The Rhythm of the August Rain (33 page)

“That's Shannon's!” Eric exclaimed. She'd had it the night she'd gotten drunk and he'd put it on the bedside table.

“I think you're right,” Lambert agreed.

The four men looked at each other.

“They around here somewhere.” I-Verse turned off the flashlight. “They not far, like how he don't have no car and don't go nowhere. If is Dread, he too old, anyway.”

“Stand still,” Shad said. “Let we listen good.”

There was nothing to be heard but the creaking of bamboo.

“We have to spread out,” I-Verse said.

“If you go so”—Shad directed Lambert and Eric, pointing to the front of the shack—“we will go so.” He nodded to the rear of the house and started off.

“I don't like us splitting up,” Eric said. “If anything happens—”

“Hence the gun,” Lambert snapped as they rounded the house, its door shut. Visible in the gloom on the other side were two long buildings, their roofs fallen in.

“Looks like they had a farm here or something,” Eric commented. “This must have been—”

Lambert put his hand out, shushing him. “I hear something.” Distant voices floated through the night, no words clear.

“Where's it coming from, Lam?”

“Over there.” Lambert pointed straight ahead, and Eric screwed up his forehead to make out the dull forms of trees and hills. The voices had stopped, but there was something else. “You see that? It looks like a—”

“—a light.”

They started toward the glow, the contractor in front, plowing through the bushes behind the buildings. The light seemed to be moving up a hill, and they followed as best they could, pushing bushes and weeds aside with hands and feet.

Soon they were walking up a slope, Eric's leather shoes sliding backward on the soft earth. “I wonder where Shad is,” he muttered as he pushed at some guinea grass. “Maybe that's only the Rasta guy's flashlight.”

“I don't think so. They went in another direction.”

Fifteen minutes farther uphill, Eric halted. “Is it,” he said between breaths, “has the light—stopped moving?”

“I think you're right—and we've gained on them.”

They crouched down to cover the hundred yards separating them from the light. As they approached, they could hear voices filtering through the vegetation—a man's rumble followed by a woman's low comments.

“That's Shannon, I'm sure,” Eric whispered. The two men crept closer, the light finally visible in splices through the tall grass.

“. . . a view of the sea like you wanted,” the man was saying, his voice growly and insistent.

“Can we go back now?” Shannon was pleading with a small tremor. “I'm tired.”

Her companion gave a short laugh. “You don't have to worry about that where we going.”

Eric parted the grass. He could make out the backs of two people, Shannon and a man in a filthy shirt, his long dreadlocks blocking out the light he was holding. They were standing over a mound covered by flowers and grass.

“See how I bury you nice?” the man said, sweeping a lamp over the mound, the other hand leaning on a stick as tall as his head. “You always like lilies, so I plant them on top.”

“Very nice, you did a nice job.” Each of Shannon's words was clear but trembling. “Let's go now, you've shown me Katlyn's—my grave.”

“I want you to write a letter, so we can tell people where they to bury us, nuh?” The man moved closer to her. “Then when our time come, they can bury us here, me and you. They don't even have to dig no grave.”

“How will they know—”

“The boy will find the letter.”

Tugging at Eric's arm, Lambert whispered, “On the count of three. One, two, three!

“Hands in the air!”
he shouted as he ran toward the Rastafarian, pointing his gun, Eric stumbling behind. The big man and Shannon spun around.

“Babylon!” Zadock screamed, lifting the staff.

“Stop!” Shannon shouted—too late.

Lambert, flailing, went headfirst, Eric on top of him. Dirt showered down as they fell into the deep, narrow hole, the smell of fresh earth smothering them.

“What the—?” Eric squawked.

“Where's my gun?” Lambert said.

Eric's hand touched the gun and he gave it to Lambert as they struggled up, brushing themselves off. The top of the hole was a few inches above their heads, lamplight burnishing the leaves of the overhanging mango tree.

“Get us out of here!” Lambert shouted.

“Serve you right,” the unseen man called. “You coming to trick us and Jah trick you.”

“Shannon, you okay?” Eric yelled.

