“You don’t have to get personal,” Taters said.
“Look,” Buster said. “Your friend Kay has our friend John in some deep shit—”
“Oh crap, you guys again?” T said. “You’re the ones who fucked everything up last time.”
“Well, so sorry our near-death experiences inconvenienced you, little lady,” Taters said. “Would’ve been nice if Kay had clued us in to your existence. So, would you kindly kiss my rusty butt?”
"Taters," Buster said.
“Well, seriously man, they nearly killed us, then we got freaking G-men after us, not to mention shooting up my boat—”
“Taters.”
Taters made a face.
“As we were saying—” Buster started.
“We were just going to go meet Charteris. He’s the one behind all this.”
“Where?”
“We were going to meet him at Rose Hall Plantation,” T said. “I’m going to give him what he wants in exchange for Kay.”
“And John?”
“What-ev.” T dropped her hands.
"Uh-uh." Taters gestured with his pistol. T raised her arms again.
“We’re on the same side, mon,” Romeo said.
“Well, mon, you’ll forgive me if I’m not convinced by Miss Rat’s Nest here.”
“Hey, dick, nobody’s talking shit about your grey hair—”
"That's enough!" Buster tucked his gun into his waistband. "Drop your hands. So, we will go with you to Rose Hall."
“Nope,” T said. “He said just us.”
“Tough shit,” Buster said. “Do you even know they’re alive? Where’s the merchandise?”
“In the care of the White Witch,” T said.
<><><>
The Rose Hall Plantation is the grandest, oldest plantation in Jamaica. Spanning more than six hundred acres of sugar cane, pasture, and grass, Rose Hall is legendary for its history of slavery, cruelty, and purported murders. Johnny Cash once lived nearby and wrote a song about the White Witch, who is alleged to be the ghost of murderess Annie Palmer, haunting the Jamaican Georgian style mansion and grounds.
“Why there?” Taters asked.
T shrugged. “It’s a tourist trap. We can conduct our business with less chance of getting killed if we’re out in the open—though he said he wants to meet there at dusk, between when the day tourists stop and before the ghost tours begin.”
“Odd,” Buster said.
“This dick has a taste for melodrama,” T said. “He thinks he’s a damn James Bond villain.”
“Where’s he get his money?” Taters asked.
“Not sure,” T said. “I hear he’s into treasure, which is why he was transporting this merchandise in the first place. Trying to evade customs.”
“Treasure? The sub wasn’t transporting treasure from what I could— ”
“One man’s treasure,” T said. “Okay, we’re supposed to meet them behind the plantation by the Witch’s tomb at dusk.”
“Cheery,” Taters said, looking down at his shirt. “Good lord, is it always this damn humid here? I’ve sweated through my shirt.”
“Maybe it’s nervous sweat,” Romeo said, smiling.
“Whatever, Boob Marley.”
<><><>
Charteris climbed out of the Land Rover and faced them. "Mr. Pilate, Miss Righetti, do exactly as you're told. You are to stay behind me, and understand that Dylan here will have a weapon ready to handle any indiscreet activities."
“Sidney Greenstreet here is getting on my nerves,” Simon whispered.
“Dylan, watch them.”
“Yep,” he said.
The stone edifice of the Rose Hall Plantation, crowning a hill, reflected a bright white cast, even in the declining sun. A dozen or so tourists took turns posing for photos on the dramatic stairs leading to the front entrance as uniformed staff gently shooed them towards the waiting bus to take them back to one of the myriad inclusive resorts dotting the Rose Hall landscape, hogging the best beaches.
Pilate glanced sidelong at Kay. She gave him a look like she wanted to bolt. He furrowed his brow at her in response.
“It would be easy to run here,” Simon said. “It will be dark soon.”
“All right, move,” Dylan whispered. “Follow Mr. Charteris.”
Charteris donned an elegant straw hat and dabbed at his perspiring face with a handkerchief. He looked as if he were going to climb the stairs but instead took a path to the left of the building, walking past a stone spillway towards a shady area behind the Rose Hall House.
