Dark Destiny

by Edward S. Aarons

  Mona's face was pale and anxious. "It looks like Ashton."

  He debated making an attempt to run for it. He knew the schooner could make twice as many knots as this dilapidated little boat he had borrowed from Benny. Still, he had to make the effort. He couldn't just stay here in this lonely, deserted place and let them overtake him. With the thought, he moved to the wheel, gunned the throttle and urged the boat out of the crescent cul-de-sac formed by the reef.

  By the time he was out in the main channel again, the schooner was only a hundred yards astern. He thought he heard someone shout his name from aboard her, but he did not turn his head to look at her again. The key where Gabrilan's body had been found slowly dropped aft. He turned to starboard, pointing the bow toward the dim series of bridges formed by the highway that spanned the islands to the south. It was more than three miles away, too far to hope to reach before they were overtaken. A small chain of lesser keys formed an arm of land that reached toward their position, however, and in the distance was a small colony of shacks and cabins, visible now that he had cleared the channel and had an open prospect of the run ahead.

  Sam fixed his goal on the collection of cabins to the right. Mona stood beside him, looking backward at the schooner in pursuit. Her face was pale and troubled. Now and then she glanced quickly up at Sam, but his expression told her nothing. He had shut out all thought and all the questions that revolved around his discoveries on the bottom of the sea. He knew the answers now, but there was neither triumph nor pleasure to be gained by considering them. He almost wished that success had not come to him this way. And then, looking back at the larger yacht that was rapidly overtaking him, he thought wryly that perhaps he was being overly optimistic in any case.

  The little boat shook and threatened to tear itself apart as he forced the engine revolutions to their maximum. He heard a shout from astern, distinctly this time. It was an order to halt and the word held a harsh warning in it. He did not ease up on the throttle.

  The first shot gouged a sudden scar on the cabin roof directly ahead of him and he ducked instinctively as the splinter went flying over the side. He heard Mona draw a deep, shocked breath. He looked at her, but she did not suggest that they give up. The key he was aiming for was still more than a quarter of a mile away. When he glanced back at the schooner, he was startled to find that it was plowing directly in their wake, so near that he could see the faces of the men on her bow distinctly.

  One of them was John Ashton, leaning on his cane, clinging with his free hand to a wire stay. Another was Deputy Frye. The third man's identity came as a shock. It was the Cuban, De Silva.

  Frye was handling the rifle. Even as Sam looked back at him, the deputy lifted the weapon again and fired a second time. The bullet smashed into the instrument panel directly in front of him. Glass shattered and flew. A thin streak of blood suddenly appeared on Mona's cheek. She gasped and touched her hand to it.

  Sam cut the throttle and the roaring engine suddenly died and the bow wave disappeared as the little boat surged to a halt.

  "Are you all right?" he asked Mona.

  "It's only a scratch."

  The schooner came up alongside, reversed its screw and floated beside them on the starboard rail, the white hull towering above their smaller boat. Frye came running from the bow, his rifle ready. His fat figure jounced in the ludicrously bright sports shirt he wore. He wore the shirt with the tails out and the wind made him look a little ridiculous. But there was nothing to laugh about when he grinned down at them.

  "Throw your weapons overboard, Sam!" he called.

  "I don't have any."

  De Silva came up and said something to Frye that Sam could not hear. The tall Cuban did not seem to share the deputy's glee. He pushed Frye's rifle aside angrily. Then he jumped lightly down into Sam's boat. Ashton limped up a moment later. De Silva's hands covered Sam's clothing quickly in a brief search for a gun.

  "I am sorry, chico," the Cuban said. "It is necessary. You should have had more faith in me."

  "So you could betray me more easily?" Sam asked.

  "This is not a matter of betrayal. It is one of necessity. You should have told me about the money and your diving expedition." The tall man made a slight bow toward Mona. His seersucker suit looked as if it had been slept in and his dark, heavy-lidded eyes were faintly shot with blood. His mustache was bedraggled. "Senora Somerset. It is regrettable that you two must be found together like this. The police will not think well of it. It will only confirm their theory that everything that has happened was an outcome of passion."

