Grand Cayman Slam (17 page)
“Makes a fella want ta sprout wings!” the Irishman whispered anxiously.
All three automatics opened up this time, crisscrossing the wheelhouse roof with splinters. O’Davis had jumped to his feet, toeing the edge of the overhang, clinging gingerly to the masthead bracing which supported the white anchorage light and radio antennas. Holding the Thompson in one hand, he opened up with a burst of his own.
The return fire was heavy—and concentrated in his area.
“Don’t try that again!” I whispered hoarsely. They had far too much room to hide below. An exchange of fire on our part was insanity.
“Bloody stupid of me,” the Irishman mumbled, swearing at himself. “But what in the hell are we gonna do, Yank?”
The Jamaicans began a methodical sweep of the roof area with their M-16s.
It was the only thing that saved us. If they had continued their random fire, we would have stepped into it. Sooner or later, they would have killed us.
But the orderly sweep pattern gave us time to anticipate—and move.
And just enough time for me to come up with a plan.
Not much of a plan.
But it was all we had.
I grabbed the Irishman’s arm as we cake walked forward atop the wheelhouse, staying ahead of the fire pattern. “Get ready to jump,” I said into his ear.
“Onto th’ deck?”
“No—the water. Gotta go headfirst. And deep. Swim clear under the boat and come up on the other side.”
“I’m not about ta leave ya up here by yerself—”
“Just do it. I’ll be right behind.”
O’Davis didn’t hesitate. At the next burst of fire, he threw himself headlong toward the dark sea. And at the same moment, I rolled across the deck and heaved the little life raft after him.
Below, all they would see were two fleeting shapes passing the cabin windows. And they would hear two distinct splashes.
If we had any luck left at all, they would think we had both dived into the water.
I crouched on the planking of the wheelhouse waiting. The firing stopped abruptly.
“They’re swimmin’ for it, mon!”
“That good!”
“Get out there an’ kill ’em. Get!”
The three of them came charging out the cabin door onto the deck. I expected them to come out shooting, but they didn’t. They were a little smarter than I had given them credit for. They fanned out along the starboard railing, where O’Davis had jumped. It didn’t take them long to see it.
“Goddamn life raft, mon!”
“What the hell . . . ”
“Hold it!”
I pressed myself against the top of the wheelhouse, submachine gun focused on the man in the middle—Onard Cribbs. I wanted to take them alive. There was still an outside chance they might know something about the kidnapped boy. And even if they didn’t, there had already been too much killing. There’s an old saying: Every living thing killed deadens the killer a little more. . . .
I pressed myself against the top of the wheelhouse, submachine gun focused on the man in the middle—Onard Cribbs. I wanted to take them alive. There was still an outside chance they might know something about the kidnapped boy. And even if they didn’t, there had already been too much killing. There’s an old saying: Every living thing killed deadens the killer a little more. . . .
And I had already had more than my share of killing. There is an ever increasing number of the sickies: men and women who enjoy the seeping life force, the fluttering eyes, and the gray gray cold of death. Those are the ones with snakes burrowed in their brains. The elite few become the hired hit men—people who revel in the crimson kiss. But most just wind up in padded cells after climbing their own tragic bell towers.
And I find only horror in those bell-tower steps.
“Hold your weapons out over the water. Move!”
Cribbs and the other Jamaican didn’t hesitate. They did as told. But the third had to play the hero. He was a hugely fat man with a sweaty football of a head. I knew what he was going to do before he tried it. He tensed, crouched, then whirled around, already firing.
One of the slugs hit the spotlight. It exploded in a spray of smoke and glass. I felt something sting my face; felt the hot stream of blood. His move triggered Cribbs and the other Rastafarian. They both dove to the deck, rolled, and opened up with their M-16s. With the searchlight out, they could not see me plainly.
It saved my life.
I cut the fat Jamaican down with a short burst, then held the trigger of the Thompson as I sprayed Cribbs and the third Rastafarian. It’s a sickening sound, the pumpkin-thud of lowspeed .45 slugs entering a body. The fat man writhed momentarily on the deck, then lay still. Cribbs moaned out pitifully.
