The Killer Touch (15 page)

“Oh, is that when you drop the masquerade?”

“That's when they stop hurting.” She gave a laugh which ended in a sniffle. “Man, you live in a dream world. This is no masquerade, this is for real. Bunny DeVore is dead; I'm Tracy Keener for the rest of my life.”

Burt felt his lips go dry. “And the real one? She dies, I suppose.”

“You've got the scene, Baby.” Bunny closed her purse, got up and went into the bathroom. Her voice floated back through the open door. “It's been a drag running out to … to that island every day, practicing how she moves, how she walks and talks. Rolf's a real perfectionist. What if we meet some of our old friends, he says. Personally, I don't intend to give them the time of day, I'll be in and out of Capri, Monaco, Hawaii, and anyway there's my height. But Rolf says a woman's height is expected to fluctuate according to what shoes she's wearing and—”

“When?” asked Burt.

“When what? Oh, her. Just as soon as we get back. I've got her down cold.”

Cold
. The word echoed in his mind.

Bunny returned with the two-piece plastic shower curtain. She wrapped it repeatedly around his wrists and ankles, making a separate knot with each loop. Burt wondered where she'd become so skilled at tying a prisoner.

She stiffened at the sound of the launch. “There's Rolf. So long, Baby.”

She bent over him, her hair brushing his cheek. Her lips touched his with brief, surprising tenderness. Her lipstick tasted of mint. She raised her head and he saw her eyes glistening. “That's so you'll remember me. And … this!”

He saw her arm move, but he forced himself not to flinch. Just before the hand struck his face, it curved into five bright red claws which tore furrows from his ear to his nose. Then she was gone.

Time became a succession of half-heard sounds: The heavy clump of Hoke's feet, Ace's softer tread, the scratch of a match and the whisper of rain on palm leaves. The rain ended; the sun came out and converted all moisture into steam. The walls of the unventilated room became beaded with moisture; breathing was like trying to inhale warm, damp cotton. A rust-colored, eight-inch centipede crawled onto Burt's right leg, nosed around his trouser cuff while Burt held his breath, then dropped off and disappeared through a crack in the wall.

Burt felt a tingle of excitement when he heard Ace and Hoke in mumbled conversation on the porch veranda; perhaps the seed had sprouted and borne fruit. He was certain when he heard the splintering crack of wood and the protesting screech of metal. The door crashed open and Ace walked in.

“You wanta tell us where the diamonds are?”

“What do I get out of it?”

“You live. We're getting out of here before Rolf comes back.”

“How?”

“That's our problem.” He snapped his fingers, and his voice showed the strain of his decision. “C'mon. Make up your mind.”

“I'll show you,” said Burt. “I can't tell you.”

They untied him and led him outside. Burt forced himself not to blink, though the light was blinding after the darkness of the room.

“You'll have to lead me,” he said. “It's near the fumaroles.”

“What's that?”

“Where the water shoots up from the ground.”

“Yeah, this way.” Ace caught the protruding end of his belt and pulled him roughly through the tangle of vines around the cabin. “Okay. We're on the path now.” Burt found it easier to fake blindness if he stared straight ahead with his eyes unfocused. He bumped once into a palm tree and another time sprawled forward with his feet tangled in railroad vines. Hoke guffawed behind him; this was the kind of humor he could understand.

Short, salt-crusted grass crunched beneath his feet. He let himself be pulled along and felt the strength flow back into his aching muscles. He sensed Hoke behind him with the shotgun ready. He knew his life would be measured in minutes if he showed them the diamonds; killing him would be a reflex action not worth debating.

“Okay,” said Ace. “Where is it?”

Burt stood two yards from the ten-foot cliff and felt the spray cooling his face. He tried to remember exactly where he and Coco had found a half-submerged cavern two years ago. Giant langouste liked to hole up there during the day, and they had taken out dozens.

He dropped to his hands and knees. “There's a hole here somewhere.”

“Here's one!” shouted Hoke.

“Okay, stick your hand in. It's out of sight under the edge.”

