The Killer Touch (2 page)

Now the vein throbbed, swollen purple. With flawless rhythm the glass bird swooped down and thrust its glittering steel beak into the knotted worm of the vein. Its glass intestine filled with thick red blood, blended with the fluid inside and became pink. Her thumb pressed down and the fluid disappeared.…

Ah …

Warmth in her chest, like an explosion of pleasure. It rippled along her skin; her lips spread in a loose smile and a faint breathy giggle escaped them. Finally she withdrew the needle and laid it on the stand. A fly came to drink of the glistening red droplet which hung from its tip. She regarded it with a benevolent smile. Get high, little fly. After a long time she carried the lamp into the bedroom and sat down on the bed. The room seemed to flatten out and relax like a cat stretching itself before a fire. Before it had been a jangling, jarring chaos of corners and angles; now it was exactly right, and there was beauty in each joining of stone. The air was filled with streamers of light, rose, purple, green and blue; they wove themselves into a net and enveloped her, swinging her gently. Smoke curled from the lamp like a satin ribbon edged with purple and orange. She felt a gratitude for the lamp and then no gratitude; she was the lamp, the house, the sea and the universe, all joined in one.

But …

Someone was standing in the door behind her. She fought to ignore it, knowing that if she came down she could never go as high again.

“Tracy.”

Rolf's voice. How had he got here? What does he want? I'll push him out of my mind, not even think about him …

But the effort of holding herself high caused her to lose it. She felt herself coming down, down.

“Please, Rolf,” she spoke without turning. “Later we can talk.”

“Just struck yourself, did you, baby? All squared now, eh?”

“Mmmm.”

“What are you writing?”

A hand appeared from behind her shoulder. It seemed almost to be hers, except for the long spatulate fingers. The square-cut diamond on his little finger caught the lamplight and sent yellow shards flashing around the room. She would have enjoyed the diamond universe, but Rolf was reading her letter. Why did he read aloud?

“You've decided what, Tracy? What have you decided? Suicide? You've mentioned it enough.”

Round rolling words like lumps of cold gravy dripping on her head. She knew the answers but there were more important questions, and each question had its own answer.

His hand grasped hers and held it under the lamp. She heard him laughing. “You couldn't do it, could you? Not while you had your needle. I counted on that.” He released her hand. “How do you know death isn't the same thing, Tracy, only better? How do you know death isn't the biggest fix of all?”

He turned her to face him; he must have done it roughly because she felt pain somewhere behind the soft pillowing pleasure. She lowered her head, but he lifted her chin and met her eyes.

“Look at me, Tracy. You know something funny?”

She wondered if it was the lamplight which made his face seem molded in wax. Even the blond mustache looked like the ones they put on department store dummies. But the pale blue eyes were real; they held a look of amused pity as though he had somehow learned the hour of her death.

The eyes didn't change when he slapped her.

“Answer me, Tracy. You know what's funny about your trying to kill yourself?”

She looked out of a long dark tunnel; she was hidden up high behind her eyes, protected by the hard helmet of her skull. She would stay here quietly, warm and cozy, where he couldn't hurt her.

He slapped her again, then again. The waxy mask seemed to crack and fall away, leaving a wizened old man's face. His hands encircled her throat, and she realized abruptly there was no use hiding inside her skull. There was no air. She clawed at his hands, and up inside her brain the cells began blinking off like lights at bedtime.

ONE

Burt March sat on a coil of rope and watched the green-yellow islands of the Grenadines sail past. The schooner wallowed through a heavy sea, but there was no wind and the sails were furled. From below came the intermittent growl of the diesel engine; an occasional vile whiff of exhaust fumes reminded Burt of the city he'd left the day before.

He gazed around the open deck, crowded with islanders returning from St. Vincent after selling their vegetables, pigs and chickens. A rum bottled passed from one black hand to another; a Negro girl flashed him an over-the-shoulder look, then reached into her basket and tossed him a ripe mango. He caught it and smiled at her; she turned quickly to whisper to a girl who sat beside her. Their burst of tinkling laughter pleased him; he was glad to leave the grit and sticky July heat of Florida, to forget the pinch of a shoulder holster, and to be among people who didn't know him as Dective Sergeant Burton March of the Crystal City Police Department. He hated the puffed, indignant faces of solid citizens, the uneasy look from those who had nothing to fear from him, and the pinched, scared faces of those who did. He hated the scared faces most, maybe because he knew others in the department who liked them scared.

