“Think it’s the shooter’s boat?” Carrow asked.
“We’re one mile from Terra Cay,” Oz said from the helm. Emma didn’t think the sound was from a boat, because she didn’t hear an engine. It sounded like something repeatedly hitting something else.
“Bell attached to a pole? Maybe a buoy? Are there any type of landings on the mangrove side?”
Carrow nodded. “There’s a dilapidated dock and a shed. Well, at least there were before the last hurricane three years ago. Hard to say if they’re still standing. I don’t remember a bell.”
“How long until land?” Emma said to Oz.
“Ten minutes,” he said.
Emma retrieved the rifle.
“Oz, is the radar up? Can you see where the shooter is?”
“It’s down again. I’m guiding us in from celestial navigation. I don’t hear anything around us.”
Oz kept the boat moving almost directly into the oncoming waves. It hammered through them at a steady pace. Emma was back against the gunwale with her towel and the rifle.
“Expecting trouble?” Carrow said.
“I’m not sure, but I don’t want to take any chances.”
“What did Kemmer say?”
“That the guy on the boat brought his own gun and wanted us all dead. He didn’t know why, but he doesn’t think he’ll quit.”
Carrow nodded. He’d put his hair into a ponytail and was wearing a navy nylon windbreaker with reflective tape in a line across the front and back. He looked serious, but not grim.
“When do you get scared?” she said. He gave her a surprised look.
“What do you mean? I’m plenty scared right now.”
She shrugged. “You don’t look it.”
“I’m well into the scotch.”
Emma wasn’t buying it. The answer felt pat. “I’m serious. Most people would be half out of their mind with fear. You don’t seem as frightened as I’d expect you to be.”
The boat slammed into a wave and pitched both Emma and Carrow up a bit. When it settled down he lowered himself next to her on the bench.
“Frightening is getting up in front of thousands of people and singing. You ever wonder why so many rockers have drug and alcohol problems?”
“I’ve always assumed it’s a combination of easy access and money coupled with a nocturnal lifestyle.”
“That’s part of it, sure, but another part is the need to kill stage fright. You’re up there night after night and expected to deliver a good performance. You start out in a bar with six in the audience and a broken-down van and end up in large arenas with a massive tour staff and a brutal schedule. You begin to sleep poorly and eat poorly and party hearty. It also creates the need to keep the adrenaline flowing in order to ramp up for the performance. We all become excitement junkies to some extent.”
“This situation has nothing to do with that, but you still seem calm.”
“I’ve always considered myself to be on borrowed time.”
“Live fast and die young?” she said.
He nodded. “Isn’t that what you’re doing working for this Banner? And isn’t your ultra running a search for adrenaline?”
Emma returned her gaze to the blackness around them. Carrow’s insight rattled her a bit. She’d always relied on science to explain everything in her world. The workings of chemicals in any application fascinated her, but she was also proud of her intellectual achievements. It seemed the opposite of intellectualism to crave excitement. Intellectuals craved knowledge. Yet, he was correct. She could no more stop running than he could stop performing. She’d come to rely on the adrenaline surge, and adding the occasional job for Banner fed that craving as well.
“Maybe,” she admitted.
He smiled. “You act like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s a crude craving for excitement.”
“At least it’s a healthy way to get adrenaline. You can see what’s happening to the band.”
“And you? Where do you fall on the spectrum?” she asked. Carrow began to answer and stopped abruptly when a beacon of concentrated light hit the boat’s bow. “Get down.” Emma shifted to get her head below the gunwale. “Careful,” she called to Oz.
“It’s coming from land. I can see the outline of trees,” Oz said. The light began to flash in sequence. Emma watched it but was unable to decode its meaning, if there was any. Carrow left her side and headed to the helm. She followed, bringing the gun with her. The flashes revealed that they were only a little ways from the island. Emma could see the trunks of the mangrove in the distance. The light itself seemed to be coming from between the trees.
