The two of them shoved the raft toward the center current and jumped
onto the bamboo-sided surface.
“I get in front, mon!” yelled Moore, scrambling over the platfortned,
high-backed seat used by tourists viewing the beauty of the Martha Brae.
“You stay in the rear, mon! Use the pole and when I tell you, stop and
put your legs over the backside!”
McAuliff focused his eyes in the moonlight, trying to distinguish which
was the loose pole among the strapped cylinders of bamboo. It was
wedged between the low railing and the deck; he picked it up and plunged
it into the mud below.
The raft entered the rapids and began careening downstream. Moore stood
up in the bow and used his pole as a deflector, warding the racing
bamboo float off the treacherous series of flesh-cutting rocks that
broke the surface of the water. They were approaching a bend in the
river. Barak shouted.
“Sit on the backside, mon! Put your feet into the water.
Quick, mon!”
Alex did as he was ordered; he soon understood. The drag created by his
weight and his feet gave Moore the slightly slower speed he needed to
navigate the raft through a miniature archipelago of hazardous rocks.
The bamboo sides crashed back and forth, into and over the mounds of
jagged stones. McAuliff thought the raft would list right out of the
water.
It was the sound of the harsh scrapings and his concentration on the
rapids that caused Alex to delay his realization of the gunshots. And
then that realization was complete with the stinging, searing pain in
his left arm. A bullet had grazed his flesh; the blood trickled down
his sleeve in the moonlight.
There was a staccato burst of gunfire.
“You get down, mon!” yelled Barak. “Get flat! They cannot follow us;
we get around the bend, there is a grotto.
Many caves. They lead up to the Brae Road, mon …
Ayeee!”
Moore buckled; he let go of the pole, grabbed his stomach, and fell onto
the bamboo deck. Alex reached down for the oblong archive case, crammed
it into his belt, and crawled as fast as he could to the front of the
raft. Barak Moore was writhing; he was alive.
“How bad are you hurt?”
“Pretty bad, mon!… Stay down! If we get stuck, jump out and push us
off… around bend, mon.”
Barak was unconscious. The bamboo raft plunged over a shallow, graveled
surface and then into the final curve of the bend, where the water was
deep, the current powerful and faster than before. The sounds of
gunfire stopped; they were out of sight of the Trelawny police.
McAuliff raised his shoulders; the archive case was cutting into his
skin beneath his belt. His left arm stung with pain. The river now
became a huge flat pool, the waters rushing under the surface. There
were stone cliffs diagonally across, rising sharply out of the river
bank.
Suddenly Alex saw the beam of the lone flashlight, and the terrible pain
of fear pierced his stomach. The enemy was not behind-he was waiting.
Involuntarily, he reached into his pocket for his gun. The Smith &
Wesson given him by Westmore Tallon. He raised it as the raft steered
itself toward the stone cliffs and the flashlight.
He lowered himself over the unconscious body of Barak Moore and waited,
his arm outstretched, the pistol aimed at the body beyond the
flashlight.
He was within forty yards of the silent figure. He was about to squeeze
the trigger and take a life.
“Barak, mon! ” came the words.
The man on the riverbank was Lawrence.
Charles Whitehall waited in the high brass by the cluster of breadfruit
trees. The archive case was securely under his arm; he knelt immobile
in the moonlight and watched Piersall’s house and grounds two hundred
yards away. The body of the dead guard had not been found. Floyd’s
corpse had been carried into the house for the light necessary for a
complete search of the dead body.
One man remained behind. The others had all raced into the eastern
forests and down to the Martha Brae in pursuit of Moore and McAuliff.
That was precisely what Charles Whitehall thought would happen. And why
he had not done as Barak Moore commanded.
There was a better way. If one acted alone.
The single Trelawny policeman was fat. He waddled back and forth by the
wooded border of the lawn; he was pacing nervously, as if afraid to be
alone. He carried a rifle in his hands, jerking it toward every sound
he heard or thought he heard.
Suddenly there was gunfire far below in the distance, down at the river.
It was full, rapid. Either much ammunition was being wasted, or Moore
and McAuliff were having a bad time of it.
But it was his moment to move. The patrolman was gunning the edge of
the forest, peering down. The gunfire was both his protection and the
source of his fear. He cradled his rifle and nervously lighted a
cigarette.
Charles got up and, clutching the ‘ archive case, raced through the tall
grass behind the west flank of the field. He then turned right and ran
toward Piersall’s house, through the diminishing woods to the border of
the entrance drive.
The two patrol cars stood peacefully in the moonlight, in front of the
wide stone steps to High Hill. Whitehall emerged from the woods and
crossed to the first vehicle.
One door was open-the driver’s door. The dim interior shone over the
black leather.
The keys were in the ignition. He removed them and then reached under
the dashboard radio and ripped every wire out of the panel. He closed
the door silently, ran to the second car, and saw that its keys were
also in place. He walked rapidly back to the first car and as quietly
as possible unlatched the hood. He yanked off the distributor cap and
tugged at the rubber lid until it sprang loose from the wires.
He returned to the second vehicle, got in, and placed the archive case
beside him. He pressed the accelerator several times. He checked the
gearshift mechanism and was satisfied.
He turned the key in the ignition. The motor started instantly. Charles
Whitehall backed the patrol car out of the parking area, swung the
wheel, and sped off down the drive.
The doctor closed the patio door and walked out onto Bengal Court’s
terrace, which connected Alison’s Tand McAuliff s rooms. Barak Moore
was in Alison’s bed. She had insisted; no comments were offered, the
decision was not debated.
Alex’s upper left arm was bandaged; the wound was surface, painful, and
not serious. He sat with Alison on the waist-high terrace sea wall. He
did not elaborate on the night raid; there would be time later. Sam
Tucker and Lawrence had taken positions at each end of the patio in
order to keep any wanderers from coming into the small area.
The doctor from Falmouth, whom Lawrence had contacted at midnight,
approached McAuliff. I have done what I can. I wish I felt more
confident.”
“Shouldn’t he be in a hospital?” Alison’s words were as much a rebuke as
a question.
“He should be,” agreed the doctor wearily. I discussed it with him; we
concluded it was not feasible. There is only a government clinic in
Falmouth. I think this is cleaner.”
“Barak is wanted,” explained Alex quietly. “He’d be put in prison
before they got the bullet out.”
I sincerely doubt they would take the trouble to remove the bullet, Mr.
McAuliff.”
“What do you think?” asked Alex, lighting a cigarette.
“He will have a chance if he remains absolutely still.
But only a chance. I have cauterized the abdominal wall;
it could easily rerupture. I have replaced blood … yes, my office
has a discreet file of certain individuals’ blood classifications. He
is extremely weak. If he survives two or three days, there is hope.”
“But you don’t think he will,” stated McAuliff.
“No. There was too much internal bleeding. My … portable operating
kit is not that good. Oh, my man is cleaning up. He will take out the
sheets, clothing, anything that has been soiled. Unfortunately, the odor
of ether and disinfectant will remain. Keep the outside doors open when
you can. Lawrence will make sure no one enters.”
Alex slid off the wall and leaned against it. “Doctor? I gather you’re
part of Barak’s organization, if that’s the word.”
“It is too precise at this juncture.”
“But you know what’s going on.”
“Not specifically. Nor do I wish to. My function is to be available
for medical purposes. The less involvement otherwise, the better for
everyone.”
“You can get word to people, though, can’t you?”
The doctor smiled. “By ‘people’ I assume you mean Barak’s followers.”
“Yes.”
“There are telephone numbers … public telephones, and specific hours.
The answer is yes. , “We’re going to need at least one other man. Floyd