“You kill me, mon! You goddamn kill me. . . .
”
”
I jumped down on the deck. Behind me, I could hear O’Davis pulling himself up over the stern. His beard was dripping; his face was stained with an oval of black from his face mask.
“Thought ya said you were gonna jump, Yank.”
“I lied.”
“Aye.” And then he smiled; a smile that implied appreciation, not humor. “An’ ye saved me life, I’m thinkin’.”
“Both of our lives. But I owed you one, remember?”
“Three,” he corrected quickly. “I’ve saved yers three times.”
“And if we’re both real lucky, I’ll never get a chance to repay the other two.”
I knelt beside Cribbs. His chest and shoulder were a spongy line of blood. But he was still alive. Beneath his shaved head, his eyes were two black orbs.
“You kill me . . . bastard . . . ”
“That’s right, Cribbs. You’re dying.”
“All busted up inside, mon.”
“A chopper’s on its way. If you can hang on, we’ll get you to a hospital.”
His breath was coming in labored gasps now. He lay still, eyes burrowing into me. I said, “Cribbs—the boy. Where’s the boy?”
His eyes didn’t change. And he said nothing.
“Cribbs, you’re dying. If you know where the boy is, don’t let him die, too!”
His lips pursed as if to say something. He tilted his head back, heaved, then lay perfectly still, eyes still open, but empty.
He had died trying to spit in my face. . . .
By the time the helicopter arrived, O’Davis and I had helped the two bound Rastafarians out of the engine compartment. They were still groggy. We sat them on the deck and tried to make them talk.
They looked bewildered when I asked them about the kidnapping of Thomas James.
“Don’ know nothin’, mon. We jest work on this boat.”
They kept staring at the corpses strewn around the deck.
“We’re not going to kill you,” I insisted. “If you help us, we’ll help you. The boy—where is he?”
“Don’ know nothin’ ’bout no boy. Just work on this boat.”
The helicopter came hovering down beside the trawler, red flight lights popping, the roar deafening. O’Davis’ adviser from Government House was in the cramped third seat. The sleek powerboat was still tethered alongside the trawler. The Irishman went over to the chopper while I stayed with the prisoners.
His English adviser was not pleased. He preceded the Irishman, climbing over the stern. The disdain was easy to read as he surveyed the deck. He was a thin man, medium height, with wire-rim glasses that somehow made him look older than his fifty-odd years. I remembered his name only as Henderson.
He gave me a cursory look, then ignored me during the rest of the conversation.
“Is this how you win your medals, Commander O’Davis—wholesale slaughter?”
“An’ I suppose we shoulda jest sat back while they killed us.”
“I daresay that was one option,” he said in a clipped tone. “Did you stop to consider that this might be a matter better handled by the police?”
“We thought they might have the boy—sahr.”
“But they don’t?”
“No,” the Irishman said glumly.
“Georgetown police had a report of gunfire coming from the Canadian’s estate. They investigated. They found a number of bodies.” He looked at O’Davis sharply. “Is it your intent to eliminate everyone on Grand Cayman until chance brings the kidnappers under your fire?”
“My intent—
sahr—
is ta find th’ lad an’ return him safely to his parents. These men are heroin smugglers. Two of the bodies th’ police found at the Canadian’s estate died by their hand. They woulda killed us—or yerself—jest as gladly. We thought they might know somethin’ about the lad. We followed them.”
sahr—
is ta find th’ lad an’ return him safely to his parents. These men are heroin smugglers. Two of the bodies th’ police found at the Canadian’s estate died by their hand. They woulda killed us—or yerself—jest as gladly. We thought they might know somethin’ about the lad. We followed them.”
“So I see.”
O’Davis was building up a fine head of Irish anger. “An’ one more thing—
sahr.
If ye have any more complaints about me work, please direct them to headquarters in London. An’ if ye like, demand they replace one of us. I’m sure ya’d enjoy spendin’ spring in yer beloved England.”
sahr.
If ye have any more complaints about me work, please direct them to headquarters in London. An’ if ye like, demand they replace one of us. I’m sure ya’d enjoy spendin’ spring in yer beloved England.”
