Deadly in New York (15 page)

“But you promised. And after what we did—”

“I didn't promise. And what we did was fine for both of us. But sex has nothing to do with business—something too many women conveniently refuse to understand.”

Brigitte stepped away and thrust her fists on her hips. “You're going to leave me here with that … that …
body?”

The outrage in her voice was so ripe with indignation that Hawker had to fight back a smile. “If I don't the police will be after you for suspicion of murder. If you stay, they'll just be after me.”

“And that's supposed to make me feel better?” she demanded.

“It's not supposed to make you feel better or feel worse. That's the way it is. Period.”

For a moment, Hawker thought she was going to try to bury one of her small fists in his face. Instead, she gave a sputtering cough of frustration, then plopped down on the bed.

“It's not ladylike to pout,” he said with a smile.

“I'm not pouting!” she yelled back. She sniffed and tugged the T-shirt down over her thighs. “I'll never forgive you for this—I swear it.”

“I don't remember asking for forgiveness,” said Hawker as he pulled on his clothes. He notched his belt tight, then leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek—and ducked as she took an open-handed swing at him. Hawker wagged his index finger at her. “Temper, temper, dear.” He leaned down, kissed her again (on the mouth, this time), ducked another wild roundhouse, and headed out the hall door. “I'll see you when I get back, Brigitte, darling.”

“I'll see you in hell first!” she yelled after him.

“Better that than another night in The Bronx,” Hawker said over his shoulder, leaving.

At Owen Roberts Airport, Hawker didn't even bother to dicker over the price of a rental car. He selected the most dependable-looking vehicle available—a dented and well-traveled Mustang—and paid in cash.

Because of the inevitable layover in Atlanta, his only choice was the late flight into Grand Cayman. So, by the time he got his duffel bag and leased the car, it was well after midnight.

It was a balmy, warm night with moon. An oily breeze blew over the reef, across the island, carrying with it the Caribbean smells of citrus, diesel fuel, sea wrack, and jasmine.

Hawker drove north on Crewe Road, north toward Bodden Town and Jacob Hayes's cottage.

Traffic was sparse as he sped along past late-night juke joints and the dimly lighted island homes with their clotheslines and sand yards and conch-shell borders.

At South Bay, he turned right and bounced down the private drive until it ended where the Caribbean Sea spread away toward Nicaragua, vast and silver-laced in moonlight.

Palm trees bowed over Hayes's cottage, rustling in the sea breeze. Ghost crabs the size of rats clattered away as Hawker got out, threw his duffel bag over his shoulder, and headed for the front door.

Immediately, he stopped.

There was a light on inside. A dim light, flickering in the living-room window.

Hawker unzipped his duffel bag and took out the only weapon he dared check through commercial customs: the Randall Attack-Survival knife.

He drew the knife and peeked through the front window.

The light was made by a single candle.

A man sat cross-legged on the floor beside the candle, staring at the wall. His hands were folded in his lap, and his eyes were unblinking, as if in a trance.

The man should have been wearing a loincloth. Instead, he wore very proper gray worsted slacks, dress shirt, and vest. His jacket had been folded over the chair.

It was Hendricks.

Hawker put the knife away, tapped on the door, and then stepped inside. Hendricks got quickly to his feet and switched on one of the table lamps.

“Christ,” said Hawker, “you look like you haven't slept in a week.”

“Nice to see you, too, James,” Hendricks said dryly. “You've heard about Jacob?”

“Yeah. A cop friend of mine in New York told me, then I called corporate headquarters. Jake had dug up a lot of dirt on Fister. I guess they figured he was getting too close.” Hawker put his duffel bag on the floor and went to the kitchen to find that Hendricks had already boiled water for tea. “How long have you been here, Hank?”

“About two hours. Just long enough to stop at Western Union, check with the local authorities, and come here.”

“Western Union? Why Western Union?”

“Had to send a telegram to an old friend of mine named Druid,” answered Hendricks as he put bags of Indian green tea into the two mugs.

