Authors: Luke Rhinehart
Ì'm afraid that information is classified,' Neil answered, coming up behind Michael to remove the gun from his belt.
`You'd better pray I never get a chance to find out for myself,' Michael said. Jeanne, feeling at last safe, lowered her gun on to the countertop and leaned against the counter. The big war might be over, but the small wars seemed to be getting worse. In planning their raids on the Mollycoddle and the estate Neil and Philip had known of a storm passing south of them but felt it could work to their advantage. Normally the easterly trade winds made it difficult to sail east from the Virgin Islands, but the counterclockwise winds of the storm would give them a southerly wind as it moved westward. What they had failed to consider was the unexpected size of the storm and the slowness with which it moved to the west. Because it was big and maintained a leisurely pace westward into the central Caribbean, the waves it was sending northward were huge, much larger than they had anticipated, as were the winds -thirty knots and gusting to forty-five.
Standing with Philip on the dock beside the captured Hatteras, which 01ly, Macklin and Jeanne were busy ransacking for everything of value, Neil could feel doubt and fear blowing through him with the wind. Events were moving too fast, involving too many people, too many variables, too many unknowns to permit him to deal with all that had to be done. The wind and seas were rocking the boats at the dock, and Neil watched with increasing anxiety the size of the swells rolling into the supposedly protected harbour. The noise level from the beating of halyards and lines against masts, the whine of the wind in the rigging, and the slamming of waves against docks and boat hulls was unnerving. As they tried to discuss their plans Philip had almost to shout to make himself heard. don't like this blow,' he shouted. 'I'm not sure we have the time to raid the estate before dark.'
For Neil the initial purpose of the raid - food and weapons -was no longer worth the risk. But there was the question of Katya and Lisa. Neither had been aboard the Mollycoddle and
Michael and the others wouldn't talk about who was at the estate.
`We need food,' Neil replied loudly to Philip. 'There's too damn little on Mollycoddle.'
He was watching the waves rolling in at them, at times froth blowing off the tops in a horizontal saltwater rain. The. Hatteras had already produced two automatic rifles, a small shotgun and four automatics, at least two pounds of marijuana, four bottles of rum, but only a small cache of food. Either Michael and his men bartered for food on a daily basis or their food supply was at the estate.
Ì know,' said Philip, 'but this wind . . . I don't know. Is it worth it? There's the girl, of course.'
`The girl's worth it, Phil,' Neil answered grimly, feeling a disturbing lethargy and dread. '
And Lisa may be there too. I know we're going to have a helluva time getting out to sea in this, but . . . I have to go out there. If you want to . .
`No, no. If that's the case, let's get on with it.'
So they went ahead. Bart and the wounded black man were tied up in the forepeak of the Hatteras while Michael was to accompany the raiders to the estate. The plan was to use the Mollycoddle right up to the last minute to tow Vagabond up over her anchors to get her out of the harbour against the strong winds. Scorpio, too, would need a tow if she returned; she was already overdue. Neil only hoped that Vagabond didn't drag anchor before they got back out to her. It was already past four-thirty: only two and a half more hours of daylight.
They divided into groups. Frank and 01ly were to barter some of Mollycoddle's marijuana and surplus weapons and other 'useless' valuables for food while Neil's raiding party was at the estate. Sheila and Conrad Macklin would remain to guard Mollycoddle and continue to try to make radio contact with Scorpio, while awaiting her. Going the mile and a half to the pirate estate were only Neil, Philip and Jeanne with their hostage, Michael. They rode bicycles.
Neil felt frail and vulnerable on a bicycle, and the gusty
wind increased his feeling that events were moving too quickly, decisions made too hastily. He wondered how many officers had led their forces into battle riding bicycles. Although the three others had ten-speed bikes, Neil rode a cumbersome old one-speed, and had to labour to keep himself just behind his prisoner, Michael. Both of them were periodically blown several feet to one side by a gust of wind. The estate was a large rambling summer house overlooking the water. It had a swimming pool on one side and a set of swings and slide on the other. Its only landscaping were a few low shrubs and flower beds. The grass was dry and brown from lack of water. In the driveway was an old Ford station-wagon with its hood up.
