The Killer Touch (9 page)

“Go to the cabin, Bunny,” said Rolf. Your ego's getting noisy.”

“Stay there,” said Burt.

“Burt's afraid you'd bring back a sawed-off shotgun, I suppose.” To Burt he said: “I'm your hostage, so why worry? I can speak more freely when she's gone.”

Burt hesitated a moment, then nodded. Bunny rose and disappeared into the darkness, her back stiff.

“She minds well,” observed Burt.

The secret,” said Rolf, “is to give no commands she's not already half-inclined to follow. She usually enjoys the tasks I give her. This one tonight—I must say she was particularly eager, but now—you know what they say about a woman spurned. I'd watch my back if I were you.”

“What was the purpose of this business tonight?”

“I have a theory that people act because of pressure on them. When I want somebody to do something, I find out what pressures prevent them from doing it. Then I set up a counterpressure in my favor, stronger than the one against.”

“And Bunny supplied the pressure.”

“There are less pleasant pressures, March.”

Burt narrowed his eyes; Rolf didn't seem to be threatening, only stating a fact. “I had a feeling last night you wanted something from me. Why not just tell me what it is?”

“Not until you put the gun away.”

“All right. Then it can wait. Tell me why you pulled the switch.”

“That was a challenging problem. My wife and Bunny are almost polar opposites. My wife is small, as you know, with a triangular face, brown eyes, blue-black hair and a faintly olive complexion. Bunny is a type particularly favored by South Americans, an ash blonde with green eyes—”

“Green?
But they were brown—”

“Tinted contact lenses.”

“Oh … is that why her eyes watered?”

“They do when she first puts them in. Later the tears stop.” He ground out his cigarette in the dirt. “Of course it was easy to dye her hair, but that left the problems of weight and complexion. I put Bunny on a strict diet and told her to get tanned in a hurry. Meanwhile she wore dark glasses and stayed out of sight. Joss couldn't see well. I remembered that, and I figured that white women look basically alike to the native boys. The fact that my wife seldom makes close friends made the problem simpler. I told Bunny not to talk to Joss at the start, for fear the woman would recognize the change in her voice. Gradually Bunny would show more and more of herself, until the reality of her presence replaced the memory of my wife.” Rolf sighed. “The only thing we couldn't change was Bunny's height. Now that's all I'll tell you until you put the gun away.”

Burt held onto the gun; he didn't feel he needed it any more, but he couldn't put it aside without losing part of the initiative.

“I can tell you a few things,” said Burt. “You pulled the switch night before last, didn't you?”

Rolf shrugged. “Think what you like.”

“She flew in to Grenada and you picked her up in the launch, brought her here, and removed your wife. What did you do, kill her?”

Rolf looked up, startled. “Of course not.”

“Then let me see her.”

“No.”

Burt paused. “Did Bunny come in as Tracy Keener?”

Rolf hesitated, then nodded. “You'd have a hard time proving which one was real. Bunny's papers are foolproof.”

“Still the authorities would be interested to learn that two Tracy Keeners were on the island at the same time.”

“It would be embarrassing,” admitted Rolf, “should Grenada and St. Vincent ever compare notes, but hardly enough to excuse your taking me in at gunpoint. I can promise you this, Burt: should you try it, I could produce my wife within a few hours, and she would be in good health. She would swear that she left this island of her own free will, and has remained away only because she wanted to. And there you would stand with egg on your face.”

Burt believed him; Rolf could produce his wife within a few hours. That meant … well, hell, it meant she could be anywhere, on the big islands of St. Vincent or Grenada, or on any one of a hundred smaller clods of land. It would take a month to search everywhere, even if he had a boat. And he didn't have a boat.

“If your wife is not a prisoner,” said Burt, “what's to keep her from deciding to take off?”

“Pressure,” said Rolf.

“What kind of pressure?”

“The most irresistible kind,” said Rolf with a faint smile. “It comes from inside her.”

Burt felt a chill climb his back; it seemed inconceivable that a man would turn his wife into a heroin addict merely in order to control her. But then, with Rolf, nothing was impossible.

Burt shoved the gun back in his hip pocket. “I suppose your wife knows Bunny took her place.”

