Bahama Crisis

by Desmond Bagley

  "Earl." The barrel of the shotgun lowered a fraction.

  I slid sideways on the bed about a foot, going towards him.

  "How much is he paying you?"

  "None of your damn business."

  Another foot.

  "I think it is. Maybe I could pay better."

  "You reckon?"

  "I know." I moved up again, nearly to the end of the bed.

  "Let's talk about it."

  I was getting too close. He stepped sideways.

  "Get back or I'll blow yo' haid off."

  "Sure." I retreated up the bed to my original position.

  "I'm certain I could pay better." I was cheering silently because friend Earl had been manoeuvred into the right place. I leaned back casually against the wall and felt behind me for the string.

  "Like to talk about it?"

  "Nope."

  I groped and could not find the bloody string. The pottery knife was hidden by my body ready to be grasped by my right hand, but the string had to be tugged with my left hand, and not too obviously, either. I had to be casual and in an apparently easy posture, an appearance hard to maintain as I groped behind me.

  As my fingertips touched the siring there came a scream from outside, full-throated and ending in a bubbling wail. All my nerves jumped convulsively and Earl jerked the gun warningly.

  "Steady, mister!" He grinned, showing brown teeth, 'just Leroy havin' his fun. My turn next. "

  Debbie screamed again, a cry full of agony.

  "Christ damn you!" I whispered and got my index finger hooked around the string.

  "Let's have your hands in sight," said Earl.

  "Both of'em."

  "Sure." I put my left hand forward, showing it to him empty but I had tugged that string.

  I dived forward just as the shotgun blasted. I think Earl had expected me to move up the bed as I had before, but I went at right-angles to that expectation. My shoulder hit the ground with a hell of a thump and I rolled over, struggling to get up before he could get in a second shot. There was no second shot. As I scooped up the fallen shotgun I saw that nearly 600 foot-pounds of kinetic energy had cracked his skull as you would crack an egg with a spoon.

  A fleeting backward glimpse showed the mattress of the bed ripped to pieces by the buckshot.

  I had no time for sightseeing. From outside Debbie screamed again in a way that raised the hair on my neck, and there was a shout. I opened the door and nearly ran into a man I had not seen before. He looked at me in astonishment and began to raise the pistol in his right hand. I lashed out at him with my home-made knife and ripped upwards. A peculiar sound came from him as the breath was forcibly ejected from his lungs. He gagged for air and looked down at himself, then dropped the pistol and clapped both hands to his belly to stop his entrails falling out.

  As he staggered to one side I ran past him, dropping the pottery blade, and tossed the shotgun from my left hand to my right. It was then I realized I had made a dreadful mistake; this was no small crowd of four people I could see a dozen, mostly men. I had a hazy impression of clapboard houses with iron roofs arranged around a dusty square, and a mongrel cur was running towards me, snapping and barking. The men were running, too, and there were angry shouts.

  Someone fired a gun. I do not know where the bullet went, but I lifted the shotgun and fired back, but nothing happened because I had forgotten to pump a round into the breech. There was another shot so I ducked sideways and ran like hell for the trees I saw in the middle distance. This was no time to stop and argue I had probablytkilled two men and their buddies would not be too impressed by exhortations from Robinson to shoot at my legs.

  And, as I ran for my life, I thought despairingly of Debbie

  They chased me; by God, how they chased me! The trouble was that I did not know the country and they did. And damned funny country it was, loo; nothing like anything I had heard of in Texas. Here were no rolling plains and barren lands but foetid, steaming swamp country, lush with overripe growth, bogs and streams. I had no woodcraft, not for that kind of country, and my pursuers had probably grown up in the place. I think that had it been the Texas we all know from Hollywood movies I would not have stood a chance, but here was no open ground where a man could see for miles, and that saved me.

  At first I concentrated on sheer speed. There would be confusion back there for a while. They would find Earl and the other man and there would be a lot of chatter and waste of time if I knew human nature.

