Peter remained crouched in his concealed position after the figure had
disappeared. It was extraordinary. Tucker and Alison Booth were not in
Ocho Rios; a man had been hurt, apparently quite seriously, and instead
of taking him directly inside the motel’s front entrance, they furtively
carried him in, smuggled him in. And it might be conceivable that Sam
Tucker would come back to Bengal Court without McAuliff; it was
inconceivable that Alison Booth would do so.
What were they doing? What in heaven’s name had happened … was
happening?
The simplest way to find out, thought Peter, was to get dressed, return
to the tiny bar, and, for reasons he had not yet created, call McAuliff
for drink.
He would do this alone. Ruth would remain in their room.
But first Peter would walk down to the beach, to the water’s edge, where
he would have a Ml view of the motel and the Oceanside terraces.
Once in the miniature lounge, Peter invented his reason to phone
McAuliff. It was simple to the point of absurdity. He had been unable
to sleep, taken a stroll on the beach, seen a light behind the drawn
curtains in Alexander’s room, and gathered he had returned from Ocho
Rios. Would he and Alison be his guests for a nightcap?
Jensen went to the house phone at the end of the bar.
When McAuliff answered, his voice was laced with the frustration of a
man forced to be civil in the most undesirable of circumstances. And
McAuliff’s lie was apparent.
“Oh, Jesus, Peter, thanks, but we’re beat. We just got settled at the
Sans Souci when Latham called from the Ministry. Some damned
bureaucratic problem with our interior permits; we had to drive all the
way back for some kind of goddamned … inspection first thing in the
morning …
inoculation records, medical stuff. Crew, mainly.”
“Terribly inconsiderate, old boy. Nasty bastards, I’d say.”
“They are…. We’ll take a raincheck, though. Perhaps tomorrow.”
Peter had wanted to keep McAuliff on the phone a bit longer. The man
was breathing audibly; each additional moment meant the possibility of
Jensen’s learning something. “Ruth and I thought we’d hire a car and go
to Dunn’s Falls around noon tomorrow. Surely you’ll be finished by
then. Care to come along?”
“Frankly, Peter,” said McAuliff haltingly, “we were hoping to get back
to Ochee, if we could.”
“Then that would rule out Dunn’s Falls, of course.
You’ve seen it, though, haven’t you? Is it all they say?”
“Yes … yes, it certainly is. Enjoy yourselves—@”
“You will be back tomorrow night, then?” interjected Jensen.
“Sure… Why?”
“Our raincheck, old boy.”
“Yes,” said McAuliff slowly, carefully. “We’ll be back tomorrow night.
Of course we’ll be back tomorrow night…. Good night, Peter.”
“Good night, chap. Sleep well.” Jensen hung up the house phone. He
carried his drink slowly back to a table in the corner, nodding
pleasantly to the other guests, giving the impression that he was
waiting for someone, probably his wife. He had no wish to join anyone;
he had to think out his moves.
Which was why he was now lying in the sand behind a small mound of
surfaced coral on the beach, watching Lawrence and Sam Tucker talking.
He had been there for nearly three hours. He had seen things he knew he
was not supposed to see: two men arriving-one obviously a doctor with
some sort of assistant carrying a large trunklike case and odd-shaped
paraphernalia.
There had been quiet conferences between McAuliff, Alison, and the
doctor, later joined by Sam Tucker and the black crewman, Lawrence.
Finally, all left the terrace but Tucker and the crewman.
They stayed outside.
On guard.
Guarding not only Alexander and the girl, but also whoever was in that
adjoining room. The injured man with the oddly shaped head who had been
carried from the automobile. Who was he?
The two men had stayed at their posts for three hours now. No one had
come or gone. But Peter knew he could not leave the beach. Not yet.
Suddenly, Jensen saw the black crewman, Lawrence, walk down the terrace
steps and start across the dunes toward the beach. Simultaneously,
Tucker made his way over the grass to the corner of the building. He
stood immobile on the lawn; he was waiting for someone. Or watching.