A cackle met their shouts, followed by the sounds of a struggle. The lamplight jerked around.

“You're hurting me!” Shannon cried.

“Stop hurting her!” Eric shouted.

“You mustn't go near them,” warned the man in a soft growl. “Is the same people who tear down Pinnacle. They come to arrest me. They won't give us no peace.”

Eric strained to look over the top of the hole. He could see the heads of the strange duo a few feet away, the lamp turning them into Halloween masks. Shannon was looking at the old man with worried eyes. His face was close to hers, as if he were holding her tight.

“You think you so bad,” the old man rumbled, nodding to Eric. “But I not going to let you kill us. We going to kill ourselves.”

“I don't want to kill you,” Lambert called. “Just let go of the woman—”

“She dead, anyway,” the Rasta chortled, and yanked Shannon out of sight. “Is our next grave you sitting in. She going to dead twice.”

“He's crazy,” Eric hissed.

“Get up on my knee,” Lambert said in a low voice. “Can you climb out?”

“I think so.” Eric stood on his friend's leg and put his hands on the edge of the hole, now at chest height.

“Don't try nothing!” the lunatic yelled, brandishing his stick, clutching Shannon tighter. Eric jumped down and the two men crouched as the stick thrashed above.

“I going to hit off the head of the first one who climb out!” the old man screamed.

“No, you're not!” Lambert shouted back, and fired into the mango tree.

W
e walking in circles,” Shad said irritably as I-Verse's flashlight showed yet another stand of prickly grass ahead. His tuxedo pants were snagged already, and he was wondering how much they'd make him pay for the damaged suit.

“Jah will guide us, man,” I-Verse said, humming a song in time to his steps.

“You calm, boy.”

“Nothing worth stressing up over, even this.” The big man beat back the grass to allow Shad to follow and continued humming as he started forward again.

“What you singing? I know plenty music, but I don't know that one.”

“
I-Ternal Fire
, Capleton sing it.”

“Sound nice. I must play it in the bar.”

“Pshaw, man, all good Jamaica music created by Rastafari. I wonder what the country would do without us.”

“Is not all Jamaica music write by Rasta.” Shad stopped and shook a stone out of his new shoe. “What about—”

“Starting with Bob Marley, come right down, star. Peter Tosh, Bunny Wailer, Mutabaruka, Gregory Isaacs, Dennis Brown, Barrington Levy—”

“True, is plenty.” Shad caught up with I-Verse. “How come so much Rasta is musicians?”

“Rasta music is the voice of poor people, of all downpressed. That why the music gone far now, all to Japan and Africa, everywhere. Is universal music with universal messages. When music speak for the downpressed, Jah make it go all around the world. I and I music is conscious music, it make people think, make hearts open.”

I-Verse stopped walking and turned off the flashlight. “Where Dread house?”

“Behind us, I think.”

The Rastafarian pulled a spliff out of his pocket. “A little weed going to help this journey.”

“You crazy, man. We can't be taking no weed break now.”

“Little herbal essence give us mental
livity
to find them, man. This good stuff, from Orange Hill.” I-Verse lit the joint with a lighter, took a long pull, and held his breath. When he finally exhaled, a sweet cloud surrounded them and Shad took a guilty gulp. “So is true you was going to married today?”

The would-be bridegroom pulled up the pleats of his pants and squatted down. “My girlfriend vex all now. Guests come from England and America for it.” He pictured the disappointed faces of Danny, the investor, his red-haired English girlfriend Sarah, and Ford, the trumpeter, who'd come all the way from New York. Although Shad had been prepared to pick them up from the airport, they'd arrived in Largo on Thursday in a rented car Danny had driven from Montego Bay. It wasn't going to be fun facing them when he got back.

I-Verse laughed on an exhale. “Maybe you not supposed to marry.”

“You don't know my girlfriend.”

“
Satta
, man, calm yourself. Next thing—”

An explosion rang out. “What that?” Shad cried, jumping to his feet. “Is not a gunshot?”

“Must be your friend.”

“Don't turn on the flashlight.”

