Saint Sebastian was roughly twenty miles south of Saint Thomas, a three-hour trip across calm turquoise waters. Billy had downloaded a nautical map off the internet. There were only two hotels on the island, he’d learned; both relied on a scheduled ferry to transport guests from Saint Thomas. There was no one registered at either place under the name Springer, though he doubted Zach would use his own name. He also doubted that Zach had the cash to stay at a hotel for six months. He was probably renting a place, assuming he was even on the island.
Billy did his best to ignore the spectacular seascape around him, aqua water dotted with tiny, lush green volcanic islands. Beauty so insistent was an affront, it enraged him, and rage was a distraction he couldn’t afford. He briefly wondered if the plutocrats whose homes he had trashed, first for the fun of it, as a kid, later in the name of protest, vacationed in places like Saint Sebastian while children stitched their sneakers and backpacks and T-shirts for pennies an hour across the Caribbean in Central America. He forced such thoughts from his mind. He needed a clear head. The three hours felt like three long days until he finally put in at the small marina on the eastern edge of Saint Sebastian. On the map the island looked like a football, fat in the middle and tapering off at the ends. No more than five miles long, it rose spectacularly from the sea, a mass of craggy green mountains ringed by narrow white beaches, all deserted.
A handful of boats bobbed in the marina, all of them small and none in very good repair. After tying up, Billy put on a pair of oversized dark sunglasses and approached the first and only person he saw, a dark-skinned black man sitting in the bow of a small sport fishing boat. He showed him a photo of Zach and his girlfriend, clipped from an article in the New York Post about Jessica Winter’s murder.
“Everybody know them,” the man said, and Billy felt an enormous relief. “Art and Alison. We don’t have too many white folks here, besides the tourists at the hotels, and they don’t come here to this side of the island much.”
“Yes, Art and Alison. Did they ever mention their last names?”
“No,” he said, and squinted at Billy. “Why you want them people?”
“They’re old friends, from New York.”
The man looked him up and down. He would be an important witness, as would the charter captain in Saint Thomas and perhaps the crew on the jet flying down. But he hadn’t needed a passport to enter Saint Thomas and had no reason to think his true identity would ever be associated with a killing on a remote Caribbean island. Only Zach Springer and his girlfriend would know why he was there.
“Can you tell me where to find them?”
“You see this road?” He pointed to strip of pitted asphalt a few yards from the end of the dock. “You take this road, going west. First it snakes around that large white house with green shutters.”
“They live there?”
The man gave a big laugh. “No, man, that the governor’s house. Your friends live two houses down, on the beach side.”
“How long a walk is it?”
“Long walk, fifteen, twenty minutes.”
“Can you give me a lift?”
“Of course I can, if I have a car!”
“I’ll walk, then.”
“You ride a bicycle?”
Five minutes later and ten dollars poorer, Billy Sandifer set off, his small leather bag, which contained a Japanese Arisaka sniper rifle, with muzzle, disassembled in five parts, looped over the handlebars.
• • •
Zach lay down on the warm sand in front of their small house, still wearing the T-shirt, shorts, and sandals he’d put on for the walk into town, where he’d bought provisions for the day. He closed his eyes against the brutal, early afternoon sun. Perhaps he should join Sarah, who was snorkeling above the reef fifty yards offshore. She often spent an hour or more floating in the warm water over the colorful reef, letting the gentle current move her slowly east, toward the governor’s house on the other side of the small peninsula that jutted into the sea. But the walk to town and hot sun had drained him of the energy required to stand up and amble the twenty feet to the water’s edge. He’d take a short nap instead—he napped a lot on Saint Sebastian—and when he awoke perhaps then he’d join her.
