The Killer Touch (18 page)

“I understand it now,” she said. “He'd taken me into his confidence; now he had to take control of me. I remember the night I realized Rolf had taken over management of my life. We were eating at a restaurant overlooking the sea. I felt the kind of panic you get when an elevator sticks between floors. I told him I was quitting my job, and he nodded as though he had been just about to suggest it himself. You could never get ahead of Rolf. Then he said: ‘I've decided to get married, Tracy. Why don't you think it over?' Well you know the cool impersonal way he talks, as though he'd just recognized the need for a wife in the abstract, a need which had nothing to do with me. When I realized he was proposing, I looked down at my lobster and waited for the wave of joy which is supposed to hit you at this time. When it didn't come, I told myself I was a fool for not taking a rich handsome man when he was in an offering mood. Still I don't remember thinking it over or saying, yes, I'll marry you Rolf. Suddenly one day I was standing in front of a stranger with a Bible in his hand, and there was Rolf beside me. I ran.” She laughed. “The minister's wife ran after me. All girls felt that way, she said. Ten years from now I would laugh and wonder how I could have been so foolish. So I thought, well, you've got to play the rules, Tracy, marry this man and be blushing and happy. So I went back in and the ritual came off. I didn't even have to think; they told me every move to make. If it wasn't set up that way there'd be a lot fewer marriages. What they need now is some ritual to carry you through the wedding night.”

She was silent, looking down at her tar-blackened fingers. “I don't even like to think about it.”

“Don't.”

“Why not?” She squinted at him. “How could I keep secrets from you? You've fed me, dressed me … I've been like a baby just being born. This is another bit of the old Tracy. So I'll tell it and get rid of it.”

But she fell silent again. He put one finished oar aside and was starting another when she spoke again:

“He brought a bottle up to the room and fixed me drink after drink. He never touched it. I poured it down, my nerves stretched tight, getting sorrier every minute about what I'd done. And Rolf watched me with that faint smile, until finally I asked with a little laugh: ‘Well … don't we go to bed or something?' He laughed too and said: ‘You don't want to.' And I said, ‘But I do, certainly I do,' even though he was right, as he usually is. Then we got into this unbearable discussion of whether I wanted to or not, and I began to wish I hadn't drunk anything, because he was twisting my words, making me say things I didn't want to say. And finally I shouted: ‘What am I supposed to do?' And he said, ‘If you wanted to, you wouldn't have to ask.' I left him and went out to a bar, and drank more liquor until I was just sober enough to fall into a taxi and give my address. Then I sort of dozed off, half-aware that we had pulled off the road, and the taxidriver was getting in the back. Suddenly the door opened and there was Rolf. I just remember his white teeth shining and his grunts of violence, then the driver was slumped down between the seats, unconscious. And then Rolf … while the cars whizzed past on the highway and the driver gurgled through his broken mouth … Rolf consummated our marriage.” She looked down for a moment. “Before I came out of my daze, Rolf took me off to Nassau and treated me like a queen for two weeks. I'm … susceptible to that sort of thing. When we got back, we got into another fight about a trip he was making, and taking that woman along. I knew about her. And … it happened again. Only with a guy in a bar; Rolf came in when he was trying to buy me a drink and cut him to pieces without even mussing his hair. And then … home again. I began to realize he couldn't make love without fighting first—”

“He is crazy, didn't you know that?”

“I thought so. But he talked so logically. You try to tell him and he winds up proving you're the one who's crazy. Arguing with him is like firing bullets against a rock; he catches all your words and throws them back at you. And the bottle was always there, for me …”

“How'd he get you on the needle?”

“Oh, a bad hangover. He gave me some white powder to sniff. It was … wonderful. I'd been taking it for about a week and thought it was some fantastic new headache powder—don't laugh, I was stupid, I know that. I started complaining about it burning my nose, and he brought home a needle. Then I knew it was heroin. I threw a scene, I told him no, no, no, and he just smiled and said, “Well, I'll leave this here in case you need it. I didn't want it. But then I learned for the first time that nobody wants it. You need it, like food. Somebody mentions it and your insides light up. Your mind says, take it away, and your body says
gimme, gimme, gimme
. So … I got hooked. Rolf was finally in complete control. He kept me supplied and ignored me. I didn't care; all my troubles were soft fluffy things I could blow away like dandelion seed.” She looked up in sudden fright. “I've lost the last four years, Burt. Can I ever get them back?”