“It’s a signal,” Oz said. “I have a bad feeling that it’s not really meant for us.” Emma watched the erratic flashes, trying to discern a pattern. It wasn’t an SOS.
“Then for whom?”
“Shooter?” Carrow said.
“I have no idea,” Oz said.
“There’s one way to find out.” Emma held the rifle out to Carrow. “You can shoot?”
He shook his head. “Not at all.”
Emma simply nodded and brought the gun with her as she went below. She entered the stateroom and found Kemmer still flat on his back. He was pale and anxious and his eyes darted about.
“Is it Joseph?” he said.
“I’m not sure. We’re at Terra Cay on the mangrove side. Did Joseph ever say that Terra Cay was his final destination?”
“No.” Kemmer looked to the side. He’s lying, Emma thought.
“You sure? Because someone is signaling us from land.”
“Signaling? In what way?”
“Intermittent light flashes. If it’s Morse code, I can’t read it.”
Kemmer sat up. “Get me up there.”
“You shouldn’t move.” Kemmer swung his legs over the side of the bed. He waved her over and she helped him stand. When they were shoulder-to-shoulder he started forward. They made their way through the galley to the stairs and onto the deck. Carrow glanced back at them from the helm and hustled over to take Emma’s place at Kemmer’s side.
“What’s going on?” Oz said.
“Show me the lights,” Kemmer replied. Oz pointed ahead. As he did, the beacon flashed.
“Get me to that chair, can you?” Kemmer said. Carrow and Emma moved him to the companion chair. Kemmer sighed as he sat down. It was clear that the effort to come above had drained him. He peered at the light, squinting when the flashes illuminated the bridge. He watched as the lights ran through the pattern.
“They’re signaling that you should come straight on. They also say that there’s an underwater hazard to your port side.”
“Question is, friend or foe?” Oz said.
“Foe,” Emma said.
Kemmer looked at her. “Why do you say that?”
“We’re on the mangrove side of Terra Cay. No reputable dockmaster would be here, because the actual dock is on the island’s other end.”
“Probably a smuggler’s landing, then,” Kemmer said.
“Terra Cay is getting more interesting by the moment.” Carrow leaned against the side wall. Oz turned the boat to run parallel to the island.
“We’re not landing here anyway,” Oz said. “It’s dangerous and I don’t have the skill to maneuver through any underwater hazards.”
“Want us to help you back below?” Emma said to Kemmer.
“Yes, I’m going to fall over.”
“I’ll do it,” Carrow said. “I’d feel a lot better if you and your rifle stay up here,” he told Emma. He assisted Kemmer to stand and she watched them move across the deck to the stairs. A second beacon showed across the water, but this one flashed in a steady progression.
“That’s the official dock. We’re almost there,” Oz said. Emma slid into the companion chair while they made their approach. Oz gave her a quick smile and she smiled back.
“What a relief,” she said. She heard the first raindrops hitting the windscreen and awning above them. “Just
in time, too. Hear the rain?” The rain increased and the wind picked up as the dock loomed larger. Emma secured the rifle in its case and went belowdecks. She found Carrow in the galley taking a shot of whiskey.
“I needed a bracer. We almost there?”
“We are. Is there a rain slicker I can borrow? The rain is picking up.”
“Check the lockers in the staff room. Marwell keeps four. Britanni has one in the master stateroom as well.”
Emma stepped into the staff stateroom and glanced at Kemmer. His eyes were closed but the regular movement of his chest up and down told her that he was either sleeping or had passed out. Either way, he was alive, and she hoped to keep him that way until they could get him to a doctor. She opened the closet and found four yellow slickers of various sizes. She put on the smallest and was pleased to see that it was only a size bigger than she needed. She continued to the master stateroom and found a pair of rubber Wellington boots on Warner’s side of the closet. Though they were also one size too large, Emma thought they fit well enough. She headed back upstairs.
