Dave shook his head from side to side. "We might be able to get all of us out of this alive if you think you can swim?"
"I can swim."
"You remember Family Beach? Over next to the small reef?" I nodded. "We'll help you get into the water below the lighthouse. Swim around the north end of the point. There's a dinghy there. Get under it and stay until dark, then row up to Lynyard Cay. You remember B.J., the FedEx pilot? Go to his house, it's the green one. Hold up there until I can figure out the rest." His face had the look of a smile, though he was not smiling. It was the quiet look of victory, the look of a man's pride in the price he paid, and that which made it worth paying.
"I can handle that."
"It'll be rough rowing until you get past the Bight of Old Robinson. Abeam Bridges Cay, you should be okay. The key to B.J.'s house is in the pelican-shaped flowerpot next to the front door. Good luck, Jay. I've got to shoot you, now, and dig your grave. Hang tough, old son."
"I'll do my best. And Dave…thanks."
"Yes…" He looked off across the blue ocean toward Africa as if at some sight that he had studied for years, but which had remained unchanged and unsolved, his face with an odd, questioning look of an uncertain outcome.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Dave and Will helped me down the sharp coral ledge to the water's edge. The lighthouse, where the Johnston's kept their pigs, was on the highest point of the island. The view was spectacular. To the east was the vast Atlantic Ocean. Southward stretched other cays, all the way to the end of Abaco Island at a desolate place called Land's End. To the north, the tiny cays lay like pearls dropped at random by a playful child. Seaward we were surrounded by bluish-purple ocean. Leeward by green, turquoise, and sparkling clear water.
The mainland of Abaco lay a mile to the west. It is situated roughly in a north-south line a hundred and twenty-five miles in length, and shaped like a dogleg.
There was no sand beach where I was entering the water, only hard coral washed razor-sharp by millions of years of pounding surf. The wave action carved out a huge cave and fish of every species swam in and out with each surge of the sea.
We waited until a swell rose slowly up the coral. Then, with careful timing, Dave and Will eased me into the water. The sharp coral sliced deeper cuts into my feet, but there was nothing to be done about it.
Entering on the ocean side, the only thing between Africa and me was three thousand miles of open water and sharks. It was about a mile swim to round the point, then another mile after crossing the bar to Family Beach.
Two shots rang out from Dave's magnum and echoed like claps of thunder. He had just killed me. It was an eerie feeling to know that the bullets, but for a small stroke of luck, would have terminated my life. I hoped Dave could get away with the ruse, as it wouldn't be healthy for him if he were caught faking my death.
The water felt cool, and the salt stung my cuts. Thank God the sea was calm. If a 'Rage,' the Bahamian word for a heavy storm surge, were running it would be impossible for anyone to swim on the ocean side of Johnston's Harbor. The surf can rise to twenty feet and crashes directly on the sharp coral. This creates an undertow of immense proportions.
Swimming easy, I wanted to conserve all my strength and tried not to think about sharks. A few weighing over a thousand pounds had been taken in these waters.
Nearing the point, I started across the bar and noticed the water began to shallow. Looking down, I could see the white sand bottom and the multi-colored coral on the reef. There were fish of all kinds, but this wasn't a snorkeling expedition, it was a swim for my life.
Pacing myself with slow, easy strokes, I let my muscles stretch and relax. The cuts on my feet no longer burned. Floating for a moment, I rested and looked at the wounds. The salt water washed them clean, and the bleeding stopped. Loose skin around the cuts turned a ghostly white, like a dead person's. Maybe the sharks wouldn't come.
The water refreshed me. My head was continuing to clear, the pounding easing. The rhythmic movement of the sea, the gentle rising and falling of the swells, and pull of the current, made me think of returning to the womb. Was this the way a drowning person felt? If so, it wouldn't be so horrible.
Above, the puffball cumulus clouds drifted slowly under a clear, aqua sky. Man-O-War birds soared effortlessly high up in the cirrus. A lone jetliner left a disappearing contrail on its journey eastward.
Crossing the bar, I turned south toward the small beach. The rhythm of the water stopped, blocked by land. Floating for a while to regain strength, I watched two small barracuda follow me. When I stopped, they would stop. Small fish swam close up under me, like I was a protector for them.
The barracuda did not worry me. As a general rule, even big ones over six feet, are not known to attack humans except on rare occasions.
Family Beach is a hundred yards of perfect white sand located on an indentation in the land to the north and just outside the entrance to Johnston's Harbor. Completely isolated from the rest of the harbor, it is surrounded by Casuarina pines, palm trees, and palmetto bushes. The dinghy Dave said would be there was pulled up on the sand and turned upside down. Getting under it would be easy, keeping my sanity until dark would not.
Staying close to the shore, I scanned carefully along the beach for signs of movement. Hoping it safe, I eased out of the water and tried to crawl so my tracks would not appear made by a human. One gets quite a different perspective when crawling on his belly.
Easing under the dinghy, I tried to settle in as comfortably as possible. The sand was soft and I sank into its coolness. Sand fleas and flies didn't take long to find me. The struggle began to not let myself feel anything, to think only of what has to be endured to survive. To be discovered now would ensure Dave's death.
A tense, quiet eagerness of emotion came over me. What I said to myself consciously was: you must do this. For no reason that I can think of a Willie Nelson tune, The Redheaded Stranger, began to play in my head, and shocked me when I found my feet tapping in rhythm on the side of the dinghy.
After what seemed like eternity, to my horror, I heard talking. Two Bahamian men were close. They came over and sat on the dinghy. They were drinking from a bottle, and I could smell the rum.
One of them muttered, "Mon, that white fellow, he a bad one. Seemed like he loved to shoot that peeper. You see that smile on his face when he said he blowed his head off with that big gun? Said it popped like a muskmelon. Exploded into a hundred bits."
"Yeah, I don't like that Mon. He crazy."
"You see that bone he had in his mouth? Said it was part of the skull of the peeper. Said he loved to suck on the skull bone of the people he killed. Made him feel strong."
"Yeah, he crazy, Mon."
"You see that sneer and that wild look in them eyes? That Mon crazy, all right. I be glad when this deal is over with. I want to get back to Marsh Harbor. All these folks is too mean for me. Gimme that bottle."
"We supposed to go out tonight and pass the powder around up at Treasure Cay. Then we be through and we can get our money. I'll be glad when it's over, too. Let me have that rum."
They stayed for about an hour getting drunk, replacing their fear with alcohol. One of them stood and urinated up by the bow. The loose sand quickly absorbed the steamy liquid, but the pungent odor of uric acid seeped under the boat, making me gag.
Maybe it took the booze to give them courage to play with the Snowpowder boys. Most people who get involved with the dope business do not like the violence associated with it. The power of big money and stupidity causes humans to do insane things to their own kind. This is probably the case with Will Strange. A young, reckless kid, who saw a little easy money, but didn't look far enough to see the horror. Now he wanted out, and Dave was paying a dangerous debt to the father to keep him alive and get him away from these vicious people.