He shook his head. “What's gone is gone, but there are more years to come.”

“And what if I see Rolf and he says, ‘Here's some stuff, baby, in case you want to get straight?'”

“We'll have to make sure you don't meet him.” Burt held up the finished paddle. “Ready to go?”

“As ready as I'll ever be.”

THIRTEEN

Tracy bailed with half of a coconut shell while Burt rowed. He was heading north, but the current pulled him inexorably south into the open sea. The handmade oars twisted in his palms; they were blistered and bleeding when Tracy looked up and shouted:

“Look!”

Burt turned to see a schooner bearing down on them. A moment later O'Ryan leaned out of the wheelhouse and beamed down. “Man, they tell me on Mayero you crazy. I sail over to get the body.”

In the wheelhouse five minutes later, O'Ryan produced a quart of black rum. He looked at Tracy shivering beside Burt and trying not to choke on her rum. “She look nothing like when I see her first.”

“She's been through a hurricane out in the open.”

“Eh—eh. That was a bad one. Many people die.” He told about a fishing village on St. Vincent which had been destroyed by the storm. Flooding rivers had cascaded down out of the mountains, swept the shingle huts into the sea and buried the site in twelve feet of silt. A hundred bodies had been recovered and the digging continued. O'Ryan then passed from the tragic to the commonplace without changing his tone; Joss's island seemed to have suffered little damage, he said; a few palms had blown over and half the roof of the beach club was gone. He was sure nobody was hurt, otherwise Joss would have signaled him in.

“You saw her?”

“Yes. She come out on the beach and waved me off.”

Burt frowned, then he understood. No doubt Ace had watched from hiding while he held a gun on Coco or Godfrey or one of the others. Rolf's men knew how to get the most out of hostages.

“Was there a launch in the lagoon?”

“No.”

Ah, thought Burt, then Rolf's return had been delayed. There might be a chance to bag the whole crew.

People stared as they walked down the cobbled waterfront street of Kingstown, St. Vincent. O'Ryan had loaned Burt a shirt which was far too big for him, and had produced a gaudy dress with red polka dots which hung from Tracy's shoulders like a laundry bag. She stumbled beside him, and Burt saw the gleam of perspiration on her pale face.

“Is it coming again?”

“A … little.”

He watched her carefully as he said: “The doctor isn't too far from here—”

“Don't say it.” She seized his hand in a painful grip. “I'm too near the edge. Stay with me, don't let me out of your sight. Please. You're my backbone.”

The sergeant raised his brows as they stepped into the police station. He was a tall, thin blue-black Negro, dressed in a white jacket, black shorts, and white knee socks. Burt read in his eyes the temptation to eject such a disreputable looking pair, then the second thought that these people were white tourists, and that nothing could be lost in giving them quiet and respectful attention. He offered them chairs, introduced himself as Sergeant George, and fingered the buckle of his leather crossbelt while Burt talked. When Burt finished, he said:

“You're a detective sergeant?”

“Yes. I don't have my badge—”

Sergeant George waved his hand. “It wouldn't have any standing here anyway.” He nudged some papers on his desk. “I recall reading about the ambassador's death. The papers said nothing about missing diamonds, nor about any international art dealer and his wife. Thieves broke in, shot the ambassador, presumably kidnapped his mistress, girl friend or what have you.” He turned abruptly to Tracy. “He says your husband engineered the robbery. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“You would sign a deposition to that effect?”

“Of course.”

“Not that it would hold up in our court, but it would give me something to take to my superiors.” He turned to Burt. “You understand that nearly everybody is attending the disaster at Layou. The governor as well. All communications are out, so it will be necessary for me to drive up and get the necessary warrants. The roads are washed out, but I should probably be back late tomorrow.”

