His big Irish face was flushed with combat. He nodded his agreement.
There were, indeed, enough bodies.
The blond kid with the bad teeth, Morro’s chemist, rested his head upon the table as if asleep. The pool of blood in which it rested said he would never wake up.
“They planned on killing them all along,” the Irishman said thickly. “Cribbs had to be in on it. Even I could see it coming.”
“The Rastafarians?”
“Aye.” He motioned to the floor where Morro lay, his chest a spongy mass of crimson. “No great loss, killin’ the likes of him. They shot ’im when he stood ta shake hands, closin’ the deal. The blond kid didna get a word out before they shot ’im. Figured I’d jest let ’em go about killin’ each other till you came crashin’ in. Kind o’ glad ya did, Yank.”
The Irishman had killed the third Rastafarian. He was sprawled in a heap on an overturned couch.
“No honor among thieves,” O’Davis said. “Musta planned on killin’ the Americans all along, then hijackin’ the boat with the money.”
“Must have,” I said. I felt the old depression that always sweeps over me in a wave after I have contributed to the unreasonable loss of someone’s life.
I studied the bodies of the three Rastafarians. Born into poverty in some Jamaican shithole, what chance did any of them really have? And who wouldn’t have grabbed at the first religion that promised them escape—escape and the emotional relief of drugs?
They had been victims. My victims. Life’s victims.
Still, there must come a time when excuses are of little consequence; a time when every man must stand accountable for the sum total of self. And I am not talking about the Christian Judgment Day, either. No matter what a man’s past, no matter how desperate the exigencies of his life, there must arrive a day when blame or praise sits squarely upon his own shoulders.
If the moral codes of a society are to survive, the actions of an adult life cannot be forgiven or excused by the difficulties of childhood.
These three had been victims. Victims of poverty, victims of a pitiful youth, and, in the end, victims of their own greed and hatred.
They would have murdered the Irishman and myself without flinching—just as they had murdered the two American drug runners.
But still I felt the wave of depression. The Rastafarian who had been driven through the window by the Thompson’s .45 slugs lay at an odd angle, as if his bones were made of rubber. The pool of blood from the Rastafarian O’Davis had shot was beginning to thicken. There was a purple clot forming on the neck of the third Jamaican beneath the matted beard.
It all seemed such a waste; such a damnable waste.
O’Davis stood silently beside me. He cleared his throat. “I could use a drink, Yank.”
“I might try some of that Irish whiskey myself.”
From outside came the muted roar of an outboard starting. It was Onard Cribbs, trying to get away in the powerboat.
Westy caught my eyes. “I get the distinct impression, brother MacMorgan, that Cribbs is responsible fer this whole bloody business.”
“Yeah,” I said, “He was playing one side against the other.”
The Irishman ejected one clip from his Thompson submachine gun and jammed in a fresh one. “I think we ought ta have a talk with the man.”
“We can still catch him?”
“I’ve got the fastest boat on the island, remember?” The Irishman’s smile was not a pretty thing to see. “Grand Cayman is a civil place, an’ the authorities will not be likin’ this slaughter. If someone is to get a chewin’ out, I’d prefer it be Cribbs.”
“Fine,” I said. “Try not to fall too far behind.”
“Hah!” O’Davis snorted. “I’ll be startin’ the boat by the time the likes o’ you hits the water!”
In truth, we got to his ratty cruiser at the same time. We sprinted across the back lawn through the humid March darkness to the bluff above the sea.
The speedboat was a pale wake line searching for an exit through the reef.
“Doesn’t know the water, our Jamaican friend!” O’Davis yelled. “If he doesn’t find the cut, we’ll have ’im sure.”
We clattered down the steps we had eschewed earlier, then made our way along the rocky shore to the coconut palms which hid our gear. We didn’t waste time trying to be quiet and careful now. We charged into the water and struck out for the boat, holding the submachine guns high.
Onard Cribbs did find the cut. Over my shoulder, I saw the skiff glimmering in the moonlight as it knifed through the breakers at the seaward edge of the reef. I expected him to cut east toward North Sound. But he didn’t. Instead, he seemed to be headed west toward open sea.
I remembered the pickup boat. It was supposed to belong to the dead drug runner, Morro. But maybe Cribbs was in deeper than even Morro knew.
Little bells began going off in my head.
It would have to be a big oceangoing boat, a diesel-powered vessel with a hell of a range, to carry drugs from Grand Cayman to point X, because Grand Cayman is in the middle of nowhere.
The kidnappers had to be counting on such a vessel. By phone they had demanded an air rendezvous with a ship at sea. And maybe that’s why a careful land search of the island hadn’t produced young Thomas James—because they already had him sequestered aboard.
When we finally climbed onto the cruiser and I had hauled anchor, I told O’Davis what I was thinking.
He nodded shortly. “Could be, Yank. Could be. An’ it’s all the more reason to have a talk with Mr. Cribbs.”
The Irishman gunned the boat, jumping her onto plane. The sea wind had freshened with midnight, and we were pounding right into the greasy, moon-slick swells. While O’Davis fought with the wheel, I switched on the VHF and tried to raise Cayman police. And just when I was about to give up, a voice came back: “Vessel calling, this is Grand Cayman.”
I gave them an eyeball position, told them we were in pursuit, and asked for assistance. There was a long wait. I could imagine the dispatcher at his desk in Georgetown making phone calls, waking his superiors.
Finally, there was this: “Power vessel
Rogue,
this is Grand Cayman. We will be sending assistance by sea and air. But there will be about an hour before they reach your position. We still have to wake the helicopter pilot.”
O’Davis was chuckling to himself as I signed off. “Hah! Sleepy little island, Grand Cayman!”