In a glade near a large stone sarcophagus stood an athletic-looking woman, tanned skin with wild blonde hair, a cigarette dangling from her lips. She wore a faded t-shirt and shorts and carried a small backpack. She stared at the little tomb, wisps of smoke escaping her lips.
“T,” Kay whispered.
"Quiet," Dylan said, one hand covering the small semi-auto he held in the other.
A few paces ahead, Charteris signaled for them to continue following.
Pilate scanned the area, observing that tourists had vacated this area. Two men wearing tour company t-shirts stood guard at the head of the path and near the plantation house rear entrance.
“Aha,” Simon said. “Keeping it clear back here.”
Pilate cut his eyes to Kay, who sized up the situation immediately, nodding slightly. He felt his pulse pounding in his head, clammy sweat soaking through his shirt. The sun was sinking fast.
“How the hell do you expect to get a leg up here?” Simon said. “You’re outnumbered, and nobody has any guns. They’ll wait until dark when everyone is gone and finish you off.”
The group arrived at the edge of the tomb area. “Everyone, meet the White Witch.”
“Oh, go fuck yourself,” T said. Her eyes cut to Kay for a split second, taking in Pilate, and then went back to Charteris.
“I beg your pardon, Madame, I was referring to the occupant of the tomb at your feet. This is the evil Annie Palmer’s final resting place.”
T made a face that repeated her first utterance, throwing down the cigarette and crushing it out under her tennis shoe. “Alright, let’s get down to it, okay?”
Charteris chuckled. “Absolutely. Just as soon as we move a little further away from this historic pile.”
“That’s not the deal. We meet here. Out in the open,” T hissed.
“And so, we shall,” he said. “There is no negotiation. Move.” He nodded at Dylan, who jabbed the barrel of his pistol into Kay’s back. Kay yelped in surprise.
“All right, all right, shitheel,” she said. “Lead the way.”
Charteris pointed at the path. “Everyone walk. We will go approximately one hundred meters up the path. Stop when I tell you.”
The group stopped when Charteris raised his hand in a secluded area, a canopy of trees obscuring the fading sun.
T folded her arms across her chest. “Not sure I like this,” she said.
Charteris grinned. “What’s the matter? Afraid of duppies?”
“You have to believe in ghosts to be afraid of them,” she said.
Charteris surveyed the group. “Well, Miss T, I know you know this young lady,” he nodded at Kay, then Pilate. “And perhaps this gentleman?”
T looked pained. “Man, your shit’s creeping me out. Can we just get to this, please?” She started to remove her backpack.
“Easy does it,” Dylan said, raising his pistol to Kay’s head.
“No need for that,” Pilate said.
“He’s right,” Charteris said. “No need for that unless you try any nonsense.” He nodded at T.
T slid the backpack off and held it with an outstretched arm towards Charteris. He stepped forward, took the pack and then stepped back. He winked at Pilate and Kay, then looked inside the bag.
“Yes, so precious,” he said. “My precious!” Pilate couldn’t tell if he was being funny or not.
“Alright Gollum,” Pilate said. “You got it back. Can we go now
?”
Charteris looked up at Pilate, closing the bag and slinging it over his shoulder.
“A pleasure doing business with you,” he said, stepping behind Randy, who was to Dylan’s left. “Dylan.”
Dylan pushed Pilate and Kay towards T. “On your knees. All of you.”
“You don’t need to do this,” Pilate said.
Kay gasped.
“You piece of,” T spat before Randy punched her in the head. She fell to her knees, moaning.
“You bastards,” Kay said.
Dylan smacked Kay on the head with his pistol butt. She staggered.
“I’m gonna murder every one of you,” Pilate said, trying to help Kay remain standing.
“Please,” Charteris said. “You were in over your heads the moment we met. If not for blind luck you would have been dead years ago.”
“Well, he ain’t outta luck just yet,” Taters murmured from behind Dylan, throwing off the safety on his .45.
Dylan turned, his pistol raised. Pilate dove at him, fists clenched together, striking the skinny thug between his shoulder blades. Dylan lost his footing and pitched forward, firing a shot. Pilate rolled on top of him, scrabbling for his weapon.
