A Wild and Lonely Place (24 page)

Back at the apartment I checked my travel bag. Nothing there that I cared about, and a good thing, since the bag would have
to be abandoned. I zipped it up and took it to the living room. “Okay to store this here?” I asked.

Connors nodded and stowed it in a closet. “All set?”

“Guess so.”

“Those clothes don’t look too great for swimming.”

“I’m wearing my suit underneath.”

“Then let’s get this show on the road.”

The L4 Buccaneer skimmed above the glittering moon-shot water on a due-south course. Darkness enveloped us, and the roar of
the engine made conversation impossible.

I was sitting in back, rather than up front with Connors. At first I’d climbed in beside him, fiddled with adjusting the seat,
then announced I’d be more comfortable if I could stretch out preparatory to my long swim. He accepted the reason without
question.

I began my preparations, moving slowly so nothing would alert him. It’s all in the timing, I told myself. Don’t rush.

Don’t rush, and don’t think ahead. Concentrate on each step, and then the one after it.

When I was ready I leaned forward. Tapped Connors on the shoulder and asked through the headset, “How much longer till we
get to Marlin Landing?”

“Ten minutes, give or take.”

I’d timed it perfectly. “Okay,” I said, “we’re changing course.”

“…What?”

I brought up the pistol that I’d carefully removed from the waterproof pack and jammed it against the base of his skull. “It’s
loaded, and I’m prepared to use it. Do exactly as I say.”

Alarm tightened his features. “Are you insane? What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“I’m a whole lot more sane than you and Zeff Lash were when you concocted your plan to get rid of me. You must’ve thought
it would cancel out a hell of a big gambling debt if you did Klaus Schechtmann and Dawud Hamid a favor.”

Abruptly he averted his eyes. That and his silence were all the confirmation I needed.

My anger rekindled. Easy now, I cautioned myself.

I said, “Your new course is due northwest. Rendezvous Bay. Got that?”

“…Yeah.”

“Good. Set it and don’t deviate. I’ll know if you do. I guess Hy didn’t mention it, but I’m a pilot myself.”

Connors muttered something I couldn’t catch. Garden-variety expletive, no doubt. He began correcting course, and in a few
moments the seaplane’s wing dipped and we made our turn.

Connors remained silent for a while, but eventually his curiosity overcame him. “Why Anguilla?”

“I’m not sure you really want to know.”

When I last saw him Cam Connors was trying to convince the Anguillan authorities that he didn’t know how the packet of cocaine
had gotten under the front passenger seat of his seaplane. The American tourist who had alerted them by phone that her charter
pilot planned to smuggle the drugs in at Rendezvous Bay that evening was released into the hands of the Reverend Michael Gadieux,
pastor of a nearby Seventh-day Adventist church.

Gadieux, a tall dour man, was silent as we drove away from the police station. I gathered he disapproved of Regina’s method
for getting Connors out of my life and into a place where he couldn’t contact anyone on Jumbie Cay, but it seemed to me that
Cam wasn’t being punished nearly enough for conspiring to turn me over to Schechtmann and his people. In the end he probably
wouldn’t be charged with anything. There was no real proof that the drugs were his; only my smeared fingerprints were on the
bag that Regina had confiscated from a Central American refugee earlier that year; and since I was leaving the island, there
would be no witness against him.

Gadieux drove along a paved two-lane highway toward the west end of the island—on the left-hand side, as Anguilla was a British
dependency. We passed through small settlements that were largely dark at this hour; I could tell little about my surroundings
and quite frankly didn’t care. This island was only a stepping-stone to Jumbie Cay.

Finally we turned onto a dirt secondary road; the car’s headlights showed it cut straight through scrub vegetation toward
the sea. At its end I saw a few lights, and as we drew closer I heard music—not the hard-driving beat I’d become accustomed
to, but jazz with a faint calypso rhythm. Gadieux stopped the car at a low white frame house where a number of vehicles were
parked.

“He’s expecting you,” he said. After a momentary hesitation he added, “Good luck.”

I thanked him and got out, crossed sandy ground to the house. At its side was a latticed area; I stepped in, saw it led to
a ramshackle deck overlooking the water. Below, the waves broke gently on a rocky beach; the wind blew warm and steady, dampening
my skin with salty spray. Light spilled across the deck from windows and leaked around the door to my left.

