“Great,” I said. “Thanks for the confidence.”
After letting my breakfast digest for an hour, I borrowed a pair of goggles from the Irishman and went for my morning swim. The cottage porch opened out onto sand that sloped down to a natural bay created by the reef a half mile off shore. The bay was sky-colored, clear as gin, and I could see massive staghorn and brain coral through the transparent roll of waves.
I waded out waist deep, trying my best to avoid the spiny sea urchins. Then I swam with long, strong strokes toward the reef, feeling knots in shoulders and neck come undone. After my reclusive month on the stilthouse, I was in the best shape I had been for a long time. My weight was down, wind good.
Parrotfish scattered, then reassembled as I passed over. With every turn of head to breathe I could see a big barracuda trailing me, curious but keeping his distance. The color and splendor of the world beneath made even the tropical green sweep of Grand Cayman seem pale.
At the edge of the reef I turned. There was a natural channel through the forest of staghorn created by thousands of years of tidal stream. I timed the waves and sprinted on through. The water deepened on the seaward side of the reef, tapering down like the side of a mountain. In the blue-black depths I saw the shadow of something very large. Quietly, I sculled out to get a better look. It was a huge green turtle, broad as a butcher’s block, but moving with all the grace of a predatory bird. Dia had mentioned that her family had been green-turtle hunters—like almost all the islanders in other times. The island economy had depended on those men in their native-built wind ships who sought the green turtle on the far and lonely banks between Cuba and South America. But when the world’s turtle hunters began using engines rather than sails, and as their hunting methods became more refined, the slaughter of an animal even as prolific as the green turtle became too great. It was put on the endangered-species list and hunting in the Caymans was outlawed.
So this was one of the survivors I was seeing now. He seemed unaware of his lonely position as one of the few big greens left. Say what you want about mankind, but you have to at least admire our recent weak struggle to save what we for so long only destroyed.
I watched the turtle until he flapped off into the depths, then turned and swam back to the cottage.
When I got there, O’Davis was still sweating from his own workout. His shirt was off, exposing waves of red hair on his weight-lifter’s chest. He wore a pair of tennis shoes, dirty and frayed.
“Would ya like a beer, lad?”
“You have to ask? It’s already after nine.”
He got up and went to the little refrigerator. “Believe I’ll have a bottle meself. Walked the beach last night an’ drank a wee bit too much of me fine whiskey. Sweated it all out, though—ran clear up to Sparrowhawk Point an’ back. Beer’s just the ticket now.”
When he returned, he placed something else on the table along with my bottle of beer.
“Am I supposed to carry this?”
“After the story ya told me, Yank, it might be wise.”
On the gunmetal-colored grip of the little automatic was the famous banner:
Walther.
“It’s the PPK,” O’Davis said. “Do ya know anything about it?”
“Just that it’s pretty reliable because it’s pretty simple.”
“Aye. Blowback action, double-action trigger, and an eight-round clip. It uses 9mm shorts, and the boys at Government House tell me it’ll drop a big man at thirty meters.”
“If you can hit him at thirty meters.”
“That’s always the catch with these dainty little English weapons, Yank. But it’s better than nothing, eh? I’ve got a harness for it so you can wear it under your jacket on the small of yer back.”
“You don’t mean suit jacket, do you?”
The Irishman had a twinkle in his eye. “Aye, an’ what else?”
“I don’t even own one.”
He gave me an appraising look, like a tailor. “Ya kin borrow one of mine. Might be a little baggy on the spindly likes of you. But it’s required. We’ll be meetin’ Sir Conan and his lovely wife at a little lawn party. And please at least comb yer hair, MacMorgan. Yer always goin’ about in such a ragged state. Try ta put on yer best face in front of me gentry friends.”
Sir Conan James’ Grand Cayman house was less a home than an estate.
It seemed odd to me that he would throw a lawn party little more than twenty-four hours after his son had been kidnapped.
O’Davis was less surprised. He explained as we drove toward the plush private-home section of Georgetown. “It’s because ya do na understand the English that yer surprised, lad. Everything is stiff-upper-lip with them—especially the old English families. That wee island of theirs has done too well in too many wars ta let small things like a kidnappin’ get them down. Besides, the way rumors circulate around this island, it’s better they get their friends together in one spot ta tell them exactly what’s goin’ on.”
“You think Sir Conan might use the gathering as a chance to ask his friends for help coming up with the two million pounds?”
O’Davis thought for a moment. “It’s a possibility,” he said, “but I doubt it. Two million pounds is about four and a half million dollars, American. Wealthy as he and his ilk are, I do na think even they could liquidate that much in so short a time.”
“You’d think the kidnappers would have known that.”
“Aye,” O’Davis said, nodding thoughtfully, “you’d think.”
The house was a monstrous white stucco structure hidden from the road by a wrought-iron fence and a brilliant hedge of hibiscus. A rolling lawn the size of a golf course had been landscaped like a tropical garden with bougainvillea, Barbados poinciana, and trees bowing with bananas, mangos, and sapodilla. A fountain, complete with marble statues, broke the road into a circular drive. A black servant in uniform waited to park our car.
“Now straighten yer tie, lad. Yer already lookin’ a mess.”
“You should talk, you big ugly potato head. Believe me, striped pants don’t go with that red checkered blazer.”
“Hah! Jest showin’ yer ignorance about fashion, MacMorgan.” As we came around the corner of the house, people standing by the pool nodded at us without smiling. O’Davis lowered his voice and whispered, “Remember, let me do most o’ the talkin’. Sir Conan is skittish when it comes to commoners. Especially American commoners.”
