The Cry of the Halidon (28 page)

The shrieks then became louder, accompanied by blunt thuds of pounding earth. Alex could see Barak and Floyd in the moonlight. They were slapping the ground like crazed animals; the horrible noises coming from their shaking heads reached a crescendo.

Wild pigs fighting in the high grass.

The door of Piersall’s house crashed open. The guard, rifle in hand, released the dog at his side. The animal lurched out onto the lawn and raced toward the hysterical sounds and all-too-human odors.

McAuliff knelt, hypnotized by what followed in the Jamaican moonlight. Barak and Floyd scrambled back into the field without raising their bodies above the grass and without diminishing the pitch of their animal screams. The Doberman streaked across the lawn and sprang headlong over the border of the field and into the tall grass.

The continuing shrieks and guttural roars were joined by the savage barking of the vicious dog. And, amid the terrible sounds, Alex could distinguish a series of spits; the dart gun was being fired repeatedly.

A yelping howl suddenly drowned out the man-mad bellowing; the guard ran to the edge of the lawn, his rifle raised to fire. And before McAuliff could absorb or understand the
action, Charles Whitehall grabbed a handful of rocks and threw them toward the lighted pool. And then a second handful hard upon the first.

The guard spun around to the water; Whitehall slammed Alex out of the way, raced along the edge of the grass, and suddenly leaped out on the lawn at the patrolman.

McAuliff watched, stunned.

Whitehall, the elegant academic—the delicately boned Charley-mon—lashed his arm out into the base of the guard’s neck, crashed his foot savagely into the man’s midsection, and seized a wrist, twisting it violently so that the rifle flew out of the guard’s hands; the man jerked off his feet, spun into the air, and whipped to the ground. As the guard vibrated off the grass, Whitehall took swift aim and crashed his heel into the man’s skull below his forehead.

The body contorted, then lay still.

The shrieking stopped; all was silent.

It was over.

Barak and Floyd raced out from the high grass onto the lawn. Barak spoke. “Thank you, Charley-mon. Indiscriminate gunfire might have found us.”

“It was necessary,” replied Whitehall simply. “I must see those papers.”

“Then let us go,” said Barak Moore. “Floyd, take this real pig inside; tie him up somewhere.”

“Don’t waste time,” countered Whitehall, starting for the house, the receptacle under his arm. “Just throw him into the grass. He’s dead.”

Inside, Floyd led them to the cellar stairs and down into Piersall’s basement. The cistern was in the west section, about six feet deep and five wide. The walls were dry; cobwebs laced the sides and the top. Barak brushed aside the filmy obstructions and lowered himself into the pit.

“How do you know which are the blocks?” asked Whitehall urgently, the black rectangular box clasped in his hand.

“There is a way; the Doctor explained,” replied Moore,
taking out a small box of safety matches. He struck one and stared at the north center line, revolving slowly clockwise, holding the lighted match against the cracks in the blocks on the lower half of the pit.

“Ground phosphorus,” stated Whitehall quietly. “Packed into the concrete edges.”

“Yes, mon. Not much; enough to give a little flame, or a sputter, perhaps.”

“You’re wasting time!” Whitehall spat out the words. “Swing to your
left
, toward the northwest point! Not to your right.”

The three men looked abruptly at the scholar. “
What
, Charley-mon?” Barak was bewildered.

“Do as I say!… Please.”

“The Arawak symbols?” asked McAuliff. “The … Odyssey to death, or whatever you called it? To the right of the setting sun?”

“I’m glad you find it amusing.”

“I don’t, Charley. Not one goddamn bit,” answered Alex softly.

“Ayee …” Barak whistled softly as tiny spits of flame burst out of the cistern’s cracks. “Charley, you got brains, mon! Here they are. Floyd, mon, give me the tools.”

Floyd reached into his field jacket and produced a five-inch stone chisel and an all-metal folding hammer. He handed them down to his superior. “You want help?” he asked.

“There is not room for two,” replied Barak as he started hammering along the cracks.

Three minutes later Moore had managed to dislodge the first block from its surrounding adhesive; he tugged at it, pulling it slowly out of the cistern wall. Whitehall held the flashlight now, his eyes intent on Moore’s manipulations. The block came loose; Floyd reached down and took it from Barak’s hands.