“Don’t do it, mon!” Romeo came forward, smacking Randy in the temple. He fell, unconscious.
Charteris started to turn away and head into the trees, running headfirst into the barrel of Buster’s gun. “I don’t think so.”
Pilate took a sharp elbow to his chin from Dylan but continued to wrestle him for his pistol until he heard a crunching sound and a moan from Dylan, then a grunt and another groan, this one louder.
Pilate felt Dylan's body sag. He looked up to see T standing on his neck; apparently, she had jumped on it twice and was gearing up for another stomp.
“T, no, he’s down,” Kay yelled. “John has him.”
Pilate scooped the gun from Dylan’s nearly lifeless hand and held it up as proof. T stepped off, embracing Kay.
Pilate stood, looking at the shapes in the partial moonlight. “Well, better late than never, Taters.”
No one said anything.
“Taters?” Buster said. “Oh no.”
Pilate looked towards the path just past where he had wrestled with Dylan. “Taters, hey,” he said, stepping over Dylan and crouching beside Tater’s prone form.
Taters lay on his side, gasping. Pilate turned his head and made out a trickle of blood oozing from his mouth. He patted Taters and felt a wound, damp with blood, just under his right collarbone.
“He’s hit!”
“Damn it,” Buster said. “T, any idea how we get an ambulance out here?”
“I’ll get to the house and call Ambucare. They can take him to Cornwall,” she said, sprinting away into the night.
Pilate stripped off his t-shirt and pressed it against the wound. “Hang in there, pal.”
“It would seem you need my help,” Charteris said.
“Umm, buddy, you forget who's holding the guns here,” Buster said.
"And you forget I own this place. Your friend will discover that no one will help her without my say-so. You want an ambulance, and you will need my help."
“Fuck you—”
“Buster, wait,” Pilate said. “Terms?”
"Simple," Charteris said. "You escort me to the house; I will permit the call, then you let me go with my property. No harm, no foul."
“How can we trust you?” Kay said.
“You can keep my men—if they’re still alive—here,” he said.
“Hey, wait—”
“Shut up, Randy,” Charteris said. “So, what’s it going to be?”
“Buster?” Pilate asked.
“Let’s do it,” he said, uncocking his weapon. “But no funny stuff. We take you to the house, you call, and we turn our backs so you can leave. Deal?”
“I don’t know—” Kay said.
“Tick tock.”
“Do it,” Pilate said, urgently pressing his makeshift bandage to Taters’ wound. He checked Taters’ pulse and wasn’t encouraged.
“Not good, John,” Simon said.
"Did you hear me, Buster?" Pilate shouted.
“Let’s go,” Buster said to Charteris. “We’ll be back in a minute or two. Keep an eye on them, Romeo.”
“You got it,” he said.
“Charteris, I won’t forget this,” Pilate muttered, looking up from Taters.
“I’m mortified,” he called over his shoulder.
“Shut up and move,” Buster said, shoving the portly man down the path.
Kay knelt beside Pilate and Taters. “How bad?”
“Not sure,” Pilate said. “The bullet looks like it went through him, but he’s definitely in shock, and I think he may have had a heart attack.”
“Jesus,” she said.
“Yeah,” Pilate said.
Kay checked his pulse. “Thready. He’s in trouble. He’s breathing, though. All we can do is apply pressure to the wound and keep him breathing until the EMTs get here.”
“Damn it all to hell. This is my fault,” Pilate said.
“You mean mine,” Kay said in a whisper.
A breeze rustled the trees, wicking the sweat from Pilate’s bare torso. It felt good. He closed his eyes, taking Taters’ hand in his, focusing on his friend’s ragged breathing.
“Stay, my friend. Stay.” Pilate squeezed the callused hand, pleading with the universe for even the slightest reciprocal gesture.
“Hey,” Taters said, his voice ragged. “We do okay?”
“Hey! We did fine. You did great.”
“S’good, man. I have to say that…” his eyes fluttered.
“Taters?” Pilate said, shaking him gently. “Taters?”