“She knows it's for her own good.”

“How's that?”

“To remove her from danger.”

“Danger on this island?”

Rolf nodded.

Burt frowned. “You could have left her at home.”

“They'd know where to find her.”

“Who's they?”

“I am … involved in a deal which puts me in considerable danger. My wife could be a means of getting to me.”

“Yes, but if the masquerade works, doesn't that put Bunny in the same danger?”

“She's less sensitive to danger than my wife. And she knows how high the stakes are.”

“How high?”

“Mmmm. Say the liquid assets of a certain small Latin American government in exile.” Rolf leaned forward. “Interested?”

“What do I have to do?”

“Be my bodyguard while I'm here on the island.”

Burt smiled. “You don't need a bodyguard.”

“You're wrong. I'm an offensive fighter. I haven't the patience to guard my back. Besides, if they come, there'll be more than one.”

“And I'm to capture them and take them to jail?”

Rolf laughed aloud. “Extradition papers, that sort of thing? Don't be silly.”

“Then you expect me to kill them.”

“You'd find that more practical.”

Burt felt his throat tighten. “I'm not a hired gun, Rolf. I'm not even an instinctive killer, despite what Joss may have told you. I'm a cop, and I serve the law. I've been told that's far above any individual interest—”

“No sermons, Burt.” Rolf rose to his feet and rubbed his forehead. “I'm going to get more of Bunny's treatment. We'll talk some more, of course. You haven't heard all of my terms. Maybe you'll find that you have no choice but to defend me.”

“More pressure, Rolf? Bunny won't be so eager this time.”

“Ah, Burt. There are outside pressures … and inside pressures. I prefer the latter.”

“What does that mean?”

“You're a cop. You've got the gun. Figure it out.”

He walked away laughing to himself. A minute later the screen door slammed on cabin two. Burt walked back to the beach club and found it dark and silent except for the squeak and thump of rats fighting over discarded tidbits of food. He stood on the beach and watched Rolf's launch rock in the gentle swell of the lagoon. It would be easy to rewire the ignition and go to St. Vincent and … what? He still wouldn't know where Tracy Keener was. No doubt she was the reason for Rolf's cruise earlier today; he'd know enough to dole out no more than a day's supply of the drug at a time. The secret of enslaving an addict was to restrict the supply.

So he'd be going again tomorrow.

Burt climbed up to the watchtower and sat on the parapet. He could hear the wind rippling the grass below with a sound like sliding silk. He rubbed his aching leg and thought of Bunny's cool fingers. He tasted her lipstick on his mouth and wondered if it had been all work and no play for her.

A rock clattered. He peered over the parapet into a pair of wide, white eyes. A familiar T-shirt bulged below them.

“Maudie,” he whispered. “Go back home.”

“Maman
sleeping. She know nothing.”

“Go back anyway.”

“Yes, sir.”

Burt sat back down inside the tower and leaned against the low wall. A minute later he heard a sound like marbles rattling. He peered over the edge and saw Maudie huddled against the base of the tower with her arms hugging her stomach.

“Oh, hell. Come on up.”

She crawled over the edge and sat down, stretching her warm young body beside him. “I help you watch, sir.”

“Uh-huh,” said Burt.

Five minutes later the tight-curled mat of her hair fell onto his shoulder. She snored softly. Burt stretched her out on the stones and pillowed her head with his jacket. He felt a wave of warm protectiveness toward the sleeping girl.

Yeah, he thought, that's what Rolf meant. I'm a cop, and I'm hung up with these people. Whether they like it or not, whether they accept it or not, I'm responsible for the safety of everyone on the island: Joss, Maudie, the boys, Jata, Tracy Keener … even Rolf and Bunny. Because if the danger which threatens Rolf should threaten the others, I will have to act.

SIX

Dawn came up unpleasantly, with a bleak drizzle which soaked Burt to the skin and rendered Maudie's T-shirt as transparent as onionskin. He sent the girl home and climbed down the hill through dripping grass. Coco sat on the steps of the beach club looking morosely at the rain dripping off the thatched roof.

“Nobody up yet?” asked Burt.