The wind whipped and the rain pelted her when she stepped onto the deck. The storm had picked up in the few minutes she’d been below. Oz was holding the boat off the dock, using the engines to keep it in place as the wind and waves knocked them about. Carrow was at the stern now, holding a mooring rope. Emma ran to assist him.
“Where’s Marwell?” she said to him. She had to yell to be heard over the wind.
“I have no idea. Can you help? Grab this line. I’m headed to the bow.” He gave her the mooring line and started toward the front of the boat, waving at Oz to begin his approach.
Oz moved the yacht into place. The rocking became stronger but the boat handled the waves well and both Emma and Carrow leaped onto the dock pulling it the rest of the way and arranging the bumpers. Emma wrapped the rope around the cleats. The wind pushed at her and the rain soaked her face and hair, but the slicker managed to keep her body dry. She felt a line of cold water drip down her neck from inside the collar and strands of wet hair covered her eyes. She reached into her jeans and pulled out a tie, pulling the sopping mass into a ponytail and securing it.
Lights glowed from within the dockmaster’s office, but Marwell still hadn’t appeared. Carrow headed that way and Emma hurried to join him. They reached the door at the same time and Carrow opened it and waved her through. He stepped in behind her. The room smelled of burnt coffee and damp wool. The computer monitors on a desk pushed against the wall were dark. Marwell was facedown on the wooden floor next to his office chair. Carrow knelt next to him and rolled him over. Emma reached down and checked his wrist for a pulse. It was there, strong and steady, and his face appeared relaxed and calm.
“His pulse is fine,” she said.
Carrow gave her a grim look. “He’s asleep.”
Chapter 37
“I’ll call Randiger,” Carrow said. Emma moved Marwell into a more comfortable position on the floor and looked around for something to place under his head. In a locker against the wall she found a sweatshirt. She balled it up and used it as a pillow.
“No answer,” Carrow said.
“No answer from whom?” Oz said as he stepped into the shed.
“Island Security. Marwell’s asleep.”
“Who can we call for him?” Emma asked. “Is he married? Does he have any relatives on the island?”
“I think he’s divorced, but I can’t even be sure of that,” Carrow said.
Emma stood. “We need to get Kemmer to the Acute Care Center as soon as possible and let them know to come here for Marwell. Say we split up? You and Oz take Kemmer and I’ll go to Island Security and see what’s happening there.”
“Let’s go,” Oz said. He turned the knob and fought the wind to open the door. Rain whipped into the office, driven nearly sideways with the wind’s velocity. Emma hunched down into her slicker as she ran back to the boat to retrieve her duffel and fought her way back to her Jeep. The canvas top whipped open at one end where she’d failed to snap it on. It made a pinging noise as it smacked against the aluminum car body. She secured it before crawling behind the wheel.
The wind and rain made it almost impossible to see more than a few feet in front of the vehicle, and she switched on both her high beams and fog lights. The windshield wipers whipped back and forth but did little to clear the deluge that hammered into the glass. Emma wound around the hill to the airfield and Island Security. She drove in from above the airfield and was surprised to see only two jets parked on the tarmac. One was Carrow’s Rex and the other was a nondescript plane with double props.
Lights shone through the Island Security office window, which buoyed Emma. She wanted to ask Randiger about the toxic meal remnants in addition to informing him about Marwell. She parked the Jeep in a spot and battled the rain to the front door. She opened it to a gust of wind at her back and struggled to close it.
The office was empty. She removed her slicker, releasing a shower of droplets onto the wooden floor as she did, and hung it on a wooden coat rack near the door. She slipped off the equally wet boots before padding across the room in her socks. Both desks held telephones and coffee cups. The secretary’s cup was empty and clean. Randiger’s was full, but the liquid had a congealed layer of cream at the top. Emma touched it. The mug was cool. His telephone’s message light blinked and the display showed that forty messages were pending.
Something was wrong, Emma could feel it. The cold coffee indicated that Randiger had rushed out of the office, possibly in response to a call. She wondered where Moore was. Shouldn’t one or the other be on call during a crisis?
