There was a pounding, pounding. Something beat on my head with a horrible, steady rhythm. Opening my eyes brought more pain, and all I could see was gray paint. There was a nauseating smell of diesel fuel. This was the engine room of a boat, and I was lying in the bilge, bound hand and foot. The heat must have been over a hundred degrees. My clothes were soaked through with sweat; my hands and legs numb. It was hard to breathe.
Panic rushed over me like a dark veil. I fought it with all my mental resources. Deep breaths brought only scorching hot air. Rolling my head from side to side, I noticed the blood. There must be a pint coagulating on the nasty, oily deck. The flow must have stopped or I wouldn't be lying here looking at it.
By the motion of the boat, I knew that we were in open water. How long had I been out? It could be hours or a day. My eyes wouldn't focus and the smell was making me sick. I vomited. At least there was no blood from my stomach. I had a severe head injury and it worried me. Blood clots on the brain in the middle of the ocean insured but one inevitable conclusion.
The engines stopped. The boat went dead in the water and turned broadside to the waves. The motion nauseated me again.
The engine room hatch opened, bringing welcome relief from the heat. Barrel-chest came down the ladder. Saying nothing, he picked me up like a sack of potatoes, carried me up into the salon, and threw me on the sofa with such force it made me wretch. My eyes were not focusing, but I could make out several people standing around. From the slanting rays on the cabin walls, it looked to be near noon.
The two women were there, the Latin American, Barrel-chest, and five other people I had not seen before.
The Latin American appeared to be in charge. His eyes were filmy ovals that held nothing but a dull, mindless hatred. His hand rose and moved over his cheeks and mouth, as if he needed to feel his expression to know what it was.
"We don't know who this one is, or who he's working for. His I.D. says he's a private dick from the states. It don't matter, he was snooping around the boat in Nassau and Moley caught him. We couldn't dump him in the water and take a chance of him washing up on the beach like them Cubans off Land's End. Take him ashore and bury him up by the lighthouse, where they used to keep the puercos. No mistakes or you'll join him." The words seemed to fall with a singular emphasis. They were pronounced quietly, with no remnant of a smile on the olive skin face.
Thinking back to last night, nothing moved aboard this boat. Where did Moley come from? The unlocked salon door should have been a warning. It never occurred to me someone would be among the palm fronds and Bougainvillea doing the same thing I was doing. There was only my own stupidity to blame. Complacency is a deadly mindset, and now I'm paying for it.
Barrel-chest and the man I assumed to be Moley, dragged me out into the cockpit and loaded me into a cigarette boat with the four strangers. My hands and feet were still bound, my vision blurred, but clearing. I could see we were seaward of a string of small cays. Waves were breaking over a bar between two of them.
One of the strangers started up the boat and sped at full throttle toward the calm opening between the two cays where the water was deep enough for the waves not to break. We ran over the bar through a narrow, curved channel that opened up into a big protected harbor. This was a familiar place. Known as Johnston's Harbor, it's located at the south end of the main island of Abaco. I'd been here many times.
Twenty years ago this island belonged to an artist who lived and worked here for half a century. When he died, his son, who was a drunk and lived in Paris and never visited the place, inherited it. There was no running water, only a cistern that was kept filled with the seasonal rains that washed the islands regularly. A harbor protected from all weather, it was a utopian setting.
The boat ran up onto the beach in front of two shacks built near the water. I knew my fate was sealed. On many occasions I had escaped death in airplanes, and a few times since. Again, I felt the strangeness, and wondered how it would feel? Would I die bravely? Would it be painful? There was nothing to do but wait.
Two of the men walked away, leaving the others to tend to me.
"Untie his legs, Mon," one of the men ordered. "I ain't gonna carry him all the way up to the lighthouse. He's too big."
They cut the ropes from my legs and hands. I was too weak to give them any trouble. Hardly able to stand, my vision was continuing to clear. A good sign. Asking one of the men for water, he said I was gonna die anyway, so they might as well let me have a drink. He was small and dressed only in shorts, sandals, and a sun-bleached sailcloth hat that had a ragged patch on it that read, 'Albury's sail loft, Man-O-War Cay.' His skin color was that of a chestnut and deeply creased on his face, but smooth and taut as that of a youth on his arms and chest. It was hard to tell his age.
The water was cool, wet, and tasted as good as any in my life. For that sip, I silently thanked him. They led me into one of the shacks and made me sit on the dirt floor. It was dark inside and several other people were seated around a long, rough-hewn table. Stacked on top was at least fifty kilos of Snowpowder.