Hawker looked at him carefully. Hendricks seemed oddly distracted, as if subdued by worry. “We're going to find Jake,” Hawker said softly. “I promise you.”

“Are we?” said Hendricks. “The police say they have absolutely nothing to go on. And I have the very unhappy feeling that, if we don't find him tonight, Jacob won't live to see another day.” The butler sipped at his tea and walked to the candle he had lighted. He touched his fingers to his lips, and the flame hissed as he extinguished it. Hendricks began to say something, faltered, then pressed on. “James?”

“Yeah, Hank?”

“James, very early yesterday morning, I was awakened from a sound sleep by thoughts of Jacob. Strange thoughts. They were almost …”

“Overpowering?” Hawker inserted.

“Yes,” Hendricks said quickly. “It was almost as if—”

“As if he were trying to communicate with you?” Hawker cut in again.

“Exactly,”
Hendricks agreed, giving Hawker an odd look. “How did you know?”

“What time was it you woke up?”

“A little before seven
A
.
M
., I would imagine.”

“What time would that be in New York?”

“Oh … just before two.”

Hawker nodded emphatically. “I had the same kind of thoughts at the very same time,” he said. “I couldn't shake them—and, believe me, in the situation I was in, it should have been easy.” Hawker motioned toward the candle. “Is that what you were doing when I came? Trying to get back in touch?”

“It's called
zazen,”
Hendricks said. “Sitting meditation. Jacob gave me a little instruction, but it always struck me as rather silly. Still,” the butler added thoughtfully, “it seemed as if I was getting some very strong impressions just before you came. Very cold impressions. Bleak. Hellish.” Hendricks looked quickly at Hawker. “That's why I said I didn't think Jacob could hold out another night—if he's not already dead.”

“Do you think you could find him?” Hawker asked. “Were the impressions that strong?”

Hendricks shook his head and snorted in frustration. “Think of what you're saying, James. Do you really think we have a chance of finding a man hidden away on this island through the use of this … nonsense?”

“Mumbo jumbo,” corrected Hawker.

“It's absolute rubbish,” agreed Hendricks.

A slow smile formed on Hawker's lips. “The only weapon I have is a knife.”

Hendricks thought for a moment. “I flew the Trislander down. The taxi driver who brought me here was quite upset by the weight of one of the bags.”

“Weapons?” Hawker asked.

“I think Thompson submachine guns qualify as weapons.” Hendricks sniffed.

Hawker clapped him on the back. “Let's load up and hit the trail, O Swami.”

twenty-four

For more than an hour they drove aimlessly through the dusky moonlight, scouring the island's back roads.

There were certain craggy areas of bluff and sea that drew Hendricks's attention: Half Moon Bay, Gun Bay Village, Ireland Bluff. All seemed to capture the bleak mood of the impressions that had come to him through meditation.

But they found nothing. The dark houses taunted the two men. Hayes could have been hidden away in any of them.

Hawker drove while Hendricks navigated—the two of them feeling increasingly desperate.

Hawker skidded left, then sped south at Old Man Bay, jamming the Mustang through the gears. On Crewe Road, he headed back through the modern city of Georgetown, then north along the hotels of Seven Mile Beach. Intent on their strange mission, the two men said little. Hendricks spoke only to give directions; directions that came, it seemed to him, on empty whim.

Finally, in frustration, he banged the dashboard with his fist and exclaimed, “Damn it all, James, this is absurd! Jacob
may
have been communicating with us, but the power came from
him
. He's the one who's had the training in … in this mystic business. Not me. I'm beginning to feel like a perfect fool.”

Hawker slowed and pulled over to the side of the road. The island was sparsely populated there, the houses set back deep behind fences and heavy foliage. He put the car in neutral and locked the brake. “You may be right, Hank.” He sighed. “The only impression I've gotten in the last half hour is that I'm going to burst if I don't pee.”

He opened the door, stepped out, and began urinating into the ditch. “Hank,” he said suddenly, with a growing excitement in his voice. “Describe the place again, the place you think they might be holding Jake.”

