Fifteen minutes later, he turned a corner between spidery tree roots to find himself confronted by something huge and weird, standing like a gigantic visitant from outer space in the darkness of the forest. After a moment of instinctive shock, he realized that this was the tower—a perfectly prosaic structure of trellised wood, with its four feet solidly embedded in blocks of concrete and ladders leading up to the observation platform. What made it uncanny was its sudden appearance in the untouched twilight of the dense forest and the fact that it disappeared upward into the thick, overhanging foliage, so that its top was invisible and might have led, like Jacob’s ladder, to the skies. Reynolds laid down his heavy bag, extracted his compass and binoculars, and began climbing the ladder.
Once, on a winter holiday in Switzerland, Derek Reynolds had had the experience of boarding a bus in a fog-filled valley town and being driven upward on sinuous mountain roads until—with no warning—the bus burst out of the fog and into the brilliant sunshine and snow of the high country. He was reminded of that moment when he pushed up through the shadowy coolness of leaves and branches and suddenly found his head and shoulders out in the burning sunlight and looking down on the forest. Just above him, the observation platform skirted the tops of the trees, and all around the sea and sky and islands were laid out like a map. He scrambled onto the platform and looked around him.
Far, far below, the blue and purple sea crawled and crested. The islands of St. Mark’s and Tampica looked like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle thrown carelessly onto an azure carpet, while immediately below, the houses and streets of Priest Town were toylike and unreal. Matchbox-size boats moved along the buoyed channel to and from the harbor; miniature cars… Reynolds took another look. Funny. There didn’t seem to be any cars moving in Priest Town on this Saturday afternoon, but from the harbor side, a thick plume of black smoke rose toward him, until he imagined he could catch its acrid smell in the limpid air. So there’d been a fire. Well, hardly surprising in this hot, dry climate. Derek Reynolds refocused his binoculars and began to scan the nearer landscape.
All around was a dense canopy of closely woven treetops, betraying no secrets. Brief glimpses of open glades showed the lighter green of grass, the red and purple of tropical blossoms, but no sign of life or movement. The glint of sun on water drew his attention to a point where a small, leaping waterfall briefly caught the light of day, and at once he began to watch the area more closely. Anybody setting up a camp would need water, and streams were few and far between.
The movement, when he saw it, was so slight that had he not been consciously trying to concentrate on the path of the stream, he would almost certainly have missed it. As it was, it came and went so fast that it was hard to pinpoint, but he was as sure as he had ever been of anything that a figure dressed in some pale color flitted momentarily into a tiny open glade between dark trees and then disappeared abruptly backward, as though pulled from behind back into the gloom of the forest. The spot was about a quarter of a mile from the tower, downhill and to the northeast by north. Reynolds uttered a short prayer and began scrambling down the ladder.
At the bottom, he paused and took stock. However well these local people knew the forest, he reckoned that they would rely on some point or line of reference, and the obvious one seemed to be the well-marked but little-used trail to the Panoramic Tower. In fact, the tower itself would be a useful lookout post. Addison, even encumbered by Candy, would have made good time by a familiar route to the marked trail, followed it upward to a point not too far from the tower, and then turned off to the right in order to arrive at the spot that Reynolds now marked on his sketch-map of the island. On this map, the trail was marked as a wavily uncertain line between the road from the Golf Club to Priest Town, and a small circle marked “Pan. Tr.” For navigational purposes, the map was just about useless, but it provided a sense of direction and the comforting assurance that the trail did, indeed, descend to the road.
After about twenty minutes of exploration, Reynolds decided that he had found the exit from the trail. Four or five promising ways through the woods had ended in a blank, but this one—although less inviting than the main path— developed into something like a regular route once away from the marked trail. If he was right, then he should be getting close to the encampment. The all-important thing now was silence and concealment. Reynolds stepped quietly off the track and into the shelter of a dense hedge of oleander. He put his bag on the ground, crouched beside it, and tried to remember the elementary rules of woodcraft from a miscellany of Boy Scout and police training. He held his breath.
