain picked up one of the machine guns and inserted a new clip. He put several extra clips in his pockets.

  “He may have a point,” Soldier said. “I think we can get there all right, but getting in may be …”

  “I’m going alone.” Cain’s eyes seemed almost luminous in the dimness. “If I don’t make it, you’ll have a chance to hit the bastards when the storm lets up.” Outside the noise of the wind increased.

  “I’m going along.” Soldier’s voice was quiet but firm. “This is no one-man job. You really need a squad to do a proper job, but you’ll have only me.” He picked up an automatic rifle and checked to see if it was loaded. Then he swung some of the ammunition bags around his neck. “We’ll make do somehow, Cain.” His square face cracked in an uneven grin. “Let’s go.”

  “You’re both fools,” Johnson muttered.

  “Probably.” Cain pointed at the rifle on the floor. “If you have to, use that thing.”

  The expression on Johnson’s face blended with the dimness as Cain snapped out the flashlight. “If we don’t make it,” Cain said, “get to a radio somehow and contact the Zinner Oil branch base at Maracaibo, Venezuela. They’ll get you and Slick out of here.”

  Cain and Soldier climbed out through the window. Cain tried to force the shutter back into place, but the force of the wind made it useless.

  He motioned to Soldier to follow him, and the two men moved off through the meager protection of the lush jungle growth behind the villa. Cain found a footpath, and they moved along listening to the increasing sound of the storm.

  Eventually the path led them to the road, and they hurried past other shuttered villas. Cain pointed to a fallen wire at the side of the road. It jumped around like a striking snake, emitting bright flashes and a frightening humming hiss. Other wires trailed over the road, and Cain suspected that all electrical and telephone wires had probably been severed during the first part of the storm.

  Van Pelt’s villa—just as it had been described to them—sat near the top of a hog-backed hill that ran the length of the island’s west side. It was the largest and newest of the villas set along the hilltop: a long white brick building, looking much like a Spanish-type California ran
ch house, architecturally pleasing and expensively built. The crest of the casino decorated the walls and buildings of the complex. A wind-ravaged garden descended down landscaped terraces to a large swimming pool. The pool resembled a natural hillside spring, its water supply splashing from a fake stream above, creating a waterfall effect.

  Storm-tossed leaves and floating rubbish marred the pristine beauty of its blue waters.

  Cain and Soldier approached along the road, coming up into the courtyard at the back of the villa. A long garage, with living quarters above, joined the main house and formed an “L” with the back of the house. The windows above the garage were tightly shuttered. Cain tried one of the garage doors and found it open. He slid it slowly and quietly up far enough to allow himself and Soldier entrance, then he closed it behind them. The rain beat against the metal doors like a million pebbles, giving the interior a disturbing ringing effect.

  Soldier snapped on his flashlight and played the beam over the cars parked inside. The garage was filled with five vehicles: Van Pelt’s Rolls, a Mercedes, two Cadillacs, and a small pickup truck. Soldier directed the beam to a stairway leading to the floor above.

  They climbed up quietly, and Soldier opened the unlocked door and played his flashlight inside. It resembled the hallway of a small hotel, one with many narrow rooms. Cain counted six rooms plus another doorway flush with the end of the hall, apparently a bathroom.

  Cain slung his machine gun over one shoulder and drew his revolver. It would be close work, and he wanted the assurance of accuracy more than fire power. He took the flashlight from Soldier who double-checked his rifle to make sure it was ready to fire.

  Soldier slowly twisted the knob on the first door and pushed it open. Cain stepped inside, his gun ready, as he flashed the light around the small room. It was empty. In a way it resembled an army-barrack cubicle or a monk’s cell. Sparsely furnished, it contained only a narrow bed and one chest of drawers set against a wall. A cheaply framed picture of a grinning black man had been given a place of prominence among assorted creams and beauty aids. But that was the only indication that the barren room belonged to a woman. Cain guessed that these rooms above the garage were the living quarters for Van Pelt’s servants.