But a faint rustling pulled him back from the edge of sleep. A lizard skittering through the brush at the edge of the beach, probably; they had a way of intruding at the worse possible moment. Last night—or was it the night before?—one had scuttled across the wall next to their bed just as their lovemaking was reaching its climax; Sarah, who had never quite gotten used to the tiny lizards, among other tropical vicissitudes, had gasped and rolled off him and, after he’d made a valiant but vain attempt to track down the lizard, had begun to press him, as she did most days, about their plans for leaving the island.
So he didn’t, at first, pay much attention to the rustling. But a moment later he heard it again, and something about the sound, an unlizardy heaviness, activated a vigilance that had never entirely left him, not even after nine months on the island. He sat up abruptly and turned to face the back of the beach just as an explosion erupted from somewhere in the brush.
He threw himself to the side, away from the sound, even before his mind processed the fact that what he’d heard was a muffled gunshot. He rolled and then crawled quickly across the hot sand toward the stand of palm trees and low shrubbery that separated their small beach from the governor’s property.
There was a second explosion and an eruption of sand just to his left. He rose to a squat and sprinted toward the trees like a monkey, hands on the ground stabilizing him as he went. He stood up only when he’d managed to put a slender palm tree between him and the source of the shots, which was still invisible to him. He glanced behind him and saw Sarah floating obliviously over the reef, then back at the edge of the beach, trying to locate the assailant. The absurdly thin palm would offer little protection once the assassin regrouped. None of the trees would save him. His only option was to run through the small palm forest to the governor’s house and hope that someone there would let him in before he took a bullet in his back. But what about Sarah? She was in as much danger as he was; any minute she might decide to head to shore, an easy, slow-moving target as she strolled onto the beach.
So he ran for the water, zigzagging as he went. There was another gunshot, this one ending in a dull explosion as the bullet hit a tree. At the water’s edge he dove right in, protecting his face from the sand with his outthrust arms but badly scraping his chest and stomach. A bullet pierced the water to his right. He swam underwater as long as he could, broke the surface for a split second to gulp air, then went under again. No gunshot. He managed to reach the reef in only three breaths, and when he touched Sarah she jerked, startled, and started to take off her mask and breathing tube. He put a hand on the top of her head and pressed her back under water. A second later he let her come to the surface. Before she could speak he said: “Gunfire…the beach.”
She glanced toward shore. Again, he pressed her head into the water. This time he pulled her in the direction of the governor’s house. When they broke the surface for air he managed to say “Governor’s house…boat” before once more forcing her face underwater. He had no idea if the sniper could reach them, nor if he even knew which direction they were swimming. What choice did they have? They couldn’t head to shore, and the other direction was open sea. Their only chance was to make it to the governor’s dock.
They swam as quickly as they could, underwater as much possible. Sarah, with a breathing tube and fins, moved much faster. When she turned to wait for him he shouted, “Don’t wait! Go!” He did his best to keep up, only once giving into the temptation to look back toward their beach. He saw the gunman, now standing in the open at the water’s edge, peering in their direction. He raised the rifle but didn’t fire, apparently doubtful that his targets were within range. Although he could walk faster than they could swim, there was still the possibility that they could make it to the dock be
fore him. For one thing, the road that connected the governor’s property to their house (former house, he thought, aware of a sense of regret even as his continued to breaststroke and frog-kick under the water’s surface, trying to formulate a strategy) wound inland for several hundred yards before heading back toward the sea, and it took a circuitous path around the governor’s property before reaching the tiny marina. The assassin’s need to circle the property would buy them precious time.
They rounded the small peninsula between their beach (former beach) and the governor’s house, whose dock jutted twenty or so yards into the sea. Two small motorboats bobbed on the side nearest them; on the other side was moored a somewhat larger boat that the governor used to ferry himself and his family to and from Saint Thomas. There was a fourth boat, close in side to the governor’s, that Zach had never seen before.
Sarah was a good twenty yards ahead of him, already swimming toward land. But he was gaining on her and he hoped she had enough left to swim the full distance. He had little to spare himself. As exhaustion began to set in, the water, always tropically warm, began to feel cool, almost cold, and he found himself breaking the surface for more and more frequent gulps or air.
