The Cry of the Halidon (29 page)

The two of them shoved the raft toward the center current and jumped onto the bamboo-sided surface.

“I get in front, mon!” yelled Moore, scrambling over the platformed, high-backed seat used by tourists viewing the beauty of the Martha Brae. “You stay in the rear, mon! Use the pole and when I tell you, stop and put your legs over the backside!”

McAuliff focused his eyes in the moonlight, trying to distinguish which was the loose pole among the strapped cylinders of bamboo. It was wedged between the low railing and the deck; he picked it up and plunged it into the mud below.

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.

T
he 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.”