  "You know better," Sam said bluntly. "What are you trying to say?"

  "My only interest is in recovering the money for the company that hired me, chico. I assure you, despite the message you sent to Havana last night-I have ways of learning what you do, my friend-my credentials are exactly what they claim for me. Because you persisted in operating alone, I could draw only one conclusion. You are after the money for yourself. You hoped to make away with it this morning and escape from the keys with the young lady and the fortune."

  "You don't believe that," Sam said.

  "Unfortunately, I do. I have no choice."

  The boat dipped suddenly as Frye jumped aboard. Ashton remained on the schooner, leaning on the rail above them. His handsome face was sardonic.

  Frye said heavily: "You're under arrest, Sam. You, too, lady."

  "For what?" Sam asked.

  "Two murders, now. Bill Somerset and Harry Lundy."

  "How do you know about Lundy?"

  "If it's any of your business, Ashton called me. I was with Mr. De Silva at the time and we went out to Isla Honda at once."

  "And how did you know where to find me this morning."

  "It was De Silva's idea. I should've thought of it myself."

  De Silva said quietly: "When I learned from Estella last night that you had borrowed Benny's boat again, I forced the truth from Benny. Do not blame him. He was most reluctant to tell me about you. But he had no choice. He told me about your search in the channel for the sunken boat. I assume you were successful, chico?"

  "I found the boat, all right," Sam said. "And Jaquin's bones, too."

  "And the money?"

  "It was not there," Sam said. He looked up at Ashton, leaning on the schooner's rail above. "Somebody beat me to it. There were signs that someone else had been diving there not more than a few hours before I tried it."

  Frye said sharply: "Hell, he's lying again. He's got more sharp stories than all of us could think up together. He's a slick customer, Mr. De Silva. He's got the money, all right."

  "Have you?" De Silva asked again.

  "You can search the boat," Sam offered. "I didn't find it."

  De Silva nodded. "We shall do that, chico."

  Frye looked uncertain. "Maybe he hid it somewhere else before we caught him."

  "There was no chance for that," De Silva said. "It is either aboard this boat, or he did not get it."

  The search was brief and furious yet thorough. Sam sat beside Mona on the transom. She was trembling a little and her hand felt cold when she slipped it in his. Her fingers interlaced with his. She said nothing to him. Her whole attitude was one of defeat and Sam had no chance to tell her what he knew. He pondered the surprising alliance that had developed between Ashton, Frye and De Silva. If De Silva was a legitimate cop, he was riding for a fall by working with the other two. Ashton and Frye had only one objective-to find the money and keep it for themselves. Nothing good would happen to De Silva if they should stumble on it. Yet De Silva was a cynical and sophisticated man and he surely knew the personal danger he was in for throwing in his lot with the others. He studied the man, but the Cuban's thin face told him nothing at all. He wondered if Frye's declaration of arrest was meant to be official. He doubted it. Then he wasn't sure about it, after all. It was the only course left open to Frye and Ashton, if the money failed to turn up. By arresting him, Frye could claim official commendation and at the s
ame time leave himself free to conduct his search for the money where Sam had been interrupted.

  A flight of pelicans moved across the surface of the sea, their dark brown outlines ungainly and preposterous against the brightness of the sun and sky. Sam looked again at the shacks and cottages on the nearby key. He thought he could see the thin line of a causeway that linked this spray of islands to the main body off in the distance. The two vessels were drifting a little closer to the shore and with the next moment he made his decision. He knew De Silva's search of the boat would end in failure. If his analysis were correct, then the next step would be his arrest and return to Key West, where he would be jailed and forever deprived of his chance to get out of this freely and cleanly.

  Gently, he took his hand from Mona's. She looked up at him and he shook his head slightly in silence. She frowned a little and followed his quick glance to the shore. Alarm shone in her eyes. Sam stood up.