“Head for the bigger boat,” he managed to call out to Sarah when they both broke surface together. He noticed that the lawn between the governor’s house and the water was deserted. There was no beach, just a manmade stone bulkhead that rose about three feet from the surface of the water at high tide.
Several long minutes later Sarah reached the larger boat, which concealed her presence from the shore, and treaded water while waiting for him to catch up.
“Zach, what—”
“I was on the beach…almost asleep…then shots.”
“But no one…knows we’re here.”
“Someone does.”
“How?”
He didn’t know and didn’t have time to figure it out. “Wait here.” He swam to the bow of the boat, grabbed onto the dock, and pulled himself up, slowly craning his head around. Still no one on the lawn. He fell back into the water and swam to Sarah.
“Melvin!” he called out. “MELVIN!”
The boat rocked as if in response and a few moments later a large man was peering down at them from the side of the boat.
“My brother,” Melvin said. Whenever they met, Melvin always called Zach “my brother.” Zach had never asked why he used the vaguely religious address, though he had seen Melvin, dressed in suit and tie and in a state of rare sobriety, attend Sunday services at the island’s sole house of worship, a Pentecostal church. And Zach didn’t press him for an explanation.
“Help us out of the water!” Zach managed to say as he tried to catch his breath.
“What in heavens you doing down there, man?” Melvin sounded woozy, as if he’d either just woken up, had an early morning drink, or both. He was retained as captain by the governor—an undemanding job, to be sure—because he was somehow related to the governor’s wife. On Saint Sebastian, everyone was somehow related to just about everyone else.
“Just get us onto the boat. Please. Alison first.”
Melvin shrugged and leaned over, extending a hand to Sarah. He was a powerfully built man and, with Zach helping by pressing her up from her legs, he had no difficulty lifting her into the boat.
“Stay down!” Zach said. “Is there anyone on the shore?”
“No one,” Sarah answered.
Zach grabbed the side of the boat and managed to pull himself partway up. Sarah and Melvin reached over the side and grabbed Zach’s arms and dragged him the rest of the way onto the boat.
“My brother, you nearly give me heart attack, me thinking the fish are calling my name. Now I see it is a mermaid.” He leered at Sarah, who had on a bikini. She was shivering, and Zach realized that he, too, was cold from exhaustion, despite the strong midday sun. He saw a small pile of towels on a bench near the pilot’s chair and took two, giving one to Sarah.
“We need to get to Saint Thomas, Melvin. Can you take us there?”
“On the governor’s boat? You know that is not allowed, my brother. Only the governor and his family use this boat. And his friends, sometimes.” His laugh engaged his entire body in a rocking motion; everyone on the island was a friend of the governor. Everyone, unfortunately, except Art and Alison, who were not only newcomers but had kept resolutely to themselves.
“Please, we have to get off the island,” Sarah said.
Melvin gave her shivering body a long, lustful examination and then went into the small cabin at the front of the boat, returning a moment later with a bottle of dark rum.
“Why you in such a hurry all of a sudden?” He took a copious swig of rum and offered the bottle to Zach and then Sarah.
“Once we get to Saint Thomas we can pay you,” Zach said. “Whatever you want.”
“You think money change my mind?” He frowned and drank more rum. “How much money you got?”
“Just what’s in my wallet.” Zach patted his back pocket and hoped the saltwater hadn’t destroyed the contents of his wallet. Just then he saw a figure emerge onto the lawn from behind the governor’s house.
“Now, who is that person there?” Melvin said. “Oh, yes, he leave his boat here earlier.” He got up on one of the benches that ran along both sides of the boat. “Hey, my brother,” he shouted. “Where is my bicycle?”
The man continued to run toward the dock. It was clear, now, that his right hand was holding a long rifle.
“What is this, a gun?” Melvin mumbled, taking a pull of rum. He hoisted himself onto the dock. “You cannot come to the governor’s property with a gun, my brother!” He began to lurch unsteadily down the dock toward the shore.