The forest, of course, was not silent. The stream that Reynolds had noticed from the observation platform was close at hand, gurgling and splashing over its steep, rocky bed. A mockingbird in the trees above kept up an incessant and not very expert imitation of the call of the laughing gull. In the carpet of dry fallen leaves under the trees, lizards darted with crackling suddenness, while overhead the engine of a small plane droned rhythmically as it winged its way from St. Mark’s to Tampica.
What was completely absent, however, was the sound of the human voice, and so it was with the sensation of a firecracker going off in his ear that Derek Reynolds suddenly heard Candy Stevenson say, “You’ll never get away with it.” She seemed to be speaking from about ten feet away, on the far side of the oleander hedge.
A masculine voice, presumably Addison’s, answered. “That’s none of your business, nor mine neither.”
“I mean, it’s ridiculous. I suppose they think I left on the morning boat.”
“You left on the morning boat, lady.” Addison laughed.
“Yes, but what’ll happen when I don’t arrive at the other end?”
“You plannin’ a big family reunion? You got people waitin’ at the airport? Don’t make me laugh. You’s just a travelin’ whore.”
“Well…” Candy was flustered but not defeated. “What about my luggage? Somebody’s going to—”
“Your luggage, sweetheart,” said Addison, “is at the bottom of the Caribbean Sea, and it’ll take a better diver than you to get it up.”
Candy said in a sort of exasperation, “I don’t see the point of all this. You can’t keep me up here forever in these Godforsaken woods, and when I get away and tell the police—”
“Get away? Tell the police? Them’s big words, lady. Don’t ask me. That’s all. Don’t ask me. You and I’s here, and here we stay till further orders. And further orders’ll come along, don’t you worry.”
“Well, we may as well have something to eat, at least.”
“Sounds OK to me.”
“Untie me, then, and I’ll open some cans.”
“And have you try running out on me again? No, lady. I’ll get the cans.”
Reynolds could hear twigs snapping and leaves rustling as Addison moved about. He edged forward among the oleanders. Suddenly, Addison said, “What was that?”
“What was what?”
“Something moved. In the bushes.”
“A lizard. Or a bird. Good God, you don’t think anyone’s come after us up here, do you? As you pointed out, I left the Golf Club of my own free will on the eight-thirty—didn’t I, Addison?”
“Sure did.” Addison laughed, sounding more relaxed. “You go for corned beef or ham?”
Reynolds wriggled forward again, to the limits of the hedge, and there, between the slender, spiky leaves and sweet pink blossoms, he saw the encampment.
The undergrowth had been cleared in the form of a rough circle, about fifteen feet in diameter. Above, the thick foliage of the trees shut out the sky, so that the camp would be quite invisible from the air. On the far side of it, the stream meandered downhill, providing a good water supply. Equipment was minimal, but efficient. There were two small tents set on groundsheets, which would provide cramped but adequate shelter for up to six people in a tropical downpour. As Reynolds watched, Addison came crawling out from one of the tents, carrying a couple of cans. The tent flaps were nea
tly rolled back, and Derek could see that inside were rolled-up blankets and watertight chests. The one that Addison had opened had contained provisions. The others might contain anything else that needed to be protected from damp.
Candy Stevenson was sitting on a groundsheet beside the stream. She wore a loose-fitting cotton caftan, her ankles were hobbled together, and her hands were behind her back, presumably also secured in some way. The white caftan and the fact that she wore no makeup seemed to indicate that she had been abducted from her cottage before she was up and dressed in the morning. It occurred to Derek Reynolds that she did not look especially frightened—just disheveled and extremely cross. He could also see that the rope on her ankles was loosely and not very efficiently tied, and he hoped that the same was true for her hands. Addison had evidently taken the risk of untying her to save himself the labor of carrying her. As Derek had seen from the observation platform, she had made an attempt to escape, and so Addison had roughly trussed her up again. The most important thing, from Derek’s point of view, was that the pair were on their own. Given the advantage of surprise, he was certainly a match for Addison Drake.