“What’s behind?” Whitehall pierced the beam of light into the gaping hole.

“Space, mon. Red dirt and space,” said Moore. “And I think the top of another box. A larger box.”

“For God’s sake,
hurry
!”

“Okay, Charley-mon. There is no dinner engagement at the Mo’Bay Hilton, mon.” Barak chuckled. “Nothing will be rewritten by a hidden mongoose.”

“Relax.” McAuliff did not look at Whitehall when he spoke. He did not want to. “We have all night, don’t we? You killed a man out there. He was the only one who could have interfered. And you decided he had to die for that.”

Whitehall turned his head and stared at McAuliff. “I killed him because it was necessary.” Whitehall transferred his attention back to Barak Moore. The second block came loose with far less effort than the first. Barak reached into the space and rocked the stone until the cracks widened and it slid out. Floyd took the block and placed it carefully to one side.

Whitehall crouched opposite the hole, shining the flashlight into it. “It’s an archive case. Let me have it.” He handed Floyd the flashlight and reached across the pit as Barak pulled the receptacle out of the dirt and gave it to him. “Extraordinary!” said Charley, fingering the oblong box, his knee pressed against the top of the first receptacle on the floor beside him. Whitehall was not going to let either out of his possession.

“The case, you mean, mon?” asked Moore.

“Yes.” Whitehall turned the box over, then held it up as Floyd shone the beam of light on it. “I don’t think any of you understand. Without the keys or proper equipment, these bloody things take hours to open. Watertight, airtight, vacuumed, and crushproof. Even a starbit drill could not penetrate the metal … Here! See.” The scholar pointed to some lettering on the bottom surface. “Hitchcock Vault Company, Indianapolis. The finest in the world. Museums, libraries … government archives everywhere use Hitchcock. Simply extraordinary.”

When the sound came, it had the impact of an earth-shattering explosion. Although the noise was distant—that of the whining low gear of an automobile racing up the long entrance drive from the road below.

And then another.

The four men looked back and forth at one another. They were stunned. Outside there was an intrusion that was not to be.
Could
not be.

“Oh my
God, Jesus, mon
!” Barak jumped out of the pit.

“Take these tools, you damn fool!” cried Whitehall. “Your fingerprints!”

Floyd, rather than Barak, leaped into the cistern, grabbed the hammer and chisel, and put them into the pockets of his field jacket. “There is only the staircase, mon! No other way!”

Barak ran to the stairs. McAuliff reached down for the first receptacle at Whitehall’s side; simultaneously, Whitehall’s hand was on it.

“You can’t carry both, Charley,” said Alex in answer to Whitehall’s manic stare. “This one’s mine!” He grabbed the box, jerked it out from under Whitehall’s grip, and followed Moore to the stairs. The automobiles, in grinding counterpoint, were getting nearer.

The four men leaped up the stairs in single file and raced through the short corridor into the darkened, rugless living room. The beams of headlights could be seen shining through the slits in the teak shutters. The first car had reached the compact parking area; the sounds of doors opening could be heard. The second vehicle roared in only seconds behind. In the corner of the room could be seen, in the strips of light, the cause for the intrusion: an open-line portable radio. Barak ran to it and with a single blow of his fist into the metal, smashed the front and then tore out the back antennae.

Men outside began shouting. Predominately one name:

“Ray
mond
!”

“
Ray
mond!”

“Raymond! Where are you at, mon!”

Floyd assumed the lead and raced to the rear center door. “This way! Quick, mon!” he whispered to the others. He yanked the door open and held it as they all gathered. McAuliff could see in the reflection of the pool’s light that Floyd held a pistol in his free hand. Floyd spoke to Barak. “I
will deflect them, mon. To the west. I know the property good, mon!”

“Be careful! You two,” said Barak to Whitehall and McAuliff. “Go straight into the woods; we’ll meet at the raft. One-half hour from now. No more. Whoever is there, leave. Pole down, mon. The Martha Brae is no good without a raft, mon.
Go!
” He shoved Alex through the door.