Michael was ordered to hold his unloaded pistol and pretend that he and Neil, who was armed with a fully-loaded automatic rifle, were guarding Philip and Jeanne, who preceded them up the gravel walk to the front door with their hands clasped behind their heads.
`What is this?' a little man with glasses asked after he'd opened the door, gun in hand, to Michael's knock and hail. `Some new booty,' Michael answered sullenly. Philip and Jeanne pushed their way in past the man. Michael, with a tense glare back at Neil, followed.
Ì say, who are you?' the little man asked Neil.
`Michael's cousin,' Neil answered, smiling and holding the automatic rifle casually aimed at the little man's stomach. In the living-room were two couches, some handsome carved wooden chairs and a piano.
Òh, really? Where'd you come from?'
When no one else appeared Neil saw Philip lower his hands, remove the revolver he had wrapped and tucked in as part of his belly, and move towards a doorway at the far end of the room. When the little man, bewildered, turned to watch, Neil struck him in the neck with a karate chop and dropped him to the floor.
Neil crouched back against the closed front door, watching
Philip approach the doorway at the far end of the room. Jeanne came up to him.
`My gun,' she said softly to Neil, and he remembered, and pulled the automatic out of his belt and handed it to her. At the far end of the room Philip disappeared through the doorway and there was a bang that made Neil swivel his gun to the right: the wind had blown a shutter loose and it had banged alongside a window there. As he watched, still tense and fighting off trembling, it banged again. Philip emerged from the far room.
`Kitchen,' he said. 'I'd say it's quite well-stocked.'
`Call your friends,' Neil said to Michael. 'Ask them to come down here.'
Michael glared at him without replying. Neil swung his rifle to point it at his stomach.
`Jeanne,' he said. 'Go into the kitchen and start getting the food into boxes and bags. Michael,' he went on. 'I'm waiting. Call your friends.'
Michael turned and walked slowly to the second doorway leading off the main room. As Neil followed he saw that it led off into a hallway that had a stairway leading to the second floor and a closed door leading somewhere on the ground floor. Michael stopped near the stairway and called: 'I say, Larry! Rick! Tolly!' he shouted. 'Come down and have a chat! It's me, Mike.'
A door opened upstairs. 'Welcome home, old buddy,' an American voice said. 'What brings you back so soon?'
Ì brought you a lady, Rick. Tall. Dark long hair. I know how fond you are of long hair..'
`Be right down.'
Àsk who's around,' Neil whispered to Michael, the muzzle of his rifle against his back. Ì say, Rick, who's here today?' Michael yelled up the stairs. 'Is Tolly around?' A silence followed, then Rick's voice, puzzled: 'What d'ya mean, "Is Tolly around?" You know that Tolly . . .' The voice stopped and left only an ominous silence. Neil raised the butt of the rifle and slammed it into Michael's head, sending him in a heap to the floor. Neil ran up the stairs two at a time and burst into the room from which the voice seemed to have come. Rick was standing at a bureau groping into the top drawer. '
NO! DON'T!' Rick yelled and dropped back into the drawer the gun he'd been after. Neil wheeled and backed himself against the wall inside the door.
`Who else is in the house?' he asked. Rick, a tall, thin young man with glasses, looked with nervous eyes first at Neil, then at the door.
`There's Arthur, I think, and Larry and the Pussycat . . Àrthur's a little man?' Neil asked.
`Yes?'
`Where's Lar . .
Two shots rang out from downstairs. Neil ran to the door, then wheeled back on Rick who still stood frozen, but now with both arms stretched towards the ceiling.
`Don't shoot!' he said again fearfully.
Enraged at the delay Neil crossed quickly to Rick and drove his fist into his face, sending him crashing back against the bureau and down to the floor. He grabbed the pistol from the drawer and, carrying the automatic rifle in one hand like a handgun, rushed back to the head of the stairs. 'PHIL!' he shouted down.
There was no answer. Michael's legs were still visible at the foot of the stairs, his torso and head in the living-room. The silence brought forth from Neil a low moan of anguish. Two shots and silence: Philip must have been hit by some newcomer. He edged himself to the banister at the top of the stairs and peered down. Still no sound.