  Those first few minutes were precious in putting distance between me and my nemesis. As I ran I tried not to think of Debbie Giving myself up would not help her, and I doubted if I could give myself up. Leroy would just as soon kill me as step on a beetle there had been a close resemblance between him and Earl.

  So I pressed on through this strange wilderness, running when I could and glad to slow down when I could not run. I considered myself to be a reasonably fit man, but this was the equivalent of going through an army battle course and I soon found I was not as fit as I thought.

  My clothing was not really up to the job as I found when I inadvertently plunged into a brier patch. Sharp spines raked my arms and ripped the tee-shirt, and I cursed when I had to go back again, moving slowly. My shoes, too, were not adequate; the rubber soles slipped on mud and one of the sneakers was loose on my foot and I tended to lose it. This also slowed me down because to lose even one shoe would be fatal; my feet were not hardened enough for me to run barefoot.

  And so I plunged on. My problem was that I did not know where I was going; I could just as well be running away from help as towards it.

  What I wanted to find was a house, preferably with a telephone attached to it. Then I could find out where I w as and ring Billy Cunningham so that he could send one of his lovely helicopters for me – to ring the police and then go and beat the bejasus out of Robinson. There were no houses. There were no roads which would lead to houses. There were no telephone lines or power lines I could follow. Nothing but tall stands of trees interspersed with boggy meadows.

  After half an hour I stopped to get my breath back. I had travelled about three miles over the ground, I reckoned, and was probably within two miles of the place where I had been held captive. I fiddled with the shotgun and opened the magazine to find out what I had four full rounds and one fired. I reloaded, pushed one up the spout, and set the safety catch.

  Then I heard them, a distant shout followed by another. I went on, splashing up a shallow stream in the hope of leaving no trail.

  Presently I had to leave the stream because it was curving back in just the direction I did not want to go. I jumped on to the bank and ran south, as near as I could estimate by the sun.

  I went through a patch of woodland, tall trees dappling the ground with sun and shadow, then I came to a river. This was no brook or stream; it was wide and fast-flowing, too deep to wade and too dangerous to swim. If I was spotted halfway across I would be an easy target. I ran parallel with it for some way and then came to a wide meadow.

  There was no help for it so I ran on and, half-way over, heard a shout behind me and the flat report of a shot. I turned in the waist-high grass and saw two men coming from different angles.

  Raising the shotgun I aimed carefully, banged off two shots, and had the satisfaction of seeing them drop, both of them. I did not think I had hit them because the shouts were not those of pain, but nobody in his right mind would stand up against buckshot. As they dropped into the cover of the grass I turned and ran on, feeling an intolerable itch between my shoulder blades. I was not in my right mind.

  I got to the cover of the trees and looked back. There was movement; the two men were coming on and others were emerging on to the meadow.

  I ejected a spent cartridge and aimed and fired one shot. Again both men dropped into cover but the rest came on so I turned and ran.

  I ran until my lungs were bursting, tripping over rocks and fallen trees, slipping into boggy patches, and cannoning off tree t
runks. My feet hurt. In this last mad dash I had lost both shoes and knew I was leaving a bloody trail. I was climbing a rise and the pace was too much. I threw myself to the ground beneath a tree, sobbing with the rasping agony of entraining air into my lungs.

  This was it. One last shot and they would be upon me. I put my hand out to where the shotgun had fallen and then stopped because a foot pinned down my wrist. I twisted around and looked up and saw a tall man dressed in faded denims. He had a shotgun under his arm.

  "All right," I said, defeated.

  "Get it over with."

  "Get what over with?" He turned his head and looked down the hill at the sound of a shout.

  "You in trouble?"

  Someone else moved into sight a busty brunette in skintight jeans and a shirt knotted about her middle. I suddenly realized these were not Leroy's people.

  "They're going to kill me," I said, still gasping for breath.

  "Chased me to hell and gone."

  He showed polite interest.

  "Who are?"

  "Don't know all the names. Someone called Leroy. Torturing my wife."

  He frowned.

  "Whichaway was this?"

  I pointed with my free arm.

  "That way."

  He turned to the girl.

  "Could be the Ainslees."

  "It is." She was looking down the hill.