“Sarah, untie the ropes,” Zach whispered as he moved to the boat’s small cockpit and scanned the dashboard.
“Don’t you think we should—”
“Untie us!”
None of the knobs or levers looked designed to start the boat.
“You cannot have a gun here!” Melvin shouted when he and the intruder were about ten yards from the start of the dock. The intruder stopped, brought the rifle forward, and raised it to shoulder level. Melvin, too, came to an abrupt halt, raising his arms above him.
“Sarah, stay down,” Zach whispered as a single shot rang out. Melvin fell with such force Zach could feel it in the boat, all the way at the end of the dock.
Still searching for a way to start the engine, Zach glanced briefly backward and saw the intruder—the killer—step over Melvin’s body. He was running full speed toward the boat.
Damn, where was the ignition? He began jabbing at buttons and turning every knob, but nothing happened. The boat had begun to drift away from the dock. Sarah scrambled to the bow.
“I can’t start it!” Zach cried. “Get inside.”
She crawled into the small, low-ceilinged cabin.
The killer was less than ten yards from the boat, which had drifted several feet from the dock. Zach had no alternative but to join Sarah in the cabin, close the flimsy wooden door, and hope they drifted far enough from the dock to preclude the killer jumping aboard. He squatted and heard a bullet shatter one of the glass dials on the dashboard in front of him. As he scrambled the very short distance to the cabin he saw a small key on the underside of the instrument panel. He turned it to the right. The engine fired up as a second bullet pierced the fiberglass outer wall of the cabin. Still crouching, shielded only partially by the captain’s stool-like chair, he reached up and pulled down the accelerator handle.
After a terrifying, one-second lull in which the engine seemed determined to stall, the boat lurched forward. At the very same moment the assassin sprang from the dock and leaped onto the boat. It took him a few seconds to regain his balance on the narrow ledge that circled the seating area, time enough for Zach to recognize the face, older and more hardened than in the photos of protests and, later, of the Williston riot. As Billy Sandifer raised the rifle and simultaneously star
ted to step down from the ledge into the more stable seating area, the boat now slicing through the choppy water, Zach jerked the steering wheel to the right. Sandifer got off one shot, which landed somewhere in the water, before being thrown to the left. He hit the boat’s port edge with a distinct thud and, Zach thought, a cracking noise, perhaps a broken rib. Before Sandifer could regroup, Zach grabbed the rifle and pulled it from his grip. With one hand he reached behind him and pulled down the lever. The boat lurched to a stop.
For a moment they just stood facing each other, speechless. The sudden silence was as disorienting as the insistent rocking motion of the choppy sea. Then Sandifer spoke.
“You gonna shoot me?” He sounded more curious than alarmed. He looked older than Zach expected, even accounting for all the time that had passed since his notoriety after Williston. Though he was quite obviously fit, with broad shoulders, a flat stomach, and a coiled aspect that suggested speed and danger, there were lines across his forehead and running down from the edges of his mouth, dark circles under his eyes. But it was the eyes themselves, the emptiest eyes Zach had ever seen, that suggested a life lived long past the point of caring. That absence of all desire, evident in his eyes, in his voice, in the way he stood on the deck, hands casually on hips—he wanted nothing, not even to live, so what power did Zach have, even with a rifle in his hands?
Nevertheless, Zach kept it trained directly at Sandifer’s chest, his finger on the trigger.
“Shoot him, Zach,” Sarah whispered, crawling from the cabin.
“Shoot him,” Sandifer said, mocking her urgent whisper.
Zach tensed his trigger finger. “No, I want him to explain to the police, to the FBI, what he and Julian Mellow have been doing,” he said.
“Don’t do this to us. Don’t do this again. Shoot him! Now!”
“With him dead, no one will know what we’ve been through, no one will believe us.”
Presidents' Day Page 23