“Yeah, but an hour . . . ”
“Oh, we’ll be lucky if it only takes ’em an hour, Yank. That’s what I love about livin’ here. Don’t have yer perverted American sense of time!”
We used the Q-beam to find the cut this time. The surf was a churning, frozen haze in the distance. Cribbs was too far away for the light to reflect off his hull.
We crashed through the first breakers into the standing chop that marked the cut, then twisted through to open sea.
I switched off the light and returned to the cabin. O’Davis handed me the binoculars. They made the stars burn fiercely on the horizon and gave me a better look at the powerboat in the distance.
“He’s about a quarter mile ahead of us—a few points to starboard.”
“Aye, I see ’im now!”
I kept a close eye on Cribbs through the binoculars. He seemed to know where he wanted to go—because only a fool or someone with a destination would head for open sea in a small boat. I noticed something else, too:
“He’s pulling away from us,” I said.
“What?”
“I thought you said this was the fastest boat on the island, O’Davis.”
“It is!”
“Than why are we losing ground?”
The Irishman gave me an indignant look, then patted the Morse controls of the boat lovingly. “Don’t ya be lettin’ me down now, darlin’. Give us jest a touch more petrol, eh?” Using his weight, he tried to mash the throttles even farther forward. But his
Rogue
was giving us all she had. We went crashing through the swells at a rolling forty miles an hour.
Finally convinced, O’Davis turned to me meekly. “That bloody speedboat must not be from Grand Cayman.”
“Oh, yeah—that explains it.”
“I’m afraid it gives rise to a new list of problems, Yank.”
“Should I act surprised? Cribbs is going to beat us to the mother ship. If we try to get close enough to board, they’ll shoot us before we get out of the cabin—if they don’t shoot and sink us before. The Cayman police are coming like the cavalry, by sea and air. If the kid is aboard, they’ll kill him at the first sound of a chopper.” I paused. “Does that pretty much sum things up?”
“It does, it does,” he said lamely. “Any ideas?”
“We could turn back now and call off the police.”
“Ah,” he said, “that’s what a wise man would do. Yes indeed, a wise man would certainly turn back now.”
“Of course, that would give them time to get into international or even Cuban waters. If they have the kid, they’ll still be holding all the cards.”
“But a wise man would turn back,” the Irishman repeated sagely.
“I notice you’re still holding course.”
O’Davis panned his head around the cabin theatrically. “Ya know, ’tis a strang thing, Yank—but I do na see a wise man aboard.”
“Westy, sometimes you’re one extraordinary, foolhardy Irishman.”
He smiled. “An’ sometimes, Mr. Dusky MacMorgan, you are an extraordinary judge of character.”
13
The mother ship was ghostly in the distance, pale in the moonglow. There were no lights anywhere. The windows of the wheelhouse were a sheen of silver.
The men aboard were obviously being careful. They didn’t want to be seen. I watched the ship through the binoculars. The sea had no bottom here, so they drifted, rolling in the ocean’s swell.
It was a commercial trawler, the wheelhouse mounted far forward with a huge expanse of stern deck for working the trawl nets. The hull was white with black trim. It flew no flag from the triangle of masthead.
“Is Cribbs there yet?”
“Just pulling alongside. A couple guys from the trawler are out on the deck trying to help him aboard.”
“Think they know we’re followin’, Dusky?”
“They have to know. You know how sound travels over water.”
“Aye. An’ they’ll be keepin’ a close eye on this boat.” He backed off on the throttles. Our own wake lifted our stern, then dropped us back into the trough. The trawler was about a half mile dead ahead. “Any ideas, Yank?”
“You may have just given me one.”
“Very smart of me—what is it?”
“They’ll be keeping an eye on this boat.”
“Aye—the boat an’ us too. I do na think we kin go swimmin’ up to their vessel without bein’ aerated by their blinkin’ guns.”
“We can if we do it right. Do you have a fuelline shutoff valve?”
“Aye—they’re required. You know that.”
“Than get this boat back on plane and put us directly astern of the trawler. Maybe a quarter mile off. And just hope those Thompsons of yours can stand a little more salt water.”
As we banged along closer to the trawler, a big marine searchlight blinked on above the cabin. They swept it along behind us, then held us in the beam.
“Bloody rude of ’em,” the Irishman yelled, shielding his eyes.
“I don’t think they’re very nice people.”
“Need some manners, is all! An’ it’s me great hope that it’s meself who teaches ’em!”
When we were well astern of the trawler, I had O’Davis drop us back to idle. They held the searchlight on us, but from that distance—even with binoculars—they wouldn’t be able to see what we were doing. While the Irishman got our gear ready, I pulled off the engine-compartment hatch. The shutoff valve on the fuel line had a common case of saltwater corrosion. It took me a while to bust it free. When I had it working, I summoned the Irishman.
“Point us away from the trawler. Get us up on plane. I need to see how long the engine will run with the fuel valve shut.”
“An’ suddenly, I see what ya have planned, brother MacMorgan.”
“Well?”
“It may work. But I hate ta see me boat get shot up so.”
“Better it than us.”
“No argument there, mate.”
“Just run at your most economical speed—if there’s such a thing on this gas hog.”
“Hog, is it? Ya jest keep an eye on that fancy watch of yers!”
When we were running evenly into the swell, I twisted the valve and marked the time on the luminescent dial, of my Rolex. After a minute and a half, the engine began to sputter. Then it died.
“Will it give us enough time, Yank?”
“A minute and forty-three seconds,” I yelled back. “It’ll be close. But we don’t have much choice.” I primed the engine, opened the valve, then pulled on fins, mask, and snorkel. O’Davis handed me the Thompson. I said, “We’d better hurry. Right now they’re deciding if they should make a run for it. Let’s catch them while they’re still thinking.”