"WE'RE ALMOST THERE," said Ethan Humphrey, pointing with a hand that trembled now, despite his effort to control himself.
The island loomed in front of them, two smaller lumps of jungle-shrouded rock flanking it on either side. The center of attention, christened Ile de Mort, according to his skipper, was a mile long, give or take, with rugged peaks along its spine. Only the crags were naked stone; the rest was clotted jungle growth from mountain slopes down to a reeking mangrove swamp at water's edge.
"The anchorage is on the northern side," Humphrey explained. "We'll need another half hour to get there."
"I see an inlet there." Remo pointed toward the mouth of what appeared to be a brackish stream, amid the looming mangroves. It was wide enough for Humphrey's boat to pass. The water course might narrow inland, but he didn't care, as long as they could pull the cabin cruiser out of sight from any stray patrol boats that might happen by.
"You can't be serious," the ex-professor said.
"Not up to it?" He cracked a mirthless smile. "No sweat, Professor. I'll just take her in myself."
"You will not, sir!" His voice was stern, but Humphrey clearly realized that he could not stop Remo from seizing control of the boat if he was so inclined.
"Do they post lookouts?" Remo asked, as Humphrey nosed the boat toward shore.
"It's possible," said Humphrey, "though I've never asked. Myself, I think they trust in isolation here."
Humphrey drew back on the throttle as they neared the inlet. Remo's nostrils flared at the smell of rotting vegetation from the swamp, a stench primeval from the dawn of time.
The mangroves closed around them, branches drooping low, scraping the canopy above the flying bridge. Daylight was fading fast, but it was even darker in among the trees, a sudden twilight.
They had already moved some fifty yards inland when the cabin cruiser's hull struck something with a scrape and a shudder, groaning underfoot. Humphrey immediately throttled down and let the engine idle, turning to Remo with a worried frown.
"We can't go any farther," he insisted. "This is madness."
"Listen, Professor, you've got a bunch of friends who say 'yar' and wear puffy shirts. Nothing I do can ever be considered 'madness' by comparison. We'll take the skiff."
"If it's all the same to you," Humphrey replied, "I'll just wait here."
"It's not the same to me," said Remo. "I still need a guide. You're it. Let's go."
"I've never come this way," the old man said. "We may get lost."
"Then we'll get lost together," Remo told him.
"But-"
"Let's put it this way. I don't mind leaving you behind. Look how many other guys I left behind on this little three-hour tour."
Now Humphrey got the point and grimaced, starting down the ladder from the flying bridge. The skiff was stowed astern, a smallish aluminum rowboat with paddles for two. Remo untied it, dropped it overboard and hopped down from the transom, holding it steady while Humphrey came aboard.
In front of them, some twenty yards ahead, the stream forked at a clump of cypress, smaller brackish channels splitting off in a rough Y shape. For all Remo knew, they might join up again beyond the wall of trees, but he wasn't prepared to risk it.
"So, which way?" he asked of his reluctant guide.
"From where we are, it should be westward." To the right, then, if the old man wasn't lying to him, stalling in an effort to protect his friends.
"Be sure," said Remo.
"As I said, I've never tried to reach the camp from this direction. There's a possibility-"
"Be sure," Remo repeated. "I don't have the time or patience for mistakes. You're still expendable."
The old man thought about it for another moment, biting on his lower lip, then nodded. "Westward," he said again.
THE DRESS THAT STACY WORE wasn't a bad fit, pinned beneath the arms to take it in, floor-length blue satin, just a trifle loose around the hips. She thought about the woman who had worn it first, wondered what had become of her and how Kidd's pirates had obtained the formal gown. On second thought, she didn't want to know.
"You look really nice," Felicia said.
"Felicia, Jesus!" Megan scowled and shook her head.
"Hey, I was only saying-"
"Never mind, for Christ's sake!" Megan turned to Stacy once again, the frown still on her face. "You do look nice, though. I mean, for the circumstances."
"Thank you."
There was no mirror in the hut that served as their prison cell. Indeed, she would have been surprised if there was one in camp. Some of the pirates combed their hair, after a fashion, and most of them shaved-at least irregularly-but it was apparent from their general appearance and their hygiene that none of them spent much time before a looking glass.
"I like the flowers," said Felicia. Then, as Megan turned to glare at her again, she stuck her tongue out. "Well, I do, so there."
"I like the flowers, too," Megan admitted grudgingly. "God, this is so damn weird!"
The flowers were an added touch. Meg and Felicia had retrieved them from the forest near the camp, while Robin stayed with Stacy in the hut. She wasn't company, in any recognized sense of the word, but Stacy could talk freely to her, venting her fear and anger in full confidence that Robin would not interrupt her. Indeed, there was nothing to suggest the girl had understood a single word.
Megan had plucked the flowers carefully, long stems intact, and then had woven them into a kind of wreath that nestled in her hair. Stacy had no idea where Megan found the bobby pins, but she had come up with a pair of them to fix the wreath in place. Stacy imagined how she had to have looked-some kind of hippie princess, dressed up for a lovein-and her stomach churned.
The blushing bride, she thought, and felt like throwing up.
"What's going on out there?" she asked of no one in particular.
Felicia peered through a hole in the curtain that served as their door, shifting positions several times as she tried to get a full view of the compound.
"Eating," she replied at last. "The goons are lined up for some kind of stew. They've got your friend dishing it out."
So much for Chiun taking out the pirates on his own, Stacy thought. But what had she expected, really? He was one old man against a veritable army. Even if he used to know some kung fu moves, he was still outnumbered sixty-five or seventy to one, by younger men with guns and knives.
"Is this the shits, or what?" Felicia asked. "They're having the reception first, and they don't even feed the bride? What kind of weird, ass-backward deal is this?"
"You're sweating etiquette?" The tone of Megan's voice conveyed a mixture of dismay and gallows humor. "Jesus, Fe, you didn't pay that analyst of yours enough."
"That's cold," Felicia said, eyes smoldering as she returned Meg's glare.
Megan ignored her and addressed herself to Stacy. "So, have you decided what to do?"
"Looks like I'm getting married," Stacy said.