A boy picked his way across the deck, collecting fares. Burt drew out his wallet and removed a British West Indian dollar. “I get off at Isle de Trois.”

“I think we don't stop there, sir.”

Burt looked up. The boy was shirtless and barefoot, with trousers cut off at the knees. “Why not?”

“Too much sea. The water very swift there, no good bottom to hold anchor.”

“Well, can you get me in close? Joss could send out a boat to pick me up.”

The boy nodded. “I ask the captain.”

As the boy started away, Burt called, “How old are you?”

“Fourteen year.” The boy squinted at Burt for a moment, then shrugged and started up the gangway.

Burt sighed and pulled a paperback book from the pocket of his white canvas trousers.
The same age
. Funny. And the kid that got sick on the plane looked around fourteen, too. Burt remembered the smell of fear in the darkened store, the roar of the other's gun and the ripping pain in his thigh, then his own reflexive shot at the muzzle flash. He saw again the beardless face, curiously feminine in death, and the ugly redness where Burt's slug had torn through his throat.…

Burt closed the book and returned it to his pocket. There would be time to read on the island, time to dive in the air-clear water, fish, and walk on the salt-white sand and put strength in his leg, or just to sit at the top of the island's lone hill and think. What about? Well, think about reaching the age of twenty-eight and deciding you've picked the wrong career. That would keep him busy for his entire month of sick leave. He wondered if he should've sent Joss a wire … but then she'd told him once that nobody came during the summer. He'd probably have the whole square mile of the island to himself.

The boy returned and said the captain wanted to see him. Burt planted his bamboo cane and rose. He was slightly less than six feet tall, heavy-set in a hard-muscled way which made him look average. He used the cane no more than necessary to steady himself on the rolling deck.

The wheelhouse swarmed with girls in bright-colored dresses. It was a mark of status for a girl to ride with the skipper, and Captain O'Ryan was notoriously free with his favor. He was a blue-black Negro who walked softly, talked slowly, and had a barrel-chested build.

He grinned as Burt entered. “Mister March. I din' recognize you when you board. Man, you pale, lose weight.” He gripped his jaw to indicate hollow cheeks.

Burt held up his cane. “Had a little accident, so they handed me an extra vacation.”

“So you rest with Miss Joss, eh? If she leave you be. Maybe I stop off one day when the sea calm down, bring some rum.” O'Ryan looked at the deck, dipping and swaying below, then raised his eyes to the southeastern horizon. “I think a hurricane trying to work up.” He looked sideways at Burt. “You never been in one of our hurricanes?”

“No.”

“Ah, man, they come rare and small, but hard, hard.” He grinned as though looking forward to it. “Well, we get you close and see if Miss Joss will pick you up. You give her something for me?”

“Sure,” said Burt, then frowned as O'Ryan drew a smart, olive-green leather purse from beneath the binnacle. “That doesn't belong to Joss.”

“No, a lady left it on my ship three days ago. She staying now with Joss.”

A twinkle in O'Ryan's eye gave new significance to the expensive look of the purse and the seductive scent which rose from it. Burt suspected that if O'Ryan fulfilled his promise to stop on the island, it wouldn't be to visit Burt.

“Pretty lady, huh?”

“Pretty, yes, but—” O'Ryan frowned. “Her eyes move about like butterflies, never still.” He shrugged and turned back to the wheel as the schooner approached a cluster of islands. “But you all that way, man, you live too fast up there.”

Back on deck, Burt sat on his coil of rope and dangled the purse thoughtfully between his knees. He felt an irritating urge to peer inside and learn something more about the girl. If he dropped it, perhaps it would spring open …

Put it away, March. You're off-duty. Forget it.