Burt felt a cold fury pass through him, but he kept his voice level. “Do you know Joss, Sergeant?”

“Of course. Quite a fascinating person—”

“She's on the island with two gunmen. They've already killed one of her boys. While we're sitting here talking politely, making depositions, and going through channels to make sure we don't get any demerits against our next promotion, she could be dying.”

The sergeant's face froze for an instant, his nostrils flaring in anger. Abruptly he stood up, opened a drawer, and took out a pistol in a button-down holster. He clipped it to his belt, reached in another drawer and took out a .32 automatic. He put it on the desk. “Take it. Officially I didn't give it to you.” He looked at Tracy. “We'll take you by the hotel,”

“I'm going.”

Burt read in her eyes the fear of being alone. “Yes, she goes with us.”

Sergeant George sighed. “Life was simpler before I became a sergeant anyway. Come on, you two. I'll requisition a launch at the jetty.”

“What if Rolf comes in at Grenada?” asked Burt.

Sergeant George clenched his jaw muscles, then bowed to Burt in exaggerated politeness. “Thank you, Sergeant, for your assistance. I shall radio the authoritties their descriptions.”

They started across the wide sweep of Kingstown harbor in a battered cabin cruiser which looked as though it had barely survived the Normandy landing. Burt, standing behind Sergeant George at the wheel, looked up through the port and saw a seaplane dropping down for a landing. “Where does it come from?”

“Trinidad, via Grenada.” He looked at Burt.“You suppose they're on it?”

“Let's find out.”

Their old cruiser made less than fifteen knots per hour. The floatplane had landed and a customs boat had pulled up alongside by the time they drew near. Burt peered through the window and saw Bunny step onto the customs boat. She looked chic and lovely in her smoke-blue suit.

“That's her,” said Burt. “She's alone.”

“I'll get her.”

“She could be armed.”

“Stay out of sight. I'll show you what official courtesy can do.”

Burt watched through the porthole as Sergeant George stepped across to the customs boat, spoke a word to the officer, then bent his long body into a bow toward Bunny. She smiled and gave him her arm. He helped her onto the cruiser and opened the bulkhead door for her. Her eyes flew wide as she saw Burt and Tracy. She started to back out of the cabin and bumped into Sergeant George who blocked the door. She clawed open her purse, but Burt leaped forward and jerked it out of her hand. He lifted out a pearl-handled .32 and dropped it into his pocket.

“Where's Rolf?” asked Burt.

She showed her lovely white teeth in a sneer.

Burt shrugged. “Okay, you'll make me work for it.” He turned to the sergeant. “Can you get us out into the harbor? I'll go on deck and have a talk with her.”

When they were out in the harbor, Burt had her standing facing the waist-high railing. She gave Burt a half-smile over her shoulder. “You won't throw me overboard, fuzz. I know you that well.”

“I'll make you wish I had.”

He stood for a moment thinking of how she'd tortured him, of Joss and the boys at the mercy of Ace and Hoke, and finally of her plan to take over Tracy's life after she was dead. The last thought gave him the will needed. With one swift movement he bent and seized her ankles, lifted her, and pushed her forward with his shoulder. She screamed as her head struck the rushing water. Burt held to her silk-clad ankles as she twisted and tried to raise herself. The skirt fell over her head and he noted that she'd worn the black panties decorated with kissing red lips. He counted to ten, then pulled her back halfway across the railing. “Where's Rolf?”

She coughed and sputtered. “Go to hell, you dirty—”

The water stopped her voice as he lowered her again. This time he counted to twenty. When he pulled her up, she collapsed on deck and threw up a gallon of sea water.

“He's … coming in at Grenada …” she gasped finally. “He's got the man with him … the man with the money. He planned to stop off for Tracy.”

“Why?”

“To use her to … make you tell where you hid the diamonds.”

Back in the cabin, she slumped on the low bench which ran across one wall. Burt told Sergeant George what he'd learned.

“That counts him out,” said the sergeant. “They'll pick him up in Grenada. Now how do we get the others without getting Joss killed?”