  De Silva was in the cabin, examining the lockers up in the bow. Frye had paused to mop the perspiration from his round, red face. For the moment, his rifle leaned against the cabin, close at hand but requiring a few vital seconds for him to reach. Only Ashton still watched him from the schooner's deck.

  Ashton read his intention at almost the same instant that Sam moved. His sudden shout brought Frye around in a tight spin, lunging for the rifle. For an instant, Sam poised on the broad transom seat beside Mona.

  Then he dived overboard.

  21

  The bartender handed him the drink without looking at him. The small bar was crowded with shrimp fishermen and sailors and Sam made no effort to keep his face hidden. He drank the rum quickly, feeling a need for it and yet obtaining no reaction from the fiery liquor. He stood at one end of the bar, his back to the door that led to the waterfront street. The hot sunlight of early afternoon was warm on his back, penetrating the chambray shirt he had stolen. He had worn a blister on his left foot from the oversized shoes he had also lifted and he was uncomfortable standing, but the place was too full to permit a seat. He preferred to stand anyway.

  He ordered another drink and this one made him feel a little better. The bartender took the single dollar bill Sam had and brought change. The dollar bill, with another, was a windfall that had come with the slacks he had found drying on a clothesline. It seemed to Sam as if everything that had happened since his return to Isla Honda was as nothing to what he had gone through in the past three hours. It was a miracle that he had been able to get this far. It was another miracle that he was still free and at large at this moment.

  Frye had used his rifle viciously, with a clear intent to kill, waiting until he had to surface from his dive and then squeezing off one shot after the other, the bullets flickering like wasps around his head until he dived again. He had stayed under water, swimming with all his strength until his lungs felt as if they would burst and when he was forced to surface the second time, he took a quick look back at the drifting boats. Mona was struggling with the fat man. She had managed to snatch at the rifle and force it aside and while Sam watched, he saw De Silva take her from the rear, pinning her arms down and allowing Frye to retrieve the weapon. For an instant Sam had almost given up and turned back. He'd had to struggle with himself at the thought of Mona being manhandled by those men back there. It had not been easy to dive once more and swim on and repeat the process over again.

  They could have overtaken him readily during those first ten minutes while he swam for shore, if it hadn't been for Mona's continued struggle. When he glanced back the next time, he saw that De Silva had the rifle and was apparently engaged in a violent argument with Frye. Mona had disappeared, presumably forced into the cabin. He assumed he owed the lack of pursuit to the Cuban, but he couldn't be sure. When his feet touched bottom and he staggered out of the water to fall prone on the brushy beach, he saw that the schooner had taken his borrowed boat in tow and was under way, heading west in the direction from which it had come.

  For long minutes he sprawled on the beach, sobbing for breath. When his strength slowly returned, both vessels were already out of sight, hidden behind the long curve of the keys he had landed on. He had picked himself up and walked carefully along the beach then toward the cluster of cottages he had seen earlier. He knew that his appearance was sure to raise an alarm, but luck was with him during those first few moments. He had found the clothes drying on a line behind the nearest cottage and had taken them without hesitation, hiding his own in the brush. Nobody had been about, although he'd heard a radio playing and had waited for long minutes to be sure he wouldn't be spotted from one of the windows.

  His next step was to regain the main highway that would take him back to Key West. There were two cars parked behind the cottages, but he did not dare approach them closely. He debated making a dash for one, but the chances were against his finding keys in them and when he noticed the telephone wires that stretched off into the distance, he knew that an alarm would beat him to the road junction at the end of the causeway and the chances were that the police would be waiting for him there.

  He had decided to walk. Eventually, he flagged down a tourist's car and reached Key West.

  The sun coming through the window of the bar was warm and comforting on his shoulders. Sam scooped up his change, finished the rum and stepped outside to the street again. The waterfront was bright and sparkling, the harbor a pale, delicate blue peculiar to the coral sand bottoms found around the keys. The clear sunlight seemed incongruous in view of what he had to do.