When I knocked the music stopped abruptly. A male voice said, “Okay, we’ll break till tomorrow night. I got business to take
care of.”

Voices murmured, chairs scraped, objects thumped. The door opened and a bony-faced man with very dark skin, a piratical blue
headband, and a gold hoop earring looked out. Behind him two other men and a woman were stowing instruments in cases.

“Ms. McCone?”

“Yes. Mr. Fisher?”

“Lloyd.”

“Sharon.”

That established, he let me inside. The musicians brushed past me with their cases, nodding in greeting. Lloyd said, “A sideline.
We play gigs at the tourist hangouts on weekends.”

“And during the week?”

“I take more tourists out on sight-seeing charters. Visitors from your country are Anguilla’s economic base. It’s not the
sleepy little island I remember from childhood.”

“You’re a native?” He didn’t sound like one.

“Originally, but my family moved to Florida when I was around eight. A few years ago when the developers finished ruining
Fort Myers, I decided to move back—just in time to watch the developers ruin Anguilla.”

“It’s that bad?”

“On its way. But let’s get down to business. You want to go to old Zebediah Altagracia’s place.”

“Yes. His daughter said you’re familiar with it.”

“I am. The old man’s doctor lives here on Anguilla; I take him over there to make periodic house calls.”

“Altagracia’s ill?”

“No. The house calls are an excuse to play cards.”

I looked at my watch. It was already after one. “How long will it take to get there?”

“Not very. I’ve got a high-powered speedboat.”

“I’ll need a couple of hours of darkness to operate in.”

“You’ll have them, but we better get started.”

* * *

Lloyd cut the speedboat’s power a good ways from shore. All I could make out were orange lights that blinked irregularly—tree
branches moving across them in the sea breeze, I guessed. He said, “I could go in closer, but that might alert the wrong people.
Can you swim it?”

I measured the distance with my eyes. “Yes.”

“Okay. You strike out for those lights; they’re on Zeb’s terrace. When you get closer you’ll make out a concrete pier anchored
to the rocks. The current’s strong through there, so swim hard or you’ll get sucked past the pier to the south. When you grab
onto it, be careful; it’s crumbly and jagged in places. Up top there’s a gap about halfway down where it’s fallen apart and
been bridged with some planks and a board; watch that, too. At the end of the pier you’ll find a path through a palmetto grove;
it ends at the terrace. Zeb’ll be waiting for you on the veranda.”

While he spoke I shed my sandals, stripped to the bathing suit I wore under my shirt and trousers, and carefully removed the
tape that held the waterproof pack in place. It was considerably lighter than before, as I’d ditched the gun in the seaplane
for the Anguillan authorities to discover. Now I stowed the pack in a pocket by the seat. I wouldn’t need money, documents,
or credit cards on Jumbie Cay—and if I didn’t return to the boat, I’d never need them again.

Lloyd added, “I’ll be waiting where you told me. Can the kid swim?”

“I don’t know. If not, I can help her.” I hesitated, gazing at the shifting pattern of lights on shore. “Look,” I said, “if…something
happens and we’re not back by daybreak, don’t jeopardize yourself. Go home, call the San Francisco number I gave you, and
use the emergency code. They’ll put you in touch with a man named Gage Renshaw. Tell him what’s happened. He’ll…do something
about it and arrange for you to be paid the rest of your money.”

Lloyd nodded, looking grim. His hoop earring glinted in the low light from the instrument panel.

I stood up, sat on the boat’s side, swung my legs over.

“Remember to watch that current,” Lloyd said.

* * *

Black star-shot sky, blacker water. Orange lights in the distance. I’m all alone. Should be afraid, but I’m not.

Waves gentle, water warm. Soft tropic breeze against my face.

But my limbs don’t feel leaden. I don’t start to sink. I don’t want to lose myself in this dark water.

There’s no batlike shape floating on the surface. No drowned woman with blank forever eyes. Just me. Me and my determination
to get to Habiba.

I’m swimming strong and steady for shore. Easily winning my battle with the current. And I’m not even winded.