“No, sir.” Coco rested his chin in his hands and gazed at Rolf's launch rocking in the rain-peppered lagoon. “My mind tells me he take me fishing today.”

“Your mind gives you a bum steer,” said Burt. “But I'll give you five bucks to go up to the
piton
and watch where he goes.”

“Yes,
sir!
”

The pink soles of Coco's bare feet sent up spurts of wet sand as he ran down the beach. Burt went to his cabin and took a shower, then put on dry clothes and lay down on his bed fully dressed. The damp weather had brought throbbing pain to his leg; he seemed to be able to sleep only a half-hour when a spurt of pain would awaken him, and he would lie with cold sweat soaking his clothes while he tried to arrange his leg in a more comfortable position. He was doing this for the fifth or the tenth time when a shot blasted just outside his cabin. Burt was off his bed and on the floor when the second report came. He ran out onto the porch with Rolf's .38 in his hand and looked up to see a graceful frigate bird falter in flight, then begin a slow downward glide which ended in a splash far out to sea.

Burt lowered his eyes and saw the two men on the narrow beach just below his cabin. One carried a gun over his shoulder, holding it by the barrel in defiance of all gun safety rules. The other had broken open a double-barreled shotgun and was feeding in new shells. Burt shoved the .38 in his hip pocket and strode down to the beach. He'd forgotten the twinge in his leg; his ears burned with unreasoning rage.

“Hey!” he shouted.

The man who held the gun by the barrel turned to frown at Burt. He was a stocky, dark man who looked immensely powerful, with heavy, black-furred arms and a pelt of black hair poking through the neck of his crackling new sport shirt. The other man, also dressed in new sport shirt and trousers, was bigger but more loosely built. He raised his shotgun and scanned the sky, ignoring Burt.

“Why the hell did you shoot a frigate bird?” asked Burt.

The hairy man flashed a broad unconvincing smile and held out his hand. “I'm Ace Smith. Real-estate operator. This is one of my associates, Hoke Farnum.”

Burt didn't take his hand. He'd always had a low opinion of men who killed for pleasure. These two didn't even seem to be having fun. “I asked you why you shot the frigate bird.”

Ace Smith shrugged and waved at the other man. “Hoke thought it was a pigeon. We came here to shoot pigeons.”

Burt glanced at Hoke. He had a thick fleshy head topped with coarse black hair. His face appeared the color and texture of pie dough with the features pressed in place by blunt fingers. The man didn't smile; he didn't look as though he knew how. He looked at Burt from eyes that could have been dried prunes floating in skimmed milk for all the emotion they showed, then turned away and drew a bead on a pelican bobbing in the swell just beyond the surf line. Burt leaped forward and knocked down the gun barrel. “Fool! Don't you know a pelican when you see one?”

The big man backed away with surprised annoyance. He gave Burt a puzzled look, then turned to Ace. “Who is this guy, the local game warden?”

“Bird lover,” said the other. “Shoot what you want. They don't enforce game laws here.”

For an instant the scene froze, with Burt facing the two armed men. Hoke's gun was a twelve-gauge shotgun; Ace carried an over-under model, twenty-gauge shotgun below, thirty-caliber rifle above.

Burt felt his skin draw tight; he hadn't smelled gunpowder since that night in the jewelry store.

He forced himself to relax; no use getting somebody killed over a frigate bird.

“You're the Smith who reserved two cabins?” he asked.

“Uh-yeah.” Ace's smile was gone; like a rubber mask the face had snapped back into a taut, watchful pattern. There was violence in his eyes, but it was different from Rolf's, nearer to the surface, more defensive and, probably, with a quicker boiling point.

“How'd you two great white hunters get on the island?”

“Charter boat,” said Ace.

As Burt turned to scan the shoreline, Ace said, “He left hours ago.”

Burt looked up and saw the pale disc of the sun shining through the haze directly overhead. It was past noon.…

He left the two men and walked to the club. The cruiser was gone, as he'd expected. Godfrey, who was raking debris off the beach in front of the club, said the man and the woman had left right after breakfast. Boris was polishing the bar with an oiled cloth. To the left of the club, Joss lay in a hammock strung between two palm trees cuddling a rum punch on her stomach. Her eyes were closed, her mouth slightly open.