`You down there,' Neil shouted. 'I . . . I . . . I know you got Phil so I want to surrender. I never wanted to be part of this . . .' Neil wanted to get the man - Larry was it? - to talk, to focus his attention on Neil. Perhaps he didn't know Jeanne was in the kitchen. Oh, dear Lord please don't let him have shot Jeanne...
`Throw your gun down the stairs!' a deep male voice commanded from some place in the living-room.
Neil took out Rick's gun and tossed it down the stairs. It bounced twice and came to rest near Michael's feet. Neil noticed that the door to the other downstairs room opposite the living-room was now open. Come on, Jeanne, he's talking to me. Shoot the bastard.
`Now come down with your hands held high up over your head,' Larry commanded next. At what point will I become visible to him? Neil wondered. He took a step down the stairs. Then another. Where are you, Jeanne? he wondered, prayed. A third step. Two more and my legs will be in sight. He won't shoot until he can hit my belly. A fourth step. No more. Something, pray it not be death, must be stopping Jeanne from shooting from the kitchen. He had to get Larry to move. He took a fifth step down, then leapt the last seven steps in two long strides, and threw himself into the room opposite the livingroom, rolling away from the door opening. Two shots whizzed past him, pounding into the stairway wall.
Neil got to his knees, glanced quickly around the room and stopped, stunned. Katya was sitting on the bed only six feet. away, naked. She looked at him with as much surprise as he guessed he must be looking back.
`Can you see anyone?' Neil whispered. She responded with a barely perceptible nod. 'Is Lisa here?' he asked next.
Katya shook her head and whispered, 'They never got her.'
Remembering the layout of the living-room Neil next asked, 'Is he behind the couch near the front door?' Again Katya gave a barely perceptible nod. Positioning himself at the edge of the door opening, he adjusted the rifle in both hands, then reached around the corner and sprayed off a three-second blast towards where he remembered the couch to be. He heard a muffled scream, then the sound of movement.
`He went towards the kitchen,' Katya whispered.
Neil stood up, took two quick strides across the hallway to the entrance to the livingroom and hesitated. As he started to peer into the room the bam-bam-bam of three quick shots blasted from the kitchen area. He ran into the living-room, rifle at the ready, and crouched behind one of the ornate wooden chairs. He saw two bodies on the far side of the room near the kitchen, one partially hidden behind the end of the second couch, only the bare legs visible. The first, he saw sickeningly, was Philip, and for a horrifying moment the bare legs of the second looked feminine. A movement at the kitchen door caught his eye and Jeanne stood there, her automatic at waist level, her eyes on the man she had apparently shot, blood spreading in a wide red splotch on the white cotton material at the shoulder of her blouse.
From the minute he and Olly began trying to barter for food Frank sensed that something was wrong. As they made their way from the docks the streets seemed strangely empty. The few people in the doorways of homes or bars or at street corners all seemed to be standing for the sole purpose of staring at Frank and 0lly as if they were enemy agents. Black food vendors with whom they'd bartered half a dozen times were now either gone or refused even to talk to them. They entered the nearest bar to find out what was happening.
Even at five in the afternoon Bosso's was packed. People were standing two and three deep at the long bar running along one wall, and the dozen small tables along the other were all filled. Almost everyone was drinking either water or a special post-war punch spiked with rum. Imported alcohol had disappeared. Frank and 0lly stood awkwardly in the crowded space between the bar and the tables. Everyone in the bar was white except at the far end where three black men stood, surrounded by a halo of conspicuous space. Many of the men in the bar kept glancing nervously at the entrance as if expecting an important but feared visitor.
Most who talked spoke in low voices or whispers, as if at a wake. There was no boisterousness or joy. The one loud drunk who made an effort at jollity sounded insane and soon lapsed into gloomy mumbling. Captain 0lly wedged himself between customers to press against the bar.
`Say, fella,' he asked the nearest bartender, 'who died?'
The bartender, a big man with thick glasses and wearing a cowboy hat, came towards Olly with a frown. The subdued bar had hushed even more at Olly's loud outburst.
`What d'ya mean, "who died?"' the bartender sullenly asked Olly.
`The way I figure it,' Captain 0lly replied, 'everyone's mother just got run over by a steamroller. Never been in such a dreary place. You got a law against talking in a normal voice?'
`You a stranger here?' the bartender countered. The two other bartenders, although still mixing drinks, were half-turned, listening.