* * *

By the time the battle was over I
was
winded. I pulled myself up onto the pier and lay on its rough concrete, gasping and spitting seawater. Then something stung
the back of my neck and buzzing assailed my ear. A second sting on my forearm, and I leaped up, swatting furiously. The concrete
was uneven and crumbling; it lacerated my bare soles as I ran along. The board that bridged the gap rumbled and pitched under
my weight. I teetered, in danger of plunging back into the water, regained my balance and rushed ahead toward a sandy path
bordered by conch shells.

Palmetto and sea grape grew densely there, and mangrove roots encroached. Dry fronds rustled overhead and taller trees creaked
and sighed. I felt my way through the darkness, alternately pushing branches aside and slapping at the persistent insects.
The path went straight for a ways, then hooked back toward the sea. I’d begun to wonder if I’d taken a wrong turn when I swept
through a thick stand of palmetto onto a tiled terrace. The lights I’d been homing in on were imitation torches mounted on
poles along a low wall that bowed out above the water.

The terrace contained nothing but a dead coconut palm in a central planting area; there were deep cracks in the tiles. Cracks,
too, in the walls of the single-story pink stucco house on its far side. The house’s veranda faced me, three wide steps leading
up to it. Its sagging roof was supported by columns to which stout vines clung, their peach and purple blossoms draping down
onto the railings and emitting a scent so sweet it cloyed.

I remained where I was, flat brown leaves scudding around my feet. I could see no lights in the house, could hear nothing
above the crash of the surf beyond the terrace wall. Then I spotted a red ember glowing on the veranda; it moved, grew brighter,
described an arc, and went out. Almost immediately whoever was there lighted another cigarette.

“You are very prompt, Miss McCone.” The British-accented voice was a man’s, made gravelly by age.

I moved toward the veranda and mounted the steps. “Mr. Altagracia?”

“Who else would I be? Don’t ask unnecessary questions.”

I located him in the gloom some six feet away, reclining on an ancient aluminum chaise longue under a louvered window that
opened into the house itself. He was long-boned and gaunt, clad only in a pair of madras shorts. His head was completely bald,
but a thick white beard hung halfway down his chest, vivid against his dark skin. He regarded me testily through gold-rimmed
glasses.

“Don’t just stand there.”

I approached him, acutely aware of the skimpiness of my bathing suit. A mosquito nailed me solidly on my thigh. I swatted,
missing it. Another got me on my bare midriff. I swatted again.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Mr. Altagracia reached for a can of insect repellent that sat among a welter of objects on a rusty metal
TV tray and extended it to me. “Use this. Then put on that shirt hanging on the chair over there. I’m not so old that I can’t
be distracted by the sight of so much female flesh.”

I sprayed on the repellent, then donned the shirt. It came to mid-thigh, and I had to roll up the sleeves four turns.

“The shoes under the chair are for you, too. Abandoned by my daughter when she fled this den of iniquity.”

They were rubber thongs, close to my size. I slipped my feet into them and turned around.

Mr. Altagracia looked me over and nodded. “It isn’t Paris couture, but it will do. Bring that chair over here and sit down.”

Regina had warned me her father was a curmudgeon, but she hadn’t mentioned his fondness for giving orders. Well, from years
of experience with my military father, I knew how to deal with the likes of him. I picked up the light aluminum chair and
set it on the other side of the TV tray. Sat and looked attentive.

“I know you’re not deaf, but have you by chance become mute?”

“No, sir, I’m just economical with words—even if I do ask unnecessary questions.”

He frowned and his lips pushed out belligerently. “You think I’m a cantankerous old man.”

“Does it matter?”

“It does not.”

“Good. Let’s get down to business.”

He hesitated, eyeing me thoughtfully. “I like a young woman with spirit.”

“And I like a cantankerous old man who agreed to help me sight unseen.”

“We will work well together, then. I assume everything has so far gone according to plan?”

“Yes. The pilot’s in custody on Anguilla, and Lloyd Fisher’s moving into position off Goat Point. You told your daughter that
the little girl has arrived. Were you able to find out how she is?”

“Lucinda Mumms, woman who lives down the road, cleans for them out at the compound. I pay her to keep me informed about what
goes on there. She says the child is very unhappy; she doesn’t cry, but Lucinda can tell she’s very upset.”