Benchley, Peter (8 page)

“What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know.” Sanders thought. “Jewelry, I suppose … but Jesus, it’s awful clean to be old. You’d think it would be worn away, or at least covered with something.”

Sanders put the piece of metal aside and looked at the ampule. He held it to the sunlight, and the glass sparkled. “Different color from the other one.”

His eyes focused on the ampule and did not see the figure standing on the Orange Grove cliffs.

It was after six when the Sanderses reached Treece’s house.

Treece came out and gestured for the Sanderses to follow him around to the back. “Did you find any more ampules?”

“One,” said Sanders. “It looks like there’s different stuff in it.”

Gail handed Treece the ampule. “It was in the same place as last time.”

Treece nodded at Sanders. “You’re right; different chemical.”

“What is it?”

“I’m not sure. It could be a number of things. A heroin mixture or some other opium-based liquid. Might even be another morphine solution. Did you mark it?”

“Yes,” Gail said. She gave Treece the remaining rock marker.

“There were no others sprinkled around?”

“No, and that one wasn’t on top of the sand. We had to dig for it.”

Treece said, “I best have a look tomorrow night.”

“Do you want us along?” Gail asked, half-hoping Treece would say no.

Treece sensed her reluctance. “It’s up to you.

You’re welcome to come if you want. Or, you can cut now.”

“You bet we’re coming,” Sanders said. He pointed to Gail’s purse. “Show him the other thing.”

Treece studied the piece of metal carefully, running his finger around the lip on the inner edge. He squeezed it between thumb and forefinger, and the metal bent easily. “You found this where?”

“In some rocks,” Sanders said. “It was lodged pretty tight. I had to break some coral to get at it.”

“You might have used the other rock to mark the spot.”

“Why?”

Treece grinned at Sanders. “It’s gold.”

“Gold? Christ, it looks like somebody threw it away.”

“No man threw that away. If you’d dug deeper, you’d like have found his bones.”

“How come it isn’t all crapped up?”

“That’s one of the marvels of gold,” said Treece.

“It’s chemically impervious. You could put a fresh-minted gold coin in sea water and leave it there till the end of time, and when you went to fetch it on Judgment Day, it’d be as good as new.

Nothing grows on it; nothing eats away at it.”

Gail asked, “What was it?”

“A cameo of some kind.” Treece pointed to the inner circle. “The picture or etching was in here.

These”-he touched, one by one, the four pockets on the rim-“held pearls, the symbol of purity. The lad might have worn it around his neck.”

“What does it mean?”

“Finding it? Not anything, necessarily. Chances are, a ship went up on the rocks out there, somewhere-God knows where-and the tide washed this and the coin you found in over the reefs. Or a survivor might have tried to swim to shore and didn’t make it. This is personal stuff, not ship’s treasure.” Treece seemed to ponder his own words. “But, dammit, those answers don’t sit right.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been all over those reefs for twenty years and more. I’m not saying I know every inch of every Bermuda reef, but because of

Goliath,

that area I know. If there’s a

ship out there, I’d have seen a trace of it by now.

Guns, the anchor, ballast rock-something.”

“How old is it?” Sanders said.

“The cameo? A couple of hundred years.”

Treece turned it over in his hand. “It’s Spanish. And damn fine workmanship. Very caref ally made.”

“If it’s a couple hundred years old, Bermuda would have been inhabited when the ship went down-if there is a ship. There could be records.”

“It depends: if anyone saw it go down, if anyone survived, or if anyone’s salvaged it since. That’s the likeliest-salvage.”

“Why?”

“The incident would be over and done with. No need to prolong it with searches or detailed survivors’

accounts, so no pile of records. If I had to guess at the story, I’d say the ship heaved up on the rocks during a storm, but didn’t sink.

Maybe a few people-this E.f. included-were washed overboard. When the wind died, they might have caulked her and refloated her. Or, if they couldn’t, they’d’ve stripped her clean-guns, cargo, personal effects, everything-and left her on the rocks. Next big wind’d hash her up and scatter the pieces all over the place. There’d be damn little left of her to spot.”

Sanders was disappointed. “So you think we’ve found all there is?”

“That’s just a guess.” Treece handed the cameo to Gail. “What do you plan to do with it?”

“I hadn’t thought. Can I keep it?”