“Ham for me,” said Candy.
“One ham, coming up, madam.” Addison was aping a Golf Club waiter. He threw the can at Candy. It hit her on the leg. She winced, but said only, “Some use that is, without a can opener.”
“OK, OK, there’s one here somewhere.”
Addison turned and crawled back into the small tent. Derek Reynolds knew an opportunity when he saw one. He came out of the bushes like a cork from a champagne bottle, and the next moment the tent was down and Addison Drake was enmeshed in it, struggling and screaming profanities.
It was a one-sided battle, almost too easy. Derek Reynolds had everything on his side, and he used it. Within a couple of minutes, Addison was lying on the ground, neatly trussed like a piece of prime poultry, Derek was cutting free the ropes that held Candy’s wrists and ankles, and Candy was saying, “Oh, Derek…” with stars in her eyes, obviously having the time of her life.
As soon as she was free, Candy flung her arms around Derek’s neck and began kissing him with a great deal of enthusiasm, punctuating this activity with a breathless series of questions—“How did you know? How did you find us? Where are we anyway?”—questions to which Reynolds had no chance to reply, since his mouth was otherwise occupied. He heard the movement in the trees behind him, but had not succeeded in disentangling himself before an incisive female voice said, “Cut it out and put your hands up, both of you. We’re armed.”
Candy gave a startled squeak and clung even more closely to Reynolds. The latter detached her gently and turned to find himself looking at the business end of a Smith & Wesson, held steadily by a tall, striking black girl wearing dark glasses. Immediately behind her stood three young black men. The tall, bearded one and the small, slim one were on either side of the athletic, crinkly haired youth whose hands were behind his back.
“Sandy!” shrieked Candy, and made as if to dart toward him.
Derek Reynolds grabbed her, as the black girl snapped, “Stand still or you’ll get hurt. Now, put your hands on your heads, both of you.”
Slowly, Derek and Candy obeyed.
“That’s better.” Diamond transferred her attention to the recumbent Addison. “Who are these people, and what are they doing here?”
Addison said, “The girl’s Candy Stevenson. Was staying at the club. Orders from the top to get rid of her.”
“So you’re Candy Stevenson. Well, well.” Diamond sounded amused. “I am Diamond. Sandy Robbins, you know… very well, so I’m told. The other two are Brooks and Delaware. Who’s your boyfriend?”
In a curiously formal voice, Candy said, “This is Mr. Derek Reynolds from London. He collects stamps.”
“Among other things,” said Diamond dryly. “What in hell is he doing here?”
“He saw me being kidnapped from the club this morning. He followed me up here.”
“I might have known little brother Addie would bitch things up,” said Diamond, with a sort of exasperated affection. “So now we’ve got three of them. One would have been plenty. OK. Brooks…Delaware…tie them up and let Addie go. Then get the tent up again, and let’s have some food, for God’s sake.” Keeping the gun trained on Reynolds, she sat down on the grass, stretching her long, bluejeaned legs.
“But Sandy,” Candy began, “you were in prison—”
“Shut up, or we’ll put a gag on you,” said Diamond. She sounded more relaxed. “Well, it’s quite a haul for a small guerrilla group. One wanted murderer, one white whore, and one stamp collector. I hope headquarters will be pleased.” She transferred her attention to Reynolds. “You don’t say much for yourself.”
“What is there to say?”
“How did you find the camp?”
“I decided by a process of deduction that she and Addison went ashore at Jellyfish Bay. So I started there, and searched all day, and finally—”
“Why?”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Why did you follow her?” Diamond was impatient. “Why didn’t you simply go to the police?” She laughed. “Not that it would have done you much good. The police station should go on burning for another few hours at least.” She turned abruptly to Delaware, who was pinioning Candy’s arms behind her back. “You know you killed that pig with the keys, Del?”
“Who cares?” muttered Delaware. “Anyhow, it was Brooks done it.”