We waited just long enough for the police cruisers to arrive. When they took charge of the trawler and the two prisoners, we had one of their men ferry us back to the Irishman’s cruiser. The cabin had been shot to hell, but the engines worked fine—once I remembered to open the fuel valve.
O’Davis was oddly silent as he stood at the wheel, the boat jumping full-bore through the moon-slick swells toward Grand Cayman’s North Sound.
“He got to you, didn’t he?” I said softly, standing beside him in the damaged cabin.
“Aye, he did,” he said bitterly. “It’s a victory fer him. He’s been at me throat ever since he took the post more than a year ago.”
I had left a tin of Copenhagen on the console. I opened it, took a big pinch for myself, then handed it to the Irishman. “He didn’t get to you. The killing did.”
He nodded slowly. “Yer right, Yank. Yer right.”
“We had no choice.”
He shrugged his shoulders sadly.
I sighed. It was a pretty night: bright moon and frozen stars against a black tropical sky. A meteor flared through the darkness and faded. I said, “Don’t suppose you have a cooler full of beer aboard this wreck of yours?”
He smiled for the first time. “No—but I have a pint of fine Irish whiskey.”
“Only a pint?”
“Don’t worry, Yank. I’ll leave a swaller fer you.”
15
By the time we got back to the mooring in North Sound, it was nearly four A.M.
In the dark mass of shore, birds were beginning to make their morning sounds.
A rooster crowed. Trees began to move in a freshening dawn wind.
O’Davis had decided to leave his boat at Bota Bano and bring it around to Gun Bay Village after getting a few hours of sleep. We both felt the unspoken tension: time. We didn’t have much more time. Only one and a half days to save a boy we had never met.
But the whiskey had relaxed him. And me too. Normally, I drink only beer. But the whiskey had filled me with a fine warm glow against the cold breath of the previous evening.
We climbed up the bank through the trees past the sleeping island homes.
O’Davis drove. Before we had left the police boat, he had told the officer in charge about our suspicions concerning Sir Conan James. Unlike Henderson from Government House, the police treated O’Davis with open deference; respect bordering on awe. They said our information would be added to the file on the late Cynthia Rothchild, and that they would put a discreet tail on Sir Conan.
So we had no immediate work for the morning. Only sleep.
It was a very early Sunday morning on Grand Cayman. Streets were deserted, houses and condos along Seven Mile Beach dark. Even the sea seemed to be resting; the moon was low on the westward horizon now, adding a pearly luminescence to the exhalations of coral sea.
O’Davis steered the Fiat attentively, lights funneling through the early-morning darkness.
He said, “Mornin’s like this, brother MacMorgan, that a man needs a good woman ta share his bed.”
“Have you turned mind reader?”
He chuckled shortly. “Ye’ve got a mind easy ta read, Yank. Didna ya mention that yer lady lives along here somewhere?”
“About a half mile on toward Georgetown. Are you offering to drop me?”
“Aye. I am.” He looked at me, his face dimly seen in the glow of dashboard lights. “I know what yer thinkin’. Yer thinkin’ I’m feelin’ a bit o’ depression an’ that ye might be better stayin’ with me fer the company.” He was silent for a moment. “I appreciate the concern, but I’m no stranger ta the black mood. And yer not either, I’m thinkin’. Comes with our line of work—and a bloody line o’ work it is at times, eh?”
“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”
“Killin’ makes ya look in the mirror an’ see the skull beneath yer own skin. Ya jest got ta give it time; let it seep outta ya like mist from a bog.” He slapped me affectionately on the shoulder. “So I’ll be fine, Yank. Don’t be worryin’ about me. I’ll go on back ta me wee cottage by the sea, drink a bottle o’ stout, and sag into me bed—jealous of the bed you’ll be sharin’,” he added with a laugh.
At Sea Mist Apartments, the colored lights on the palm trees still made it look like some scene from a tropical hell. I waved good-bye to the Irishman, slammed the door of the Fiat, and walked quietly through the darkness along the parking lot.
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