There were about twenty people roaming the yard. A long buffet table had been set up beneath the shade of a banyan. Servants in white jackets moved silently among the crowd carrying trays of drinks and snacks. Men and women both were dressed stylishly: blazers and summer prints and white open shirts. But there was something missing from the party scene. I couldn’t put my finger on it at first. And then I realized: no music. No games. No obligatory laughter.
The people had divided into small groups, caught in conversation. It wasn’t a funeral atmosphere. Just subdued. More like old friends socializing before church. Except for the alcohol. The servants had to keep moving. The lawn-party guests were dumping down the drinks pretty quick.
We moved awkwardly along the crowded deck. People gave us that quizzical “Nice to see you—whoever you are” look. The Irishman smiled back as if he were the host.
I grabbed a couple of drinks off a tray and shoved one into O’Davis’ hand. “Okay,” I said. “We dressed for the occasion—now let’s get it over with. Where’s Sir Conan?”
“Yer always in a hurry, Yank.”
“That’s right. This tie’s choking me, you look like a used-car salesman from the Bronx, and some little English kid’s life is hanging by a thread—other than that, I don’t have a reason in the world to rush.”
“Always time to admire the beautiful gentry ladies, MacMorgan. Like that pretty little thing on the other side of the pool. Only nineteen years old and stands to inherit a half million pounds the day she turns twenty-one. The Lord gave ’er a fine body, did He not?”
“O’Davis.”
“An’ how about the blond lady in that lacy white dress? A little older, true, but still a fine example of womanhood.”
“O’Davis, I’m going to throw a bucket of cold water on you in about two seconds if you—”
“Okay, okay! You kin be a regular bully, do ya know that?” He surveyed the crowd with a delicate sweep of eyes. “There,” he said. “Lady James is sitting in the shade of that fine big oak.”
“And what about Sir Conan?”
“I figured I’d see him with one o’ the pretty ladies I was viewin’.”
Lady James didn’t look up as we approached. She was lounging back on an outdoor divan. She wore a floppy white hat that hid the top half of her face from view. Her dress was long and sleek, like something out of a 1920s Fitzgerald novel. Her long pale legs were crossed demurely. In her right hand was a martini. A line of empty glasses trailed across the table by the divan.
“Lady James?”
She paused, then looked up. “Should I know you?” The smile was slightly drunken. “Yes,” she said, “I think so.” I guessed her age at thirtyfive. Except for the eyes, she looked younger. I wasn’t prepared for the classic porcelain beauty of her. Lady James had a face from a Renaissance painting. Only slimmer, finer: every detail of nose and lips and cheeks perfectly defined. Hers was a beauty you expected to be accompanied by a trail of broken, desperate lovers and all the hysterics, tragedy, and madness that the combination of great beauty and wealth often implies.
“I believe we met a week or two ago, Lady James.”
She touched the hat brim back with a finger, her eyes focusing on us. “Yes,” she said. “The award. You are the Irishman who was presented the medal.”
“Aye, that I am. It is kind of you to remember.”
“I suppose it is.” Her eyes shifted to me. Her eyes were a watercolor green and her hair was the palest shade of auburn. She took a sip of the martini. “And what about your friend? I know we’ve never met. I would have remembered your friend.”
“Allow me to introduce Mr. Dusky MacMorgan of the United States.”
She held out her hand as if she expected me to kiss it. I took the hand in mine and shook it briefly. In the green eyes was an unmistakable look of invitation. The Irishman interpreted the same message, but recovered faster than I.
“We’d be here to see yer husband, Lady James,” he said quickly.
“Conan?”
“It’s about yer son, Tommy.”
She sat up quickly. “You have some news?”
“I’m sorry to say we do not. I’ve only come to offer me services if they might be of some help.”
She snorted and gulped at her drink. Her sarcasm couldn’t be missed. “How kind. How very, very kind. We already have the entire island police force, two private investigators, and God knows how many helicopters and boats searching. But I’m sure if you just pin on that bloody medal of yours, you’ll be able to find my poor little lost boy.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you, Lady James.”
She wiped the corner of her mouth delicately. “No, I suppose you didn’t.” Her eyes caught me again. “And what about you, Mr. . . . MacMorgan, was it? Are you here to offer your services, too?”
“I suppose it beats getting drunk at a lawn party.”
Her eyes burned into me for a few beats, and then she tried to get drunkenly to her feet only to collapse back down onto the couch. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”
“Read what you want into it.”
“You’ll have to forgive me vulgar friend,” Westy interjected hastily. “Bein’ from America and all, with no education to speak of, he has a tendency ta act like a brute upon occasion.” The Irishman gave me a meaningful elbow as he spoke.
Lady James wiped her forehead with the palm of her hand. She sighed as if about to cry. “No,” she said finally. “No, he’s right, Mr. O’Davis. I was very rude to you. And I suppose one never has the right to be rude.” She looked at me. “That was your meaning, wasn’t it, Mr. MacMorgan?”
“Sometimes you have the right and the reason to be rude, Lady James. Under the circumstances, you’re probably entitled to both.”
“Charm,” she said, smiling wearily. “You have both temper and charm—a dangerous combination. But I’m afraid you must forgive me. These last two days have been a nightmare. You’re a man. You could never understand a mother’s love. My son, Mr. MacMorgan . . . my son is the only thing in this entire ludicrous life that has made any sense. He is a wonderful boy. All the genius, the passion . . . the delicacy of an artist. And now someone has taken him from me. Can you understand what that means? The only thing in my life that I’ve ever truly loved, and now they’ve taken him. . . . ”
Her voice had been rising steadily. I felt people watching us. She stopped just on the brink of hysteria, spasmed once close to tears, then downed the last of her drink.
“You’re right, Lady James. I can’t understand that. I doubt if anyone truly can.”
Her smile was suddenly kind. “And maybe you understand more than I gave you credit for, Mr. MacMorgan.”
“Maybe.”