“It’s farther away than it looks,” she said. “Distance is deceptive at sea, especially in the Caribbean, where the air is so clear. We’re still a long way off.”
She was proven quite correct; it was nearly forty minutes before they were standing off the island, with the wave-shaped cliff above them and the cove they were seeking before them. Wilson had eased the throttles back until they were almost at the mercy of the waves breaking on shore; he increased their tempo enough to give him control and slowly maneuvered the boat into the gap beneath the spreading branches of the overhanging trees. The sudden shade made the cove seem extraordinarily dark after the brilliant light of the ocean and the glaring sun. Wilson brought the throttle back to neutral and let the boat drift into shore; it eased itself against one of the trees whose roots were locked beneath the water, bumped gently, and then swung slowly about, the starboard rail pressed tightly against a further stand of trees and brush. Diana tied the boat to the nearest tree and stepped back.
Wilson cut the engines. In the abrupt silence the shadowed cove suddenly seemed eerie, slightly frightening. Even the birds seemed to have suspended their activity momentarily in favor of impressing these interlopers with the full extent of their unwarranted intrusion. Almost as if they had practiced the motion in unison, the three withdrew their guns and held them prepared for any eventuality. They stared about as their eyes became accustomed to the gloom, looking at the forest on one side of the boat, and up into the leafy branches as if expecting to see McNeil poised there, ready to drop on them. Wilson finally broke the spell by tucking his gun back into his belt.
“They should hire this place out to anyone making voodoo movies,” he said. He walked to the taffrail and peered down into the water. Shadowy shapes could be faintly seen just beneath the surface. “Or to the Seaquarium for anyone who likes sharks.” He came back and looked at Da Silva. “All right, boss, we’re here. How now, brown cow?”
Da Silva laughed and put his gun away.
“A good question. I imagine that two of us go for the package and one stands guard here.” He studied the thin stretch of beach on the leeside of the boat, and the wall of forest beyond it. “The only problem is who goes and who stays?”
“You and Mr. Wilson go, of course,” Diana said. She smiled in an embarrassed manner. “I know I said I don’t believe all the superstitions about leprosy, and I don’t—”
“Only you’d prefer not to test them, is that it?” Wilson grinned.
Diana Cogswell’s smile disappeared. “We also agreed to follow McNeil’s plan, and that was what he had in mind.”
“We agreed to follow his plan,” Wilson said, “but there are limits. His plan included things like getting the stones from us and leaving us behind to face a fate worse than death. I don’t mind the fate worse than death — I imagine the sanatorium here must have some form of radio communication with Barbados and we could be picked up easily enough. But I don’t care for losing the stones after all the time we put into this thing.” He looked at her calmly. “I admit I don’t know what he has in mind, but it has to be something, and I don’t like to leave a girl alone on a boat if there’s the faintest possibility that McNeil may be in the area. He’s a nasty man.”
Diana Cogswell frowned at him.
“My dear Mr. Wilson, I have excellent hearing, and if he comes anywhere near here in a boat of any kind, including a canoe, I’ll hear him. And I’m positive he isn’t on the island. He just wouldn’t put a foot there, that’s all — not under any circumstances. Besides, even if Bill McNeil does show up, I’m quite capable of handling the situation. I’ll sit myself down in the door of the cabin where I’ll be protected on three sides; and the first thing that moves, without calling out loud and clear, is going to get shot. And accurately. Because, whether you believe it or not, I probably have a better rating on the police pistol range than either of you two.”
Da Silva smiled at her anger.
“You probably do at that. All right — we’ll go along with Mr. McNeil, at least until we have a chance not to go along with him anymore. Let’s just hope he’s not as smart as we are.”
“Which would really be downgrading the man’s intelligence,” Wilson said. “I’ll go along with the hope, though.” He walked to the prow, looked down, and then jumped to the sand. Da Silva followed him. The girl waved to them briefly; then she disappeared around the corner of the roundhouse, her gun in hand, her eye checking the cartridges in the revolver. Da Silva looked after her admiringly.
“What a woman!” he said. “What a wife she’ll make some man someday.”
“If he doesn’t look like a target on the police pistol range,” Wilson said dryly, and led the way up the slope of the beach and into the woods.
13
It was murky in the shaded woods, and slightly damp; the tall grass that interspersed the overhanging fronds of wild, untended banana plants and large breadfruit trees was slippery, almost waxen; it whipped at the men as they pushed through. Da Silva wished he had been able to bring a machete, but there had been no time to get one. He took the lead, his gun tucked away, his eyes straining to pierce the thickets for some sign of an end to the forest. And then open space was upon them without warning; they were in a wide glade, open to the blue sky and the sun, with soft turf beneath. Beyond it there appeared to be a low stand of weeds in what seemed from a distance to be a swamp; closer inspection indicated that it was a large, cultivated rice field, terraced to mount the hill. The colony had utilized the swamp, rather than draining it. The two men paused to rest a moment and then pushed on, skirting the top of the highest of the rice paddies. There was no one in sight.
Their path led them higher and higher along the lower slope of the oddly shaped mountain; in the open the sun was beginning to heat the slippery shale that seemed to make up the hill. The cliff before them blocked off any breeze; sweat poured from their faces, blinding them at times, itching. They kept on an angular course, mounting higher and higher as they cut across the face of the slope, slipping every now and then on the loose rock, and grasping roots or some fortunate outcropping of more solid stone to keep themselves from sliding ignominiously down to end up in the paddy below. Da Silva paused, scratching his cheek, looking up. The cave was easily visible, clearly identified by its opening, but still a long distance away and seemingly impossible to reach. He spoke over his shoulder.
“We should have brought rope. And pitons.”
Wilson wiped his forehead on his sleeve and stared up. He snorted.
“Pitons in this shale? Never. And about all we could do with a rope would be to hang ourselves. What we should have brought is a helicopter.” He frowned up at the wall of rock, which seemed steeper the higher they went. “I wonder how McNeil ever got there in the first place?”
“I imagine this whole slope was roots and trees at one time; when the swamp down below was cleared, the ones above probably kept sliding down. The roots couldn’t go very deep in this stuff.” Da Silva studied the terrain and then glanced back at Wilson. “There seems to be some sort of ledge about ten feet up. If you stand on my shoulders...”
“I suppose that’s as good as anything. I’ll be damned if I’ll turn back at this point.” Wilson waited while Da Silva crouched; he placed one foot on the big man’s shoulder and helped as the other straightened up, placing his palms flat against the face of the cliff and pressing downward with all his strength, taking some of the load from the straining man below him. He reached over his head, groping.