The body pitched forward, squelching as it hit the muddy path. Eason snatched up the rifle, checking it in a glance. His synaptic web ran a comparison search through its files, identifying it as a Walther fluxpump. Basically, a magnetic shotgun which fired a burst of eighty steel pellets.
The breech was fully loaded with twenty-five cartridges. Satisfied, Eason plunged back into the undergrowth, crouching low as he closed the gap on the second intruder.
The man was leaning against a tree trunk at the edge of the lawn, peering through the branches at the house. Eason stood three metres behind him, pointed the fluxpump at his legs, and fired.
Who are you?
Jesus God, you shot me! You fucking shot me. I can't feel my legs!
It was another bovine islander, same as the first. Eason shook his head in wonder, and moved the fluxpump's barrel slightly. In three seconds you won't feel your prick if you don't answer me. Now who are you?
Don't! God, I'm called Fermoy. Fermoy, OK?
Right. Well done, Fermoy. So what are you and where do you come from?
I'm a shipwright over on Boscobel.
Where's Boscobel?
An island, nine kilometres away. God, my legs!
What are you doing here, Fermoy?
We came for the man. You.
Why?
You're wanted. There must be money for you.
And you thought you'd collect?
Yes.
Who were you going to give me to, Fermoy?
Torreya.
Why her?
You were running from Kariwak. We thought she must want you. You wouldn't be running, else.
Who told you I was running?
Ross.
Eason stared down at him, teeth bared in rage. That drunken shithead. He'd been safe on Charmaine, home dry. He made an effort to calm down. When did he tell you?
This morning. We were drinking. It came out. You know what he's like.
How many of you came?
Three, just three.
So Tiarella had been right about that. And how many people on Boscobel know I'm here?
Only us.
Right. Well, thanks, I think that's covered everything.
The third bounty hunter, Whitley, was easy to find. He lay, strangely motionless, in the centre of a broad circle of mangled undergrowth. Eason took a couple of cautious steps towards him, fluxpump held ready.
A vivid lightning bolt sizzled overhead.
Whitley was wrapped from his neck downwards in what looked like a spiral of tubing, thirty centimetres thick, jet black, glistening slickly. He was gurgling weakly, drooling blood. Eason squinted forward, every nerve shrieking in protest, and switched his retinal amps to infra-red. The coil of tubing glowed pale crimson, a length of it meandered through the broken grass.
Jesus!
The snake's head reared up right in front of him. It was a demonic streamlined arrowhead seventy centimetres long, the jaw open to show fangs the size of fingers. A blood-red tongue as thick as his forearm shot out, vibrating eagerly.
Training or not, Eason lurched back in terror.
Solange won't hurt you, Tiarella shouted above the storm. He's affinity-bonded to me.
She was standing behind him, her rain-soaked nightshirt clinging like a layer of blue skin.
That thing is yours?
Solange? Yes. He's another of my father's designs. But I'm not sure he was supposed to grow this big. He does eat rather a lot of firedrakes, you see.
The real horror was the lightness of her tone. So matter-of-fact. Crazy bitch!
Eason took another couple of steps back. The snake had been on the island the whole time. She could have set it on him whenever she wanted and he would never have known. Not until the very last instant when it came rustling out of the thick concealing undergrowth.
Do you want to question this one? Tiarella asked, gesturing at Whitley.
No.
Her eyes fluttered shut.
Whitley started screaming again as the coils round him flexed sinuously. The sound was swallowed up by the crack of snapping bones, a sickeningly wet squelching. Eason looked away, jaw clenched.
I'll take their boat out and scuttle it, Tiarella said. Everyone will think the storm capsized them. You can bury the bodies. Somewhere where Althaea won't find them, please.
•••
She asked me how old I thought you were, Rousseau slurred, then burped. I said thirty, thirty-five. Around there.
Thanks a lot, Eason said. He was sitting with the old man, their backs against a fallen tree trunk on the lagoon's beach as the gloaming closed in. A bottle of Rousseau's dreadful home-brew spirits had been passed to and fro for over an hour. Eason wasn't drinking any more, though he made it look like he was.
You're a good man. I see that. But Althaea, I love her. The two of you together, it's not right. Who knows how long you're gonna stay, eh? These people, your enemies, they could find you. Even here.
Right.
She would cry if you left her. She would cry more if you were taken away from her. You understand? I couldn't stand to see her cry. Not my little Althaea.
Of course. Don't worry. I like Tiarella.
Ha! He coughed heavily. That's a mistake, too, my friend. She's a harsh, cold woman, that Tiarella. Cracked up completely after her Vanstone died. Never shown a single emotion since, not one. She won't be interested in you.
Eason grunted his interest and passed the bottle back. A sheet of low cloud hid the stars and moons. Balmy warmth and serenity were a profound contrast to the storm of the previous night. She loves Althaea, that's an emotion.
Rousseau took a long swig, his eyelids drooping. Crap. Loves nobody else, not even her own children. He took another swig, the liquid running down his stubble. Gave one away. Said she couldn't afford to keep it here. I pleaded, but she wouldn't listen. Damn ice woman. Never thanks me for what I do, you know. Kept Charmaine going, I have. All for my little Althaea, not her. He started to slide over, the bottle slipping from his fingers.
Eason put out a hand to steady him. Gave one what away?
Rousseau only mumbled, saliva bubbling from his mouth. His eyes had closed.
Gave what away? Eason shook him.
Twins. She had twins, Rousseau sighed. Beautiful twins. Then every muscle went limp; he sprawled on the sand as Eason let go.
Eason looked at him for a long moment. Pathetic and utterly harmless. But he was a liability.
He scanned his retinal amps round the edge of the lagoon, searching for the tell-tale rosy glow that would reveal Solange watching him. All he could see was the black and grey of the tangled trees.
Rousseau was so drunk he didn't even react to having his head immersed in the water. Eason held him under for two minutes, then waded out and started to sweep away the incriminating tracks in the sand.
•••
They held the funeral two days later. A dozen people attended from the neighbouring islands, staid men and women in sturdy clothes gathered round the grave. Althaea leant against her mother the whole time, sobbing softly. The ceremony was conducted by Lucius, a forty-year-old deacon from Tropicana's Orthodox Church, an archipelago-based sect which had split from the Unified Christian Church a century and a half earlier. He was a broad-shouldered, powerful man who captained the Anneka , one of the Church's traders.
Along with three men from the islands, Eason lowered the coffin he had built into the hole while Lucius led the singing of a hymn. The coffin came to rest on a bedrock of coral one and a half metres down.
After the mourners departed, Eason shovelled the rich loam back in, two of the men helping him. Nobody questioned his presence. He was the new labourer Tiarella had taken on, that was enough for them.