25

 

Mary’s Garden, Leeward Islands

 

On the morning of her third day on the island, Kristin woke to the lingering taste of failure. For two days she had searched the island for any sign of suspicious activity but found none. All the islanders she talked to said no cargo ship had approached the island within living memory. Nor could anyone remember when the last airplane had landed on the island’s dinky airstrip.

The lack of results disappointed her. In recent weeks, through what she termed dumb luck, she’d stumbled onto the second massacre and the weapons factory, but she shouldn’t expect her luck to continue. If it did, she’d get a reputation like Typhoid Mary. She should be glad for the people of Mary’s Garden that she’d found no evidence of crime. But she wasn’t glad.

Her feeling of failure persisted at mid-morning when she called her report to Roger Brinkman’s office in Denver. The assistant who took the call made no comment, but added instructions: “Mr. Brinkman wants you to stay there another day or two. Relax and enjoy the sights. You will be contacted.”

That was fine by her. She hadn’t taken time to relish the graceful palms or the multi-colored blaze of tropical flowers that made the island a natural beauty spot. She’d sampled the characteristic dinner of stewed saltfish and coconut dumplings, but she hadn’t taken time to savor it. So a day of sightseeing would be welcome.

She dressed in tan slacks and a long-sleeved white blouse, ever conscious of how easily she sunburned. To these she added a wide-brimmed straw hat and sunshades, and strolled along the seashore. The beaches of white sand and the blue Caribbean should have gladdened her heart, but the bitter taste of failure remained as she approached the diminutive harbor.

The small passenger boat from Saint Kitts was docking as she arrived. Listlessly, she watched the varied tourists debark. A middle-aged couple wearing floppy straw hats and dressed in shorts, their arms and legs white as grub worms. A thirty-something man, traveling alone, dressed much like the couple but seeming more comfortable with it. No doubt about his plans, for his eyes searched out everything female within range. As his gaze reached Kristin, she turned her back and examined the boat as it cast off. A single passenger stood on the rear deck.

Recognition raced through Kristin like an electric shock. It was one of the two blond muscle men she had seen at the weapons factory—the one she’d seen again in the Bogotá air terminal. He was taller and broader than Sledge, but his manner was different. Sledge carried his bulk with a confidence that stopped short of this man’s blatant arrogance. And the deep-seated hatred that blazed from this man’s eyes was foreign to Sledge.

The boat pulled farther from the dock with each moment. Kristin’s spirits fell. She’d made the sighting too late.

“Where does that boat go?” she asked one of the dock workers.

He met her gaze with eyes like small black beads in chocolate-colored sand. He answered with the patience of one who’d answered a thousand dumb questions from tourists. “To the Isle of Saint Mark, mum. Then it returns here and goes on to Saint Kitts.”

“When is the next boat?”

“It comes in two hours, mum. There is not much to see on Saint Mark. You will find more to do here.”

“Thank you, but I think I will look at Saint Mark.”

She spent the next two hours in turmoil, vainly checking her slow-moving watch every few minutes. Should she call Brinkman and report the sighting? No, best to wait for more substantive information. She had the who, where, and when, but she still needed the what and why.

When the boat finally came, she paid her fare and found a seat inside away from the sun. The backs of her hands were already burning in spite of sunscreen, and she didn’t want them to peel. She was glad she’d worn sunglasses against the glare.

Then a fast powerboat overtook hers and cruised easily past. On board were seven or eight uniformed policemen too full of themselves to return the friendly waves of Kristin’s fellow passengers. The police boat pulled steadily away and soon was lost to view.

On the Isle of Saint Mark, the glare was even worse—more white beach and open water with a scorching midday sun reflecting hotly from the deck of the empty police boat tied up at the dock. Kristin wondered what she should do next. The blond brute might be anywhere, and she didn’t know where to begin. Public places first, she decided.

Near the dock she found a few shabby shops populated by sleepy owners and desultory shoppers. Farther up the island’s main road stood a shabby two-story hotel. Inside were a restaurant and bar, both almost empty in the early afternoon. That exhausted the island’s public facilities. So what was left?

She exited the hotel and looked both east and west. To the east lay a straggle of private homes on a side street leading to a beach. To the north lay an unpaved airfield with no control tower or hangars. That might bear looking at later, but its open expanse obviously did not contain the blond heavy she was looking for. The western end of the island looked more fruitful. Close beside that end of the airfield stood a large prefab building that looked like a warehouse. Kristin’s pulse quickened. Building and airfield met the physical requirements for the transshipment point Brinkman was hunting. If she spotted the blond hulk there, she’d have something worth reporting.

She followed a side street leading in that direction. Soon the drab residences gave way to an open space. After that came a group of abandoned one-story buildings, and beyond them a three-foot-high boundary wall with unpainted sheds at either end. Beyond the wall, some fifty yards of open field led to the warehouse. But she had seen no people. The land lay empty, the sea breeze making gentle ripples in the knee-high grass. And over all, a silence so deep she could hear waves caressing the distant beach of the southern shore.

The hair at the back of her neck prickled. This was getting risky. She had no business here, and there was no help if she got into trouble. On the other hand, no one on the island knew what she was doing here. She could talk her way out of complications by claiming to be a tourist who got lost. So she advanced to the low wall and surveyed the warehouse, wondering how to proceed.

Suddenly, six yellow flashes blazed at different windows of the warehouse. Something hard as rocks slammed into the buildings behind her, and the unmistakable sound of gunshots assaulted her ears. People in the warehouse were shooting. At her?

“Get down, mum,” shouted a voice behind her.

She dropped at once, shielded from the warehouse by the low wall, but totally exposed toward the buildings. A burst of automatic fire from the warehouse raked the wall above her. An answering volley of single shots came from the buildings behind her. They weren’t well aimed, for one ricocheted off the wall near her head. She looked back toward the buildings and saw a few police uniforms. She’d walked into the middle of a police raid.

The volume of fire on both sides increased, growing as fierce as the firefight she’d endured with Sledge in Colombia. Stretched flat on the ground, she felt as helpless as an earthworm on a concrete sidewalk. More bullets struck the wall, and fear rose in her throat until she thought she would choke.

I’ve gotten myself into a fine mess, she thought. Now, how on earth am I going to get out of it?