  "I see Trace."

  The man released my wrist, then picked up my shotgun.

  "Any load in this?"

  ^ "One round of buckshot."

  "Enough. Can you climb a tree?" He was looking at my feet.

  "I can try."

  "If you admire yo' skin youDetter climb this tree," he advised. He tossed my shotgun to the girl.

  "Over there, behind that rock. Watch my signal."

  "Okay, Pop."

  The man gave me a boost into the tree. For a skinny old man he was surprisingly strong.

  "Stay on the upslope side an' keep yo' haid down." I managed the rest by myself and got lost in the leafy branches. I could not see down the hill but I had a good view to one side, and I saw him walk out and look towards my pursuers. I heard heavy breathing as someone came up the hill fast, and the old man said sharply, "Just hold it there, son."

  "Hell, Dade…"

  "I mean it, Trace. You stop right there." The shotgun Dade carried was held steady.

  Trace raised his voice in a shout.

  "Hey, Leroy; here's old Dade."

  There was the sound of more movement and presently Leroy said breathily, "Hi, there, Dade."

  "What you hunting', Leroy?" asked Dade.

  "T'ain't razorback hog 'cause you ain't gotten dogs. An' yo' makin' too much damn noise for deer."

  "Ahim hunting' one son of a bitch," said Leroy. He came into sight.

  "I don't care what yo' hunting'," said Dade.

  "I told you before. If you came hunting' on my land agin I'd kick yo' ass. I don't care ifyo' hunting' a man or Hoover hog you git often my land."

  "You don't understand," said Leroy.

  "This guy kilt Earl smashed his haid in like a water melon. An' Tukey -he's like to die; he ain't hardly got no belly left. Belle's tendin' to him, but ah don't know. "

  "If Belle's tendin' him he's sure to die," said Dade flatly.

  "Now git the hell outta here."

  Leroy looked around.

  "You reckon you can make us?"

  "Think I'm crazy?" said Dade.

  "I've gotten six of my boys within spittin' distance."

  Leroy eyed him speculatively.

  "Prove it."

  "Sure." Dade took an apple from his pocket.

  "I was goin' to enjoy this, an' that's something' else I have agin you, Leroy." He suddenly tossed the apple into the air, and shouted, "Hit it!"

  There was a shotgun blast from the rock behind me and the apple disintegrated in mid-air. Wetness splattered against my cheek.

  "Could have been yo' haid, Leroy," said Dade.

  "It's bigger. Mighty fine target is a swelled haid." His voice sharpened.

  "Now, you heard me tellin' you, an' you know I tells no one twice. Move yo' ass." His hand pointed down the hill.

  "That's the shortest way often my land."

  Leroy looked uncertainly at the shotgun pointing at his belly, then he laughed shortly.

  "Okay, Dade. But, listen, old man; you ain't heard the last."

  "An' yo' not the last to tell me that. Better men, too." Dade spat at Leroy's feet.

  Leroy turned on his heel and went out of sight and I heard the sound of many men going down the hill. Dade watched them go, his sparse grey hair moving in the slight breeze. He stood there for a long time before he moved.

  From somewhere behind me the girl said, "They're gone, Pop."

  "Yeah." Dade came up to the tree. He said, "I'm Dade Perkins an' this is my girl, Sherry-Lou. Now, suppose you come down outta that tree an' tell me just who the hell you are." i73 It nearly went sour even then.

  I climbed down from the tree, wincing as the rough bark scraped my bruised and bloody feet. As I reached the ground I said, "Where's the nearest telephone? I need help."

  Sherry-Lou laughed. She looked me up and down, taking in my bleeding arms, the tattered tee-shirt with its incongruous inscription, the ripped jeans and my bare feet.

  "You sure do," she said.

  "You look like you tangled with a cougar." She saw the expression on my face and the laughter vanished.

  "Got a telephone back at the house," she offered.

  "How far?"

  "Two three miles."

  "You won't make that in under an hour," said Dade.

  "Yo' feet won't.

  Can Sherry-Lou go ahead an' talk for you? "

  I was not feeling too well. I leaned against the tree, and said, "Good idea."