He set it on the deck between his feet, then braced himself as the schooner heeled over abruptly. They were negotiating the swift frothy channel between two islands. Ten yards away a black jagged rock thrust up from the sea, bird droppings melting down its side like cake frosting. The schooner dipped, then soared sickeningly. It poised for a second, tilted, slid into the trough. There was a shuddering thump against the hull. A wall of white water plumed up and arched overhead. Burt put his head between his knees and felt the water drum against his back. Another swoop, a dip, and another shower, smaller than the first, the schooner righted itself and entered smooth water. Burt settled back and looked at the people sprawled on the streaming deck. A few of the girls were rising to their knees, throwing their dripping hair off their foreheads and, with a total lack of self-consciousness, raising their dresses and wringing out the water. Burt felt his feet squishing inside his white crepe-soled sneakers and decided that getting soaked was a part of inter-island travel, not at all unpleasant.

“Oh-oh, the purse. He looked down, felt a twinge of alarm, then saw it caught in a loop of rope, half-submerged in the runoff water. He picked it up and shook off the water. Better see if any got inside …

He paused with his hand on the catch, then shrugged.

The smell struck him again as he opened the purse; an exciting smell of perfume. Ladies' soft leather wallet.… Once started, he fell into an unconscious search pattern. The wallet's plastic windows contained a social security card issued to Miss Tracy Dunn, and a Florida driver's license for Mrs. Tracy Keener. Must have quit work after she got married, otherwise she'd have had her card changed. Age, twenty-eight. Well, well, she's a Gemini too, and the same age. Address in North Miami. Evidence was stacking up. Her married status didn't seem very important, since she'd come to the island alone. Where was Mr. Keener? Dead, divorced, separated, working … having a ball elsewhere. Weight one-oh-five, height five-four. A good build, provided the weight was arranged properly. Hair black, eyes brown. Folder of traveler's checks, all fresh and new. Whee! Hundreds, tens of 'em. Poor little working girl struck it rich. Probably married the boss's son, or the boss … Funny no pictures, probably meant she had no kids. Lipstick, bright red, a little garish for Burt's taste. Well, nobody's perfect, Can of talcum power, funny thing to carry in a purse. Or was it? He took it out and shook it, felt a soft rattle against his hand. Maybe the powder had gotten wet and lumpy …

The lid came off with a hard twist of his fingers. He shook out some powder and a capsule dropped into his palm. He felt a coldness at the back of his neck. He looked up quickly. The passengers were busy drying themselves. He cleaned off the capsule and saw the white powder inside. He didn't bother taking it apart. What else comes in capsules which you have to hide inside a talcum powder can? There were fourteen in all. The girl had a heavy, heavy habit.…

He put everything back in the can, replaced the lid, returned the can to the purse and closed it. She'd been nervous as a cat, and why not? Carrying a couple hundred bucks worth of heroin. But then, to walk off the boat and leave it …

Isle de Trois jutted abruptly from the sea to the south, humped up to a five-hundred foot prominence, then sloped gently to the north. As the schooner neared, Burt could make out the three black crags which gave the island its name. The upper slope was clothed in cedar, frangipani and shoulder-high citronella grass. At the water's edge a line of palm trees overhung the thatched roof of the beach club. In front of the club curved a silver-white beach strewn with conch shells and bleached coral. A gentle swell disturbed the lagoon and caressed the beach.

Burt had first seen the island from the deck of a cruise ship five years ago. He had recognized a scene he'd dreamed of years before, while his breath froze on the fringe of a parka, his finger stuck to an icy trigger and his eyes squinted across a frozen Korean landscape. He'd spent his last five vacations on the island, and while Caribbean prices had ballooned, Burt still paid the same as he had on his first visit: thirty dollars a week.

The schooner stopped fifty yards outside the semicircle of black rocks which enclosed the lagoon like the jaws of a giant beartrap. Burt stood at the rail listening to the grinding complaint of the engines as they fought the current which hissed and gurgled around the ship. A black figure clad in shorts moved languidly across the beach, dragged a tiny blue rowboat into the water, and started rowing across the lagoon. Burt recognized Joss's boatman, Coco. He was a skilled fisherman who knew every submerged rock within five miles of the island. Muscles corded in his powerful arms as he left the lagoon and entered the current. Five minutes later the boat thumped against the hull.