A shadow covered the doorway. "Hey, what's going on?" a voice growled. "Who's the mess on the floor? I thought there weren't going to be any problems on this trip?"
The voice had a familiar ring, but I was unable to see him as my eyes were still adjusting to the dim light of the shack.
One of the men said, "The boss caught him snooping around his boat down in Nassau. Say he's a peeper-mon. Want him buried up by the lighthouse."
"Peeper, huh? I hate peepers. They're always sticking their nose somewhere it can get chopped off. Let me take care of this. It'll give me much pleasure."
"Okay, Mon. The boss said no mistakes with dis'en, though. He still unhappy about them Cubans washing up down at Land's End."
Everybody laughed with a nervous cackle.
The man with the familiar voice came and stood over me. Reaching down, he grabbed me by the hair, pulled my head up, and stuck a pistol barrel in my mouth. If he was going to shoot me here, he would splatter teeth, hair, skin, skull, blood, and brains all over them. At least my epitaph would read, "His end was abrupt."
He did not shoot. Dropping my head, he turned around and roared a maniacal laugh. My face hit the dirt floor. It smelled of urine, tobacco, and fecal matter. Except for the horrible pounding in my head, I was starting to gain some strength. The water had helped.
"Get up, peeper. We're going for a little walk." He kicked me in the ribs, causing me to double up into the fetal position. "Get this slime-bucket up."
Two of the men picked me up. The heat was now oppressive. Turning, I looked at the man who was to kill me. The light from the sun hit his face from above. His eyes and mouth were drawn in lines of endurance and an oddly solemn resignation. It was Dave Billingsly. Sally said he was on Abaco Island. Off to the side stood Will Strange, Karl's oldest boy. My brain took a moment to comprehend what it saw. The relief was such that I almost laughed.
Dave pushed me roughly toward the path leading up the hill to the old lighthouse on the northeast corner of the island. His hands and arms were thick and powerful, not what you'd expect from his lanky frame.
Nearly as tall as me, Dave kept in excellent physical shape. A full head of wavy, graying hair and thick eyebrows accented his dark features. In his early fifties, he looked much younger. His eyes were brilliant and dry. He had a long, square face, and his facial muscles knotted and moved abruptly when he spoke, then the movement would vanish, having conveyed no expression.
"Come on, Will," Dave growled loudly. "Help me carry this piece of garbage up to the pig pens."
Little Will came over and helped drag me along. My head was starting to pound again, and I felt like throwing up. The sharp coral cut my feet, and they began to bleed as we climbed the hill. Looking down, I realized I wore no shoes. Then I remembered.
Out of range of the others, Will tried to hold me off the sharp rocks as best he could. He was a young man with a boyish face and perfect white teeth. The last time I saw him he was an innocent child, the delight of a proud father.
Dave looked at me with a comical grin. "Well, pal, we have to stop meeting like this."
"You kick awfully hard for an old man."
"Had to make it look good. We're in with a bad bunch. They are plenty smart and do not trust anyone, especially me. There is no time to go into details, but Will's in a jam and, as a favor to his papa, I'm trying to help. I don't even want to know what you're doing in Johnston's Harbor in the middle of a big dope operation."
"It's all your fault."
He looked at me with a quizzical expression.
"The client you sent to me, the Renoir woman. Her missing sister turned up dead. The trail led to Nassau and that boat lying offshore, the Sun Dog."
Dave shook his head from side to side. "We might be able to get all of us out of this alive if you think you can swim?"
"I can swim."
"You remember Family Beach? Over next to the small reef?" I nodded. "We'll help you get into the water below the lighthouse. Swim around the north end of the point. There's a dinghy there. Get under it and stay until dark, then row up to Lynyard Cay. You remember B.J., the FedEx pilot? Go to his house, it's the green one. Hold up there until I can figure out the rest." His face had the look of a smile, though he was not smiling. It was the quiet look of victory, the look of a man's pride in the price he paid, and that which made it worth paying.
"I can handle that."
"It'll be rough rowing until you get past the Bight of Old Robinson. Abeam Bridges Cay, you should be okay. The key to B.J.'s house is in the pelican-shaped flowerpot next to the front door. Good luck, Jay. I've got to shoot you, now, and dig your grave. Hang tough, old son."
"I'll do my best. And Dave…thanks."
"Yes…" He looked off across the blue ocean toward Africa as if at some sight that he had studied for years, but which had remained unchanged and unsolved, his face with an odd, questioning look of an uncertain outcome.