“Could use a Modelo.”
Pilate laughed at the distinctive sound of the Jamaican ambulance siren.
<><><>
“I just hope it was worth it, John,” Buster said, leaning against the wall in the waiting area outside the emergency department.
Pilate, clad in a hospital scrub top, stared into space a moment, then buried his face in his hands.
“John?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, the words barely audible.
“Mr. Pilate?”
He looked up, expecting a nurse. Instead, a white, auburn-haired woman wearing a black windbreaker stood over him, a woman with dark hair, identical clothing, and perfect posture stood behind her alongside a man wearing a Jamaica Defense Force uniform.
“Yes?”
“I’m Special Agent Leigh with the FBI. This is Lieutenant Commander Anderson of the navy and Commander Meade of the Jamaica Defense Force,” she flashed a badge. “We’d like a word.”
“I’m waiting for my friend. He’s in surgery.”
“We are aware, Mr. Pilate. You can’t do anything for him but wait, so if you please?” She gestured for him to stand.
“Go on, John,” Buster said. “I’ll be right here.”
Pilate nodded and followed the trio to a small room with a cheap card table and three fold-up chairs. An empty ashtray and some fast food napkins littered the table. A small, burned-out coffee maker set on a little stand with Styrofoam cups, sugar packets and a container of powdered creamer in the corner.
“Would you like coffee?” Commander Meade said.
“Maybe, if you can get some,” Pilate replied, sitting. Meade raised an eyebrow and leaned against the wall. Agent Leigh sat across from him while Anderson closed the door and leaned against it.
“Mr. Pilate, we have a few questions about the events that led us here,” Leigh said.
“Me too,” he said.
“How do you mean?”
“I just want to know why you felt the need to drag Taters into all this? Why didn’t you just contact me directly? You know damn well he was pulled into this by me—”
“We did what we did,” Leigh said, green eyes steady on his. “Because it was in the best interests of this operation.”
“Ope
ration? I see. Well, the only operation I give a shit about is the one that you better pray saves his life.” Pilate stabbed at the rickety table with his finger.
“Please remain calm, sir,” Anderson said.
“I am. I’m super calm. I’m like infinity pool calm. Just tell me what you want.”
Leigh leaned back in the chair a moment, then glanced at Meade and Anderson. "Not much. Just what we asked for previously. This never happened. You never speak about it, you never write about it. You move on and we leave you alone for good."
“You’ll forgive me if I tell you I think you’re full of shit, won’t you?”
Leigh looked down at the table a moment. “Of course. But we mean it. You have my word.”
“Wait, we lost the merchandise, Charteris got away and you—”
"Mr. Pilate, you bought us some time. In a joint effort with the JDF," she nodded at Meade, who nodded back, "we captured Mr. Charteris at Sanger. His Gulfstream was next to go on the runway."
“What about the—”
“Merchandise? We have it. It’s safe and no longer a threat to anyone,” Leigh said.
“I’m confused—this British bastard seemed to be after some kind of treasure. Gold bars. That wasn’t what was in the sub—”
“Of course, it was,” Leigh said. “And we appreciate your help. Had you not slowed him down—”
“Taters Malley is not a damn speed bump, lady. He’s a human being. He’s my friend.”
She nodded. “And an American citizen. That’s why as soon as he is stable we will fly him to the best hospital in Miami. All expenses paid by Uncle Sam.”
“That’s…decent of you. What about T and Kay?”
“Both will answer to theft and conspiracy charges, though I think Ms. Righetti will get a slap on the wrist if she can keep her mouth shut. And for her friend, there is the matter of some dead men. Then again, her silence may buy her freedom.”
“You really, really don’t want people to know about that thing, do you?”
Leigh blinked, smiled mildly and leaned forward. “What thing?”
“How do we explain this to Taters’ wife? To my wife, for that matter?” Pilate said.
“His wife will be told he was the victim of a mugging in Montego Bay.”
“These tings happen,” Meade said, shrugging.
“What do I tell my wife?”
Leigh bit her lip. “That’s your business.”
Pilate's Rose Page 8