  ***

  Benny was in the cabin with Estella. It was almost as if they had both been waiting for him. There was no evidence of surprise when he stepped aboard and ducked his head to enter the room. Benny was all dressed up in a blue serge suit and a white shirt and dark blue necktie. His black shoes were highly polished. His thick peppery hair was neatly combed and his lined and troubled face looked freshly shaven. Estella, too, wore one of her best street dresses with a silver comb in her black hair. The woman sat with her hands folded in her lap, leaning slightly forward as Sam came in. Her back was rigid and straight. There was an air of suspended tension in the cabin, as if they had been talking quickly and earnestly and his appearance had interrupted them.

  "Sam," Benny said. "So it is you."

  "You've been expecting me, Benny?"

  "In a way. I had a feeling you would come back."

  "Did you send De Silva after me this morning?"

  "Yes, I did. I had to."

  "To arrest me?"

  "Yes."

  "But I got away," Sam said.

  "I thought you would."

  There was a little silence. Neither asked him to sit down. He picked up a pack of Cuban cigarettes from the seat along the cabin wall and lit one. Estella's eyes were dark and tragic, watching his face.

  "You're all dressed up, Benny," Sam said quietly. "Were you going somewhere?"

  "I had hoped to."

  "Where?"

  "Home. To Cuba. To Estella's family."

  "For good?"

  "Possibly. One does not know the future. One cannot plan things 'for good.' I am very tired, Sam. Estella has told you how I no longer sleep well. I have too many dreams. Some of the dreams are those I have during the day as well as in the night. It is not possible for a man to go on like that for very long."

  "What will you live on in Cuba?"

  "I have money," Benny said.

  Sam nodded. "Yes. You do."

  The boat rocked a little in the wash of a passing vessel. From outside on the dock came the shouts of some men on the next fishing boat and a burst of laughter. Footsteps came along the pier and went by. The distant sound of a caulking maul thumped through the clear, hot air. Sam smoked the pungent cigarette down to the butt then crushed it out in a brass ashtray. Estella made a soft sighing sound. Her body swayed a little, back and forth, as she sat on the bench opposite him. Sam wished she would stop watching him. He wished he had not come here. Something else could have been arrang
ed, he thought, but he knew that there really had been no other choice for him. It was up to him to do this, not for anyone else. He found no triumph in this moment. There was an ache in him, a dull pain that made the back of his mouth taste bitter.

  He said: "But now you will not go, Benny."

  "Perhaps not. You will stop me, Sam?"

  "I must."

  "You would not come with us?"

  "I couldn't."

  "No. No, of course not. It would be impossible. Estella always said it would be impossible because of you."

  "Benny," Sam said. "Have you got a gun?"

  "Si."

  The small man's movement was casual, but the gun seemed to appear as if by magic. It was a .38 Luger. The safety made a soft, well-oiled snicking sound as Benny thumbed it off. Then Benny pointed the gun at the floor.

  "Tell me about it, Benny."

  "What is there you do not know?"

  "Why," Sam said. "Why you did it."

  Benny shrugged. His smile was not a smile at all.

  "Tell me," Sam said again.

  Benny looked at his wife and she nodded slightly. She rocked back and forth as a woman will when faced with a deep and abiding tragedy.

  "I wanted too much," said Benny quietly. "You will understand, Sam. I wanted more than I deserved, for myself, for Estella, for the children we hoped to have but never received. Perhaps that was part of our punishment. It was deserved. I do not complain, amigo. A man must pay for the mistakes he has made. I have lost God and the church. I have not been to confession for many, many years. Nor has Estella. We are abandoned and alone and it is time to end it now."

  Benny paused. "How long have you known it was me?"

  Sam said: "From the time when Frye's hoodlums caught Mona and me on the beach. No one else could have had the chance to betray me."

  "I thought you might suspect the girl."

  "No."

  "She is really a fine girl, Sam. You are in love with her?"

  "I haven't thought much about it," Sam said. "There have been other things to occupy my thoughts. This morning when I found that someone else had discovered the sunken boat and removed the strong-box from it, I knew again that it could only have been you, Benny. Only you knew of the charts I had collected."