Age of Voodoo (13 page)

Virgil chortled. “Well, I’ve been turning the engine over once a fortnight, regular as clockwork, you know that. And only last Tuesday I cleaned out the compressor and put in some new gaskets. She purred like a happy cat when I fired her up after that. You going for a flight right now?”

“Not exactly. Just checking up on her. Chances are she’ll be airborne in the near future, though.”

“Oh, okay. Hey, Lex. How’s it going?” Virgil shook Lex’s hand briefly, then Albertine’s at much greater length and with much greater vigour. “Very nice to meet
you
, pretty girl. I’m Virgil. That’s Virgil as in the famous Roman poet. The love poet.”

It was a chat-up line Lex had heard the mechanic use more than once at the rum shack. Corny, but it sometimes did the trick.

“Really?” said Albertine.

“No doubt. Actually, I’ve got a bit of love poet in me myself. You want to see? I can show you.”

“No, I mean was Virgil really a love poet? Because, as I recall, he wrote epic poetry. You know, the
Aeneid
?”

Virgil looked so crestfallen, it was all Lex could do to suppress a smile.

“Yeah, I knew that,” he said, recovering. “Epic love poetry. And epic love is what I’m all about.”

“Well, if I want some of that, I’ll be sure to give you a call,” said Albertine.

“You do.” Virgil turned back to Wilberforce. “She’s a sharp one, brother. Where’d you find her?”

“Nowhere. We’re related. That’s my cousin Albertine.”

“Your cousin? Oh. Ohhh. The one who...?”

“The same,” said Wilberforce, nodding. “Now, come on. Show me how well
Puddle Jumper
’s doing. Let me see what I’m getting in return for you draining my bar dry every Monday night.”

The two of them talked fluent engineering for a while, leaving Lex and Albertine with little to do but stand in the sun, watching. Virgil raised
Puddle Jumper
’s engine cowl to allow Wilberforce to inspect the plane’s inner workings, after which Wilberforce climbed aboard, sat in the pilot’s seat and started the motor up. There was a metallic cough, a puff of bluish smoke from the exhaust manifold, and the propeller began to turn jerkily. More smoke blurted into the air, and then the propeller settled into a spinning blur while the engine droned smoothly and comfortably. Virgil gave Wilberforce a thumbs-up through the windscreen, and Wilberforce returned it.

“Say what you like about my cousin,” said Albertine, “but it was always his dream to fly, and he worked his backside off getting his pilot licence. Look at him sitting there. Like a little kid. It’s his passion. Shame he had to give it up, mostly. Lex? Don’t you think?”

“Hmm?”

“Lex. What’s that look on your face?”

“Look?”

“That scowl. Like something’s bugging you.”

“Something is,” Lex confessed.

“What?”

“Virgil. He’s behaving strangely.”

“Is he? I don’t know him, but he seems normal enough to me.”

“Normal, yes. Almost too normal. Something’s off. It’s as if he’s trying too hard.”

“Are you usually this suspicious of people?”

“Until lately I’ve had no reason to be, not since I started living here. Now, suddenly, I’m having to be a mite more cautious again. See the way Virgil’s hand keeps going to his pocket?”

“I hadn’t noticed,” said Albertine, “but now that you mention it...”

Virgil was doing it right now, touching the right-hand pocket of his cut-off jeans, almost unconsciously. It was the ninth time the gesture had occurred since he started talking to Wilberforce. Lex was keeping count.

“It’s where he put his mobile,” he said.

“Maybe he’s patting to check it’s still there.”

“Yes, but why? It’s not likely to fall out. It’s more as though he’s worried about it—or about what he was just discussing on it.”

“A guilty conscience about something?”

“Yes. And he’s being extra friendly towards Wilb, and that’s not how he ordinarily is at the rum shack. I mean, they get on well enough, but now he’s acting like they’re best mates.”

“Could be he’s different here. This is his boatyard, home turf. He’s more at ease.”

“Even allowing for that, it’s uncharacteristic,” said Lex. “The way he’s carrying on...Call me paranoid, but all that chitchat—makes me think he’s stalling. Delaying us on purpose.”

“You
are
paranoid,” Albertine said. “Except...” Her expression clouded. “I’m getting these whispers. From the loa. Loko, my husband, is concerned with justice. He has a strong sense of right and wrong, and he doesn’t like cheats and frauds. If he spots one, he often tells me.”

“So you feel it too? Instinctively?”

“Starting to. And it’s the loa, not my instincts.”

Before Lex could respond to that, Virgil’s phone trilled. He took it out and put it to his ear, at the same time holding up an apologetic finger to Wilberforce.

“Yes?” Lex heard him say above the burble of the Turbo Beaver’s turbines. “Yeah, man. Okay. I hear you.”

Virgil began to move away from the seaplane along the dock, as though seeking somewhere quieter to hold the conversation. He shot a furtive glance in the direction of Lex and Albertine.

“Yeah, three,” he said. “That’s right. Three.”

“Albertine,” Lex said out of the corner of his mouth. “I want you to go to the car. Get in.”

“What for?”

“Go. Don’t argue.” Lex grabbed her by the elbow and steered her towards the Subaru. He opened the passenger-side door, reached in to undo the glove box latch and retrieved his SIG Sauer from inside. Albertine’s eyes widened in shock at the sight of the gun.

“Lex, what on earth—?”

“Do as I say. Get in. Lock the doors. Stay low.”

“You can’t order me around like that without—”

Lex’s attention was caught by the sound of another engine, not that far off, getting louder. Without further ado he bundled Albertine into the 4x4 and slammed the door.

“Lock it,” he barked. “And keep your head right down.”