“Aye, but legally you can’t take it off Bermuda, not unless you offer to sell it to the Bermuda Government and they decline.”

“I don’t want to sell it; I want to keep it.”

“Then, girl,” Treece said with a smile, “you have two options: You can smuggle it out or you can become a Bermuda resident.”

Sanders said, “When do you want to go tomorrow night?”

“Come up around sunset. My boat’s in a cove below. We can be on

Goliath

by full dark.”

They rode down the hill, through St. David’s, and across the Severn Bridge. On the causeway separating St. George’s Island from Hamilton Parish they were overtaken by two taxis coming from the airport, but otherwise the road was empty. As they passed signs directing tourists to the dolphin show at the Blue Grotto, a green

Morris Minor pulled out of a dirt alley and closed to within twenty yards of them.

The car had been behind them for several minutes when Sanders first noticed it in his rear-view mirror.

He pulled as far to the left as he could without striking the coral wall by the side of the road. Ahead, the road bent to the right. As he rounded the turn, Sanders saw two motorbikes and a small truck coming toward them. He put out his right hand and signaled the green car to stay back.

The vehicles passed, and now David and Gail were on a straight stretch of Harrington Sound Road.

There was no oncoming traffic, so Sanders waved the green car ahead. But the car stayed back. Sanders heard the honk of a horn, and

he looked in his mirror. A black taxi was behind the green car. The taxi driver honked again, and Sanders waved it forward. The taxi pulled out and passed the green car and the two motorbikes.

Sanders throttled down and dropped back parallel with Gail. “That jerk won’t pass!” he called to her.

“I know. There’s a driveway up ahead.

Let’s pull over and let him go by.”

Fifty yards ahead, Sanders saw a break in the thick bushes and a narrow road that led up a hill to a house; there was a sign, “Innisfree.” He put out his arm to indicate a left turn and cut the motor until his bike was barely moving. He expected the green car to pull out and pass, but it slowed with him.

Sanders and Gail stopped at the entrance to the driveway. The Morris moved ahead and turned sharply left, nosing into the bushes and cutting off any avenue of escape. A tall black man in a mechanic’s outfit opened the left-hand door and stepped out. The driver, another black man, stayed in his seat.

“What do you want?” Sanders said.

“Man want to see you,” the tall man replied.

“Whatman?”

“Make no mind. Get in the car.”

Sanders heard an engine noise, and he glanced down the road to his left. A station wagon was rounding a bend, coming toward them. It was heavily loaded and moving slowly.

“Move!” said the man.

The station wagon was about twenty yards away; in a

couple of seconds, it would be abreast of the Morris. As if obeying, Sanders took a step toward the Morris, then suddenly darted sideways, sprang onto the hood of the Morris, and, before the man could stop him, leaped into the air at the oncoming station wagon.

He had a quick glimpse, through the windshield of the station wagon, of the driver’s shocked face. He heard the squeal of skidding tires.

The station wagon was barely moving when Sanders landed on its hood, so he was not hurt by the concussion. But his momentum prevented him from stopping; he rolled off the hood and struck his face on the pavement. He tasted blood.

Sanders scrambled to his feet and yelled, “Help!”

The station wagon was full of cricketers, all dressed in white. The driver, a young black, stuck his head out the window and screamed, “You crazy, man!”

Sanders pointed to the Morris. “They’re kidnaping us!”

“What?”

The tall man, now standing next to Gail, called, “Don’t pay him no mind, man. He’s smokin’ bad shit.”

“No!” Sanders said. “Help us! They’re-was “Crazy bastard!” the driver yelled. “You gon’

get killed one day.” Then he said to the tall man, “You tourin’ some crazy bastards, Ronald.” He ducked his head inside the window and pressed the accelerator to the floor.

Sanders reached for the station wagon as it lumbered by him, but his hand slipped off the steel. The road was empty in both directions. He debated running, but he did not want to leave Gail.

The tall man, Ronald, snapped a

switchblade knife open and held it at his waist, pointing at Sanders. “Move!” he said. “Or I cut your ass.” He took Sanders’ arm and roughly pushed him toward the Morris.

Sanders said, “At least let her go.”

“Her, too.” Ronald opened the front door of the car and shoved Sanders inside.

“What do I do with this?” Gail said, holding the handle bars of her motorbike.

“Drop it.”