“No certain place,” Hendricks answered wearily. “It was just a bleak feeling. Rugged. A lot of rocks—”

“Not that. Earlier, you described it as ‘hellish.'”

“Well, yes, but—”

Hawker poked his head back in the car. “Hank,” he said anxiously, “we're there! We're in Hell.”

“James, dear boy, I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“The road sign,” Hawker insisted, “it says ‘Hell.' We're in the village of Hell.” Hawker slid back into the car and started the engine. “Damn, why didn't I think of it to begin with? I noticed it on the map the last time we were here. The sea, the craggy rocks, the bleakness—this place has it all.”

“Even so, I wouldn't get my hopes up—”

“But I do have my hopes up, Hank. Damn it, we're going to find him. We've
got
to find him.”

Driving slowly, but not so slowly as to arouse suspicion, they cruised past a series of large estates that were built on bluffs overlooking the vast Caribbean. One in particular caught Hawker's attention: It was a massive stone house, three stories tall, surrounded by mature tropical trees and a high iron fence. Spires of igneous rock, gray in the moonlight, jutted above the crash of sea fifty feet below the house.

Lights twinkled through the trees.

“People are still awake there, Hank,” Hawker said anxiously. “What do you think?”

“Yes,” Hendricks whispered almost to himself.
“Yes
. It could be.…”

“We don't have time for ‘could be,' Hank,” Hawker pressed. “This is either the place where they have Jake locked up, or it isn't.”

“But, damn it all, there's no way I can know for sure—”

“Yeah, there is,” Hawker insisted. “We're going in to take a look. Then we'll know.”

Hawker drove up the road another hundred yards and pulled off into a gumbo limbo thicket. The two men got out quietly and slid the thirty-round detachable box clips into the old Thompson MlAl's.

“Christ,” whispered Hawker, “I feel like a movie gangster, carrying one of these things.”

“Very popular with those of us who lived through the war,” Hendricks said. “And rather appropriate, considering who we're going after.”

Hawker looked at him. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

Hendricks favored him with a wry look. “Let's just say we've gotten into something bigger than any of us ever dreamed possible. There's not time to explain now.”

“Hank,” said Hawker, “I hate it when you're cryptic.”

“Tut-tut, dear boy. The explanation can wait. Jacob can't.”

The two men made their way down the road, then cut into the shadows. At the iron fence, Hawker helped the older Englishman over the top, then climbed over himself.

It was one twenty
A
.
M
.

The estate consisted of a several-acre rectangle of well-kept trees and scrubs: coconut palms, gumbos, mango, and Australian pine. The mansion sat at the back of the lot, overlooking the sea.

They discovered that the fence had been wired for silent intruder alarm when they were only a few hundred yards from the house.

And it was not a pleasant discovery.

twenty-five

As they moved past a jasmine copse, two figures suddenly sprang out at them.

Hendricks was knocked violently to the ground, while Hawker managed to keep his feet. He used the heavy butt of the Thompson to crack down on the neck of the man who had jumped him, then swung it like a saber at the man who now stood over Hendricks.

The butt of the submachine gun caught the attacker high on the right shoulder, spinning him around. Hawker saw the automatic in the man's hand lift to fire. He dove low and hard, his shoulder aimed at the man's knees. There was a deafening
ker-wack
that, at first, Hawker thought was the automatic.

It wasn't.

The man gave a hideous scream and fell to the ground, clutching the kneecaps that had been crushed backward by the impact of the collision. Hawker drew the Randall from its calf scabbard and drove the seven-inch blade deep between his ribs. The man shuddered, then went still.

Hawker wiped the knife clean in the sand, then got shakily to his feet.

“How's the other guy?” he whispered.

Hendricks dropped the lifeless wrist. “Dead. That crack on the back of the head did it.”

“Parapsychology aside, I would guess this is the place.”

Hendricks picked up his weapon and observed dryly, “You have a wonderful talent for saying the obvious, James.”

“Jeeze,” retorted Hawker. “I save your life, and you're
still
snotty.”