Hoke laid his gun on the grass beside him and plunged his arm in up to the elbow. Ace watched him, his attention off Burt for an instant. Burt took two running steps and dived off the cliff. He struck the hissing water and clawed for the bottom. The water was clouded with foam and sand particles. He groped along the cliff, fighting against the water which tried to thrust him to the surface. He found a hole and pulled himself inside. He swam into darkness, his lungs bursting, aware that he could be entering a blind pocket. Above him was solid rock. He visualized himself trapped beyond the point of no return, drowning with his head pressed against the roof of the cavern. Then his hand groped into air. He surfaced and filled his lungs with great gulps. He found a narrow shelf where he could stand with his head above water, and began the long wait. No sound reached him except the gurgle of water and the hiss of air. There was no light; no measure of time except the steady rise and fall of the waterline on his chest and the changing pressure on his eardrums. After a time even that became unconscious, like the rhythmic beat of his heart.

It could have been two hours or three when he detected a faint glow coming through” the water from the entrance to the pocket. He watched, his mind suspended, until the glow faded and disappeared. Night-time now. He couldn't be sure that someone wasn't waiting at the edge of the cliff, but there was no way to make sure. He dived down and pulled himself blindly through the tunnel. He felt the force of the surf and came to the surface. The gibbous moon in the east seemed brilliant as day after the darkness. The black silhouette of the cliff was unmarred by any manlike shape. The sea seemed unusually calm, and there was no wind. He moved northward along the cliff, swimming silently without raising his arms from the water. He emerged on the pebble beach, found the crevice, and groped toward Maudie's cave. He saw the yellow glow of lamplight before he entered.

Maudie lay curled up on the foam-rubber cushion, dressed in a green silk dress with red chiffon bordering the neckline. Burt knelt down and shook her plump shoulder. Her eyelids fluttered, then opened wide. She sat up, her features swollen from sleep, then pressed her palms against her forehead and brushed the hair off her temples.

“You don't seem glad to see me.” said Burt.

“Yes, but …” She indicated her dress and sighed. “I wish to change before you come.”

He frowned. “You expected me?”

She nodded. “They say you walk blind into the sea and drown, but I know—”

“You've been out?”

“Yes, but nobody see. Godfrey meet me and give me these.” She pointed at a case of bully beef and several cans of ship's biscuits., “They watch the others, but they never see me.”

The sight of the food made Burt aware of the growling complaint of his stomach. He began to open a can of the bully beef but Maudie jumped up. “You sit, sir. I will serve you.”

Another time Burt might have been amused to see this young girl playing hostess in a gaudy dress too small for her burgeoning body, while yellow lamplight flickered on the walls of the cave. She apologized that he had to eat with a strip of shingle; she gave him water from the Haig-and-Haig pinch bottle, then squatted before him and stared with intense fascination while he ate. Gradually he extracted from her the details of what had been happening on the island.

Rolf and the woman had gone, a fact Burt already knew. Joss and the boys had been told only that Burt was a prisoner, and that if any of them misbehaved he would be killed. That had kept them quiet until Coco and Godfrey had been pressed into diving for his body. When they failed to find it, Ace had decided that he'd been carried out to sea. Joss had then been taken to her house and locked in, replacing Burt as a hostage. One of the men guarded her all the time.

Burt thought it over; apparently the two had given up their scheme to get the diamonds, and settled down to wait for Rolf's return. This posed a dilemma for Burt: should he try to sneak up, overpower the two men and … then what? He had to get Tracy Keener out of Rolf's way. (He had decided she must be on one of the Tobago Cays, ten miles away.) Her death seemed a foregone conclusion when Rolf returned; that of Joss and the boys remained problematical. If he tied Ace and Hoke, then went after the woman, they might get free and kill the others out of sheer vengeance. The best thing was to leave the island as it was, let the two men think him dead so they wouldn't get nervous, get the woman to safety and come sneaking back with reinforcements.

“Maudie,” he said. “Do you know where Joss keeps the skin-diving equipment? The tanks, masks, fins, that stuff?”

She nodded. “In the room beside where the boys sleep. You wish me to bring it?”

“Can you get it without being seen?”

“Truly.” She rose, seized the dress at the hem and pulled it over her head. She stood in the bra and a pair of men's shorts knotted around the waist. “Nobody see me at night when I wear no clothing.”