He turned. Virgil was hurrying for the shed now, barely making a pretence of casualness any more. His saunter had become an anxious hop-and-skip. Lex sprinted for the dock. A car appeared on the approach road, heading for the boatyard’s open gates: a Jeep Grand Cherokee, missing a wing mirror and sporting several bullet holes in its bodywork.

The Garfish. Or some of his henchmen, at any rate.

Virgil had ratted. It was obvious. Garfield Finisterre must have contacted him earlier and bribed him to provide a tipoff, should Wilberforce visit the boatyard. The Garfish knew Wilberforce kept his plane here. It was no secret.

That was the conversation Virgil had been having when they arrived—alerting the Garfish that a car had turned up with Wilberforce inside. The second phone call, one which Virgil had been nervously anticipating, was the Garfish’s men getting to the scene, time for him to take cover, get out of the line of fire.

“Wilberforce!” Lex yelled, but his friend was oblivious. He was busy examining the cockpit dashboard, inspecting the readings on the dials.

The Jeep crunched to a halt on the gravel parking apron, just behind the Subaru. The doors opened, and four men leapt out.

Lex could see Albertine cowering in the front of the Subaru, trying to make herself small in the seat.

The four men all had guns. No Garfish with them, but perhaps last night had deterred him from wanting to take a direct hand. What were henchmen for, anyway?

Lex sighted carefully along the barrel of the SIG and dropped the frontmost of the four with a single shot. The other three scattered. One hurried back to the Jeep and took shelter behind an opened door. The other two made for a stack of 55-gallon oil drums, shooting wildly as they ran. Lex went down on one knee in order to steady his aim and present a smaller target. He returned the pair’s fire, but failed to hit either of them; they were moving too fast and the range was at the SIG’s limit of reliable accuracy.

Wilberforce leaned out of the Turbo Beaver. “Lex? What’s happening?”

“Get back inside the plane,” Lex told him.

“Those men...”

“Virgil sold you out to the Garfish. Now for God’s sake, stay in that fucking plane.”

Wilberforce did as bidden. Lex crab-scuttled along the dock until he was behind a small bowrider sport boat with a Mercruiser outboard. He crouched with the gunwales at eye level and put a round into one of the oil drums. The drum was empty, alas. Ah, well, worth a try.

Bullets came his way, thwacking into the bowrider’s fibreglass hull. The boat shuddered with each impact. Lex huddled down. He could hear shouting, someone giving instructions, but the words were indecipherable above the ruckus from the Turbo Beaver’s engine. More shots, doing great harm to the bowrider’s structural integrity. Maybe the plan was to sink it, thus exposing Lex. There wasn’t much hope of that, though. At this angle the henchmen would never be able to hole the boat below the waterline. But if nothing else, they were keeping him pinned. He daren’t raise his head or venture out from his hiding place.

That was when it dawned on him that they were trying to trick him. Sinking the bowrider wasn’t their goal at all. The bullets punching into the hull were a diversion, a way of keeping him in one spot and busy while...

Lex peered out past the boat’s stern. A henchman was sneaking along the dock towards him, squatting low, gun held out. His colleague behind the oil drums kept up suppressing fire.

The henchman was drawing level with
Puddle Jumper
. Lex did not have a clear shot at him. If he leaned out far enough to draw a bead, he would present himself fully to the henchman. Then it would be a case of who pulled the trigger first. Odds were it would be Lex, but it was far from a foregone conclusion. The risk seemed too great.

The only alternative was to slip into the water, swim under the bowrider, come up the other side, and try and take the henchman by surprise that way. But again, this scheme carried an unacceptably high level of risk. If the man spotted him emerging from the water, he would have the advantage.

As he debated his options, Lex noticed that
Puddle Jumper
was starting to swing out from the dockside. Wilberforce.

Lex felt a surge of admiration at his friend’s ingenuity. At the very least it would startle the henchman, throw him off his stride. Lex could then make use of that.

The Garfish’s man glanced up as
Puddle Jumper
’s wing passed over him, casting him briefly into shadow. He didn’t seem to understand what was happening. Why was the plane moving?

That was his fatal mistake. In his confusion, he failed to appreciate that the wing going overhead meant the front end of the seaplane was closing in on him from behind.

And at the tip of the plane was a whirling propeller, a trio of four-foot aluminium-alloy blades rotating at two thousand revolutions per minute.

At the last instant, the henchman looked round.

He managed to get out a single strained syllable that sounded very much like “No!”

Then the propeller sliced into him, opening up his torso and unzipping his gun arm from his body cleanly at the shoulder. His entire frame juddered as the propeller hacked into him, and then he fell. Most of him landed on the boards of the dock. His arm was hurled high into the air and spiralled into the sea with a splash. The hand was still clutching the pistol as it plunged beneath the waves.

“Desmond!” came a despairing cry from the oil drums. “Des! No!”

Lex seized his moment. He sprinted along the dock, past the body of Desmond the henchman, which was still twitching, gushing blood everywhere. He ran for the oil drums in a zigzagging line, pumping out parabellum rounds from the SIG. The drums boomed resoundingly as the bullets smacked home.

He collided sidelong with the drums, toppling the stack like a bowling ball striking the pins; the drums tumbled onto the shrieking henchman.

Lex didn’t pause. He grabbed the drum covering most of the henchman and thrust it aside. The man flailed his arms in shock and distress as Lex planted a bullet in his eye, point blank.

“Hold it right there!”

Lex looked up. His heart sank.

The fourth and final henchman was standing by the Subaru. The car door nearest to him stood open, window smashed. The henchman had Albertine by the throat. He was holding her in front of him, his pistol at her temple.

“Make another move, you ghost bastard,” he snarled, “and I blow her fuckin’ brains out. You get me? Lay down the gun and put your hands in the air, or the bitch dies.”