Lawrence reached the surf, and Jensen lay transfixed as the huge black
man did a strange thing. He looked at his watch and then proceeded to
light two matches, one after the other, holding each aloft in the
breezeless dawn air for several seconds and throwing each into the
lapping water.
Moments later, the action was explained. Lawrence cupped his hand over
his eyes to block the blinding, head-on light of the sun as it broke the
space above the horizon, and Peter followed his line of sight.
Across the calm ocean surface in the massive land shadows by the point,
there were two corresponding flickers of light. A small boat had
rounded the waters of the cove’s entrance, its gray-black hull slowly
emerging in the early sunlight.
Its destination was that section of the beach where Lawrence stood.
Several minutes later, Lawrence struck another match and held it up
until there was an acknowledgment from the approaching craft, at which
instant both were extinguished and the black crewman started running
back over the sand toward Bengal Court.
On the lawn, by the corner of the building, Sam Tucker turned and saw
the racing Lawrence. He walked to the stairs in the sea wall and waited
for him. The black man reached the steps; he and Tucker spoke briefly,
and together they approached the terrace doors of the adjoining
room-Alison Booth’s room. Tucker opened them, and the two men went
inside, leaving the double doors ajar.
Peter kept shifting his eyes from the motel to the beach.
There was no visible activity from the terrace; the small boat plodded
its way over the remarkably still waters toward the beach, now only
three or four hundred yards from the shore. It was a long,
flat-bottomed fishing boat, propelled by a muffled engine. Sitting in
the stem was a black man in what appeared to be ragged clothes and a
wide straw sun hat. Hook poles shot up from the small deck, nets were
draped over the sides of the hull; the effect was that of a perfectly
normal Jamaican fisherman out for the dawn catch.
When the boat came within several hundred feet of the shore, the skipper
lit a match, then extinguished it quickly.
Jensen looked up at the terrace. In seconds, the figure of Sam Tucker
emerged from the darkness beyond the open doors. He held one end of a
stretcher on which a man lay wrapped in blankets; Lawrence followed,
holding the other end.
Gently, but swiftly, the two men ran-glided-the stretcher across the
terrace, down the sea-wall steps, over the sand, and toward the beach.
The timing was precise, not a moment wasted. It seemed to Jensen that
the instant the boat hit shallow water, Tucker and Lawrence waded into
the calm surf with the stretcher and placed it carefully over the sides
onto the deck. The nets were swung over on top of the blanketed man and
the fishing boat was immediately pushed back into the water by Sam
Tucker as Lawrence slid onto the bow slat. Seconds later, Lawrence had
removed his shirt and from some recess in the boat lifted out a torn,
disheveled straw hat, clamped it on his head, and yanked a hook pole
from its clasp. The transformation was complete. Lawrence the
conspirator was now a lethargic native fisherman.
The small flat-bottomed craft turned, rippling the grasslike surface of
the water, and headed out. The motor chugged a bit louder than before;
the skipper wanted to get away from the beach with his concealed cargo.
Sam Tucker waved; Lawrence nodded and dipped the hook pole. Tucker came
out of the miniature surf and walked swiftly back toward Bengal Court.
Peter Jensen watched as the fishing boat veered in open water toward the
point. Several times Lawrence leaned forward and down, fingering nets
but obviously checking the condition of the man on the stretcher.
Intermittently, he seemed to be issuing quiet commands to the man at the
engine tiller. The sun had now cleared the edge of the Jamaican
horizon. It would be a hot day.
Up at the terrace Peter saw that the double doors of Alison Booth’s room
remained open. With the additional light, he could also see that there
was new activity inside.
Sam Tucker came out twice, carrying tan plastic bags, which he left on
the patio. Then a second man-the doctor’s assistant, Peter
realized–emerged, holding a large cylinder by its neck and a huge black
suitcase in his other hand. He placed them on the stone, bent down
below them on the sea wall, and stood up moments later with two
elongated cansaerosol cans, thought Jensen-and handed one to Tucker as