She released the handle bars, and the motorbike clattered to the pavement. She climbed into the back seat of the car.

Ronald pushed both motorbikes into the underbrush, got in the back seat next to Gail, shut the door, and, cradling the knife in his lap, said, “Okay.”

The driver pulled out onto the road.

They traveled in silence. The windows were shut, and the air in the car quickly grew acrid with breath and sweat. As they passed a sign for the botanical gardens in Paget, Sanders rolled his window down.

He felt the point of the knife press at the base of his neck and heard Ronald say, “Up.” He closed the window.

They approached a traffic circle, where signs pointed to the right for Hamilton, straight ahead for Warwick and Southampton. A policeman stood in the center of the circle, directing the early-evening traffic. Sanders wondered if, as the driver slowed for the circle, he would have time to open the door, roll out, and yell for help. Then he saw the driver wave at the policeman, and the policeman smiled and waved back.

It was growing dark, and as they drove along South Road, never exceeding the 20 mph speed limit, Sanders could barely decipher signs for Elbow Beach, the Orange Grove Club, Coral Beach, and the Princess Beach Club.

High on a hill he saw the huge Southampton Princess Hotel and then the Gibb’s Hill lighthouse. They had traveled almost the whole length of the island.

The stuffy silence increased Sanders’ nervousness.

“How much farther?” he asked.

“Shut up,” said Ronald.

They crossed Somerset Bridge, and another fact from his

Geographic

past occurred to Sanders. He half-turned toward Gail and said, “That’s the smallest drawbridge in the world. It only opens wide enough to let a sailboat’s mast pass through.”

Gail did not answer. Sanders’ escape attempt had shaken her, and she did not want to encourage another confrontation.

Ronald motioned with his knife for Sanders to face front.

“For whatever that’s worth,” Sanders said, turning back.

The car went left off the main road, onto a dirt track, following a sign that said “Public Wharf.” They entered a clearing-a crowded square, filled with flsh-and-vegetable stalls and ramshackle shops. At the far end of the square was a rickety dock to which half a dozen weathered, patched boats were moored. There were no other cars in the square, and children scampered so carelessly in front of the Morris that the driver had to creep along in first gear. He parked in front of what seemed to be a grocery store. Canned goods and fruit were piled high in the window. A penciled placard advertised bait and pork rind. Faded letters on the gray limestone said, “Teddy’s Market.”

Two young black men were lounging by the doorway. One was casually flipping a hunting knife into the dirt.

The other leaned against the door jamb, arms folded, watching the green car; his shirt was open to the waist, displaying a fresh red scar that ran from his right clavicle to below his left pectoral muscle-macho graffiti. There was something familiar about the man; Sanders tried to place him, but couldn’t.

“Yon come quiet,” said Ronald. “No smart stuff, or they fillet you.” He jerked his head toward the men at the door, then got out of the car and held the back door open for Gail.

Sanders opened the front door and stepped out onto the dirt. A breeze was blowing across Ely’s Harbour, and it felt cool as it dried the sweat on his face.

“Inside,” Ronald said. He followed them through the door, saying to the man with the scar, “What’s doin’?”

“Waitin’ on you, man.”

It was the inflection on the word “man” that made Sanders realize who the bearer of the scar was: Slake, the waiter from Orange Grove.

Reflexively, Sanders turned to look at him, but he was pushed forward into the store.

Stepping into the darkness of the store, David could see nothing. There seemed to be rows of merchandise on both sides of an aisle. Gradually, as his pupils adjusted, he saw a faint light shining under a door at the rear of the store. “Where?”

Ronald brushed past him. “You follow me.” When he reached the door, he rapped once, then twice.

A voice inside said, “Come.”

Ronald opened the door and motioned Gail and David through. He followed them, shut the door, and leaned against it.

On the far side of the room was a desk, and behind it sat a young man-in his late twenties or very early thirties, Sanders guessed. The sweat on his forehead caught the light and made his black skin shine. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles and a starched white shirt. There was no jewelry on his hands, but around his neck was a thin gold chain that held an inch-long gold feather. Two burly men comolder than the ones outside the store-flanked him in formal symmetry, arms folded, beside the desk. The room was cluttered with cartons and boxes and file cabinets, and smelled of fish and dirt and sweat and overripe fruit. Two bare light bulbs hung from the ceiling.