Burt wondered if he'd ever get used to the way women had lately disrobed in his presence as though he were a bronze Buddha. He watched her untie the shorts, drop them to the floor, then kneel with her back to him. “Will you help? I do not understand the hook.”

As Burt unhooked the clasp, he asked: “Can you carry the stuff? Those tanks are heavy.”

“I am more strong than Coco,” she said. “He learn this one night when he catch me in the path.” She shrugged off the bra and walked to the cave entrance. She turned, invisible except for her teeth and eyes. “You sleep. I bring everything.”

Burt lay down on the cushion and tried to visualize a map of the Grenadines. Mayero was the nearest populated island to the Tobago Cays; he vaguely remembered a tiny, African-like cluster of thatched huts. He would leave the island at dawn, invisible beneath the water, swim to Mayero, leave his tanks there as a deposit on a rowboat. He'd row across the long stretch of open sea to the Tobago Cays, pick up Tracy Keener if she was there, and …

Maudie's hands shook him awake. “Sir, will you look?”

He raised his hands and saw the equipment lined up for his inspection. Tanks, carrying frame, fins, mask, belt of weights, knife—

“You forgot the regulator.”

“What is that?” Her naked body was wet and glistening like an otter's pelt.

“A round thing on a black hose. Goes in your mouth.”

“I get it,” she said, and left.

This time he did not wake up when she returned. He dreamed that he was swimming and encountering a black-backed porpoise in the water. He was wrestling the porpoise, trying to push it beneath him, when he woke up and looked down into the wide white eyes of Maudie. She lay passive in his arms, using none of her boasted strength.

He rolled onto his back. “Sleep on the other side of the cave, Maudie. I've got a long swim tomorrow.”

ELEVEN

He rowed across the silent, oily sea. Behind him lay the main cluster of the Tobago Cays, four islands so close together that men could converse from one to the other and hardly raise their voices. He had searched all four without finding any sign of her; only some immense turtle shells where fishermen had long ago stopped for a feast. Now he rowed toward one lonely island a mile or so from the others. The fisherman in Mayero had called it Petit Tabac; it looked odd with a single palm tree growing from the low bush-covered mound in the center. He decided to land on the sand spit which curved out at the western end. Gray rocks bit through the surf around it, but the sea was calm enough to land without danger. He was thankful for the calm sea, with reservations, for it was a heavy, threatening quietness. And so hot. He took one hand off the oars and touched the soft blisters on his nose. The man on Mayero had said: “Hurricane comin'.” And Burt had said: “I've been hearing that since I came to the islands. When will it come?” “Today,” said the man, and in that matter-of-fact way the islanders talk of death, had added: “You will die on the sea.”

Now Burt could see the black cloud like a low obsidian cliff on-the eastern horizon. He would have been thankful for rain—just a little. The sun was a white-hot rivet tacked to a blue-steel sheet of sky. Sweat made his palms slick on the oars and complicated the task of working the boat in through the rocks. He reached the line of low breakers and leaped out, seized the prow of the boat and dragged it up the steeply sloping beach. Damn, they made these things heavy. Not more than six feet long, and it must weigh a hundred pounds. It took all his strength to drag it ten feet above the surf-line. He reached beneath the thwart and took out an oilskin bag containing a tin of biscuits and two cans of bully beef. He tied it to his belt beside the plastic-handled fish-knife, then climbed up the slithering sand to the top of the mound.

The entire island was less than a quarter-mile long. It formed a narrow crescent which began where he stood and dwindled to a line of rocks on the eastern end. There the pelicans sat hunched over, like moviegoers waiting in the rain. He saw two structures of black rock, shaped like Navajo hogans. It was the only shelter on the island; she would be there if anywhere.

He jumped and slapped his ankle, saw the blood trickle down from the bite of a sandfly. He started down the beach. A gust of wind tore the breath from his lungs, stung his face with sand, and then was gone. He looked to the east and was appalled to see how the cloud had grown while he was beaching his boat. Now it covered the lower quarter of the eastern sky, black as approaching night. It was laced with red and yellow veinings of lightning, like mace on nutmeg. He felt a chill of foreboding and looked at his boat lying vulnerable on the sand. He ran back, uncoiled the heavy line and tied it to a jutting boulder. Then he ran back down the beach, his canvas sneakers slapping against the hard-packed sand.