They plunged into thicker foliage toward the sound, I-Verse beating the bushes away with the flashlight, their eyes getting used to the pale moonlight. They were walking up a hill now, the ocean to their right.

“Wait.” Shad pointed. “You see a light coming from up so?”

“I see it, yes.”

“Put out the spliff, man. Next thing they see us.”

The sculptor threw down the joint and stepped on it. “I and I tell you a little weed would help us.”

They continued walking uphill toward the light, pushing through the bushes, until Shad touched I-Verse's shoulder. “You hear somebody talking?”

“Not far now.”

Stooping down, they crept closer and parted the weeds. The scene in front of them was lit by a lamp on the ground. Shannon and Dread were in the middle of a clearing, he behind her holding his stick across her throat. She was trying to push the stick away, her breathing labored, but the old Rasta was holding it firmly with both hands. They were standing in front of a raised flowerbed and facing a rectangular hole, the dirt from which was piled to one side.

“Is not a grave that?” Shad whispered, nodding to the hole. “Like he going to bury her in it.”

“Throw up the gun!” the old man was calling toward the hole. “I going to kill her and then I kill myself. I know Jah send you because it our time now, and I sick of pain. But I not going to let no Babylon soldier kill me.”

Eyes closed, Shannon pushed at the stick again, her attempts futile.

A shout rang out from the hole. “Rastaman,” an unseen voice called, “you won't get away with this.”

“Backside!”
Shad hissed. “Lambert down in the hole.”

“You say you going to kill the woman.” It was Eric's voice. “Tell you what, trade me for her.”

“I not trading nothing,” Shannon's captor shouted. “And you sound like you from Canada, too. You is police from Canada, you think I don't know? The two of you is police come to get me. Well, I too smart for you now. This don't have nothing to do with you. She and I going together. She know it already, that why she come back. I telling you, throw up the gun.”

“Don't!” Shannon squeaked, her arms flailing.

“What you telling him?” Dread's voice was low. “If we have a gun, we can die quicker, then you can take me back with you.”

“I'll give you the gun,” Lambert called. “But you have to come and get it.”

“Then you going to shoot me and take the woman. You think I stupid?”

“You have to let her go,” said Eric.

“I know all of you is Babylon,” Zadock shouted. “You going to kill me or lock me up, like when you burn down Pinnacle, but I get away from you then, and I going to get away from you now. She and me going to fly up to where she come from, and after that you can climb out of the hole. But you must promise to bury us when it done.”

“Is madness that,” Shad whispered.

“Live alone too long,” I-Verse said, shaking his head.

“If you don't give me the gun,” Dread shouted, “I going to strangle her first, then you can kill me when you come out.” He pulled tighter with the stick while Shannon gagged and whirled her arms, trying to hit him.

“Stop that!” Eric called.

“He going to kill her, man,” Shad whispered. “We have to do something.”

I-Verse stood up. “Rasta don't kill
nobody
!” he shouted, sending the flashlight sailing through the air. It smashed into the old man's forehead, making him spin with the blow, his dreadlocks flaring wide as he fell. While I-Verse ran and pulled Shannon away from his grasp, Shad rushed to the side of the hole.

Eric's chalk-white face looked up. “Thank God.”

Standing close to him, Lambert held the revolver upright. “Take the gun.” He threw it to Shad, who caught it and swung toward the man lying on the ground.

“Don't move!” Shad called, waving the gun
CSI
-style. “I got you covered.” The Rasta looked up, dazed, and felt around for his stick, while I-Verse helped Eric and then Lambert out of the grave.

“Shannon,” Eric cried, running to her, “are you okay?” Hands to her throat, Shannon staggered and fell on the mound behind her, gasping for air and crushing the flowers.

D
id they charge us extra for the drum, Mom?” Eve asked, looking up from the boarding pass in her hand. She was wearing the lime-green T-shirt she'd bought in Ocho Rios as a souvenir, matching it with a band that held back her hair. The color looked good with her tan, she'd said.

“No, they didn't charge us for the drum.” Shannon patted her own souvenir, the black-and-blue from Zadock's stick, covered by a scarf.