Читать книгу Manchineel - John Ballem - Страница 6

The Grenadines stretched to the southern horizon in a long, graceful arc, a necklace of jewel-like islands adrift on a turquoise sea. At four thousand feet, the Cessna 180 was well below the white cumulus clouds that dotted the Caribbean sky. St. Vincent was coming up on the port wing and Skye MacLeod eased back on the throttle. Bequia passed beneath him and he altered course slightly to line up with Manchineel, the distinctive hump of its Mount Morne still blue in the distance. The airstrip was directly beneath Mount Morne which, although it was more of a hill than a mountain, was still high enough for the winds to create a dangerous lee-wave turbulence as they flowed over it. The 2,500-foot runway terminated abruptly at the