Outside, McAuliff started across the strangely peaceful lawn, with the blue-green light of the pool illuminating from behind. Men had raced up from the entrance drive to the sides of the house. Alex wondered if they could see him; he was running as fast as he could toward the seemingly impenetrable wall of forest beyond the sloping lawn. He gripped the oblong receptacle under his right arm.

He got his answer instantly.

The insanity had started.

Gunshots!

Bullets cracked above him; abrupt detonations spaced erratically behind him.

Men were firing pistols indiscriminately.

Oh, Jesus; he was back there again!

Long-forgotten instructions returned once more. Diagonals; make diagonals.
Short, quick spurts; but not too short. Just enough to give the enemy a half second to assume zero aim
.

He had given those instructions. To scores of men in the Che San hills.

The shouting became an overlapping chorus of hysteria; and then a single scream pierced the symphony.

McAuliff hurled himself into the air, into the sudden growth of dense foliage that bordered the lawn. He fell into a thicket and rolled to his left.

On the ground, out of sight lines, roll! Roll for all you’re worth into a second position!

Basics.

Fundamentals.

He was positive he would see men coming after him down the hill.

There weren’t.

Instead, what he saw hypnotized him, as he had been hypnotized watching the two black revolutionaries in the high grass pretending to be wild pigs.

Up by the house—to the west of it, actually—Floyd was reeling around and around, the light of the pool catching the dull green of his field jacket. He was allowing himself to be an open target, firing a pistol, pinning the police to the sides of the house. He ran out of ammunition, reached into his pocket, withdrew another gun, and started firing again—now racing to the edge of the pool, in full sacrificial view.

He had been hit. Repeatedly. Blood was spreading throughout the cloth of the field jacket and all over his trousers. The man had at least a half dozen bullets in him, ebbing away his life, leaving him only moments to live.

“McAuliff!” The whispered shout was from his right. Barak Moore, his grotesque shaved head glistening with sweat in the filtered moonlight, threw himself down beside Alex. “We get out of here, mon! Come!” He tugged at McAuliff’s drenched shirt.

“For God’s sake! Can’t you see what’s happening up there? That man’s dying!”

Barak glanced up through the tangled overgrowth. He spoke calmly. “We are committed till death. In its way, it is a luxury. Floyd knows that.”

“For
what
, for Christ’s sake? For goddamn stinking
what
? You’re goddamn madmen!”

“Let us
go
!” commanded Moore. “They will follow us in seconds. Floyd is giving us this chance, you white shit, mon!”

Alex grabbed Barak’s hand, which was still gripping his shirt, and threw it off. “That’s it, isn’t it? I’m a white shit. And Floyd has to die because you think so. And that guard had to die because Whitehall thinks so!… You’re sick.”

Barak Moore paused. “You are what you are, mon. And you will not take this island. Many, many will die, but this island will not be yours.… You will be dead, too, if you do
not run with me.” Moore suddenly stood up and ran into the forest darkness.

McAuliff looked after him, holding the black oblong box to his chest. Then he rose from the ground and followed the black revolutionary.

They waited at the water’s edge, the raft bobbing up and down in the onrushing current. They were waist deep in the river, Barak checking his wristwatch, Alex shifting his feet in the soft mud to hold the bamboo sides of the raft more firmly.

“We cannot wait much longer, mon,” said Barak. “I can hear them in the hills. They come closer!”

McAuliff could not hear anything but the sounds of the rushing river and the slapping of water against the raft. And Barak. “We can’t leave him here!”

“No choice. You want your head blown off, mon?”

“No. And it
won’t
be. We stole papers from a dead man. At his instructions. That’s no call for being shot at. Enough’s enough, goddammit!”

Barak laughed. “You have a short memory, mon! Up in the tall grass there is a dead policeman. Without doubt, Floyd took at least one other life with him; Floyd was an expert shot. Your head will be blown off; the Falmouth police will not hesitate.”

Barak Moore was right.
Where the hell was Whitehall?

“Was he shot? Do you know if he was wounded?”

“I think not, mon. I cannot be sure.… Charley-mon did not do as I told him. He ran southwest into the field.”

A single shaft of light was seen a hundred yards upstream, streaking down through the overgrown banks.

“Look!” cried Alex. Moore turned.

There was a second, then a third beam. Three dancing columns of light, wavering toward the river below.

“No time now, mon! Get in and pole fast!”