“That’s not true!” protested the lanky giant. “You had the machete.”
“You both had machetes,” snapped Diamond. “Anyhow, it doesn’t matter. Hurry up, for God’s sake. I’m starving. Get the can opener moving, Addie. Have you and the girl had anything to eat?”
“No, Diamond,” Addison sounded like a whipped puppy. “We were just going to open some cans when—”
“All right. Spare me the details. I suppose the prisoners will have to be fed—they’re more useful alive than dead. Ah, that’s better.” Brooks had put the finishing touches to Reynolds’s leg and arm bonds, and Diamond put her gun down and stretched luxuriously on the grass. “Better check on supplies, Addie. Six is more than we bargained for, if we’re here for any length of time.”
“How long we here for, Diamond?” asked Addison, tentatively.
“How should I know? Until further orders.”
“How’ll we get them?”
Diamond shrugged. “The usual way.”
Addison said nervously, “Suppose Montague and his cops find us?”
“They won’t,” said Diamond easily. “And even if they do— we’re in a strong bargaining position. We hold hostages. Now, food, for heaven’s sake.”
Addison opened cans of ham and corned beef, cut the meat into chunks, and fed the prisoners by hand. After eating, each was given a mug of water from the stream, also administered by Addison, who seemed to have taken over as camp orderly. When the meal was over, Brooks and Delaware retired to the tents and were soon stretched out and snoring loudly. Both men were obviously exhausted. Addison was given the gun and told to stand guard, and Diamond came over to the side of the clearing where the three prisoners were sitting, propped uncomfortably against tree trunks.
“It’s time we had a talk,” she said. She looked down disdainfully from her six-foot height and addressed herself to Sandy Robbins. “You first. You realize you’re now wanted for double murder?”
Sandy’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “Me? You gone crazy, Diamond? I been in jail till Brooks and Delaware come get me out—”
“And you murdered a policeman while escaping. You’re the obvious suspect, and Brooks, Delaware, and I will all swear we saw you do it.”
“I didn’t escape! You know that! I was kidnapped.”
Diamond smiled slowly. “Try telling that to Montague and the governor and the pig from London. You escaped in the confusion of the fire, killing a cop in the process. You came and joined us. You’ve always believed
in the Cause at heart, haven’t you, Sandy dear?” Diamond was purring, like a tiger. “I’m just pointing out that your only hope is with us. After independence, the revolutionary government will consider dropping charges against you—if you cooperate.”
“You don’t seriously think you’re going to get independence.”
“Don’t underestimate us, Sandy,” said Diamond softly. “We are more powerful than you think. We have outside help that you know nothing about. And the tide is turning. The island is with us. You saw that today.”
Sandy shrugged. “You crazy, girl,” he said. “Your men go buying drinks all around in the Bum Boat, get those kids half stoned so they—”
“I’m not interested in your opinions. I’m telling you your position. Now.” Diamond turned to Candy. “You’re a useless bitch, and I don’t know why headquarters loaded you onto us, but I suppose you’ve got some value as a pawn. You’re a traveling tart, and nobody’s going to miss you. If you become useless to us, you will be killed. For the moment, we’ll keep you alive, but we have no interest in whether you live or die—only in your usefulness. Understand?”
Candy began to cry, noisily. “You can’t kill me! I’ve done nothing…”
Softly, Sandy said, “Don’t cry, darling. We’ll get out of this.”
“Very touching.” Diamond turned her attention to Derek Reynolds. “As for you, Mr. Stamp Collector, you are a nuisance. On the other hand, you are certainly more valuable as a hostage than the little white tramp. You’re a member of the Golf Club?”
“Yes.”
“Rich?”
Reynolds hesitated. Candy, who had stopped sniveling, shouted, “Of course he’s rich!”
Diamond said, “Right. You will be kept alive on the same conditions as the girl. That is, so long as you’re useful.” She turned on her heel and strode off toward the tents, where she started unpacking the waterproof boxes.
The Coconut Killings Page 15