  "Who do I talk with?" she asked.

  "What number?"

  I had forgotten the number and had no secretary handy to ask.

  "I

  don't know but it's easy to find. Houston the Cunningham Corporation; ask for Billy Cunningham. "

  There was an odd pause. Sherry-Lou seemed about to speak, then hesitated and looked at her father. He glanced at her, then looked back at me.

  "You a Cunningham?" he asked, and spat at the ground.

  That ought to have warned me.

  "Do I sound like a Cunningham?" I said tiredly.

  "No," he admitted.

  "You talk funny. I reckoned you was from Californy – some place like that."

  "I'm a Bahamian," I said.

  "My name's Mangan – Tom Mangan."

  "What's the Cunninghams to you?"

  "I married one," I said.

  "And Leroy's got her." Perkins said nothing to that. I looked at his expressionless face and said desperately, "For Christ's sake, do something! She was screaming her head off when I busted out this morning. I couldn't get near her." I found I was crying and felt the wetness of tears on my cheek.

  Sherry-Lou said.

  "Those Ainslees…"

  "Cunningham or Ainslee – dunno which is worst," said Dade.

  "Ainslee by a short haid, I reckon." He nodded abruptly.

  "Sherry-Lou, you run to the house an' talk to Billy Cunningham." He turned to me.

  "The young sprout or Billy One?"

  "Young Billy would be best." I thought he would be better able to make quick decisions.

  Dade said, "Tell young Billy he'll need guns, as many as he can get.

  An' tell him he'd better be fast. "

  "How far are we from Houston?" I did not even know where I was.

  "Mebbe hundred miles."

  That far! I said, "Tell him to use helicopters he'll have them."

  "An' tell him to come to my place," said Dade.

  "He sure knows where it is. Then come back an' bring a pair of Chuck's sneakers so as Tom here can walk comfortable."

  "Sure," said Sherry-Lou, and turned away.

  I wat
ched her run up the hill until she was lost to sight among the trees, then I turned to look about.

  "Where is thi s place?"

  "You don't know?" said Dade, surprised.

  "Close to Big Thicket country." He pointed down the hill to the right.

  "Neches River down there." His arm swung in an arc.

  "Big Thicket that way, an' Kountze."

  His thumb jerked over his shoulder.

  "Beaumont back there."

  I had never heard of any of it, but it seemed I had just come out of Big Thicket.

  Dade said, "Seems I remember Debbie Cunningham marryin' a Britisher a few months back. That you?"

  "Yes."

  "Then it's Debbie Leroy's got," he said ruminatively.

  "I think you'd better talk."

  '75 "So had you," I said.

  "What have you got against Cunninghams?"

  "The sons of bitches have been tryin' to run me of fen my own land ever since I can rememfcer. Tried to run my Paw off, too. Been tryin' a long time. They fenced off our land an' big city sportsmen came in an' shot our hogs. They reckoned they was wild; we said they belonged to people us people. We tore down their fences an' built our own, an' defended 'em with guns. They ran a lot of folks of fen their land, but not us Perkinses."

  "The Cunninghams don't want your land just to hunt pigs, do they?"

  "Naw. They want to bring in bulldozers an' strip the land. A lot of prime hardwood around here. Then they replant with softwoods right tidy, like a regiment of soldiers marchin' down Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington like I seen on TV once. Ruinin' this country."

  Dade waved his arm.

  "Big Thicket was three million acres once. Not much left now an' we want to keep it the way it is. Sure, I cut my timber, but I do it right an' try not to make too many big changes."

  I said, "I can promise you won't have trouble with the Cunninghams ever again."

  He shook his head.

  "You'll never get that past Jack Cunningham he's as stubborn as a mule. He'll never let go while there's a dollar to be made outta Big Thicket."

  "Jack will be no trouble; he had a heart attack a couple of days ago."

  "That so?" said Dade uninterestedly.

  "Then it's Billy One that old bastard's just as bad."

  "I promised," I said stubbornly.

  "It'll hold, Dade."