She picked up the phone and dialed Johnson. The call rolled into voice mail. Emma hung up. She decided to head to the villa and speak to Johnson directly. She threw on the slicker and stepped out onto the porch. The wind’s intensity had increased and lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating the area. As it did she saw the man with the dreadlocks standing motionless in the corner. His eyes were open and he stared at her. His ever present machete was in his right hand. He raised it and started toward her.
“Stop!” Emma yelled the word over the howling wind. The man stopped with his hand in midair. He stayed there, like a statue. Emma swallowed and began to walk backward slowly. The man’s throat convulsed and his eyes rolled upward. He gave a moaning sound and his lips moved. Emma kept moving away, keeping him in sight. She slipped on the first step and stumbled. She grabbed the railing to stop herself from falling down the rest of the stairs.
The man’s throat continued to convulse. A trickle of water seemed to run down the side of his face. Emma assumed it was the rain, but he was under the porch roof and the wind was driving the rain away from him. A second drop of water slid down the man’s cheek.
Emma realized that the man was crying. Another incomprehensible garble of sounds came from his lips. He swallowed and tried again.
“Help me,” he said. Another tear rolled down his cheek and Emma gasped. She took a step forward, back onto the porch, but still maintained her distance.
“What’s wrong with you?”
The man swallowed. “Sleeping sickness. I can’t move unless said.”
“Unless said? Do you mean you can’t move unless instructed?”
“Yes,” he said. At that moment Emma realized that his arm was frozen in the upright position. He still held the machete over his head.
“Lower your arm and drop the machete,” she said. The man lowered his arm and his hand opened. The machete clattered to the wooden floor. He stayed where he was. Emma ran through her mind the drugs that could cause partial paralysis. Many could, but none would allow movement only on command. The only possibility was scopolamine. “Did the voodoo woman do this to you?”
“The sickness first. She gives me a powder, too.”
“Do you have family on the island?”
“No,” he said.
The wind whipped around her, blowing her ponytail into her face. Emma pushe
d it away while she thought of what to do about the man. He belonged in the Acute Care Center.
“Come with me to my car. I’m going to take you to the clinic,” she said. She turned and was relieved to see the man follow her. She held the door and he got into the Jeep, his limbs moving in an awkward motion. He kept swallowing. When he settled into the seat his eyes moved upward. “Can you lower your eyes?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “And when the drug wears off my back will curve.”
“What drug?”
“The one she gives me. I don’t know what it is. It wakes me up, but only for a while.”
“Would you have killed me that night?” Emma said. He turned his shoulders to her but his eyes continued to stare up.
“I was chasing you to get away from her. To ask for help.” He swallowed again and closed his eyes. The pain on his face made Emma’s throat constrict.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
“I heard you have drugs that will stop this from happening to me.”
The man formed each word in a slow, halting progression. Emma could see the enormous effort he was making just to stay awake. She got behind the wheel, put the key in the ignition and started the car. She threw it into first, flipped on the headlights and started the wipers. She pulled onto the frontage road. The wind rocked the car, and the rain poured in a constant deluge.
“I don’t know what you heard, but the only drug I have is an anesthetic. It will make you sleep.” His hands clenched and unclenched and he swallowed several times. Emma could see that he wanted to speak but was again experiencing difficulty. It was as if strong emotion blocked the flow of his words.
“No sleep. I can’t,” he said.
“Why? Why can’t you sleep?”
“If I sleep I’ll never wake up. I’ll die.” Emma heard the absolute conviction in the man’s voice.
“Did she bring the sickness?” Emma said.
“Maybe,” he said. “She and the big man work together.”
“Who’s the big man?”
“The one on the island.”
To Emma it seemed as though he was speaking in riddles. She could see that he was having trouble maintaining consciousness by the way his lids fluttered and his eyes blinked, but she needed more information. He gave up trying to figure out who the big man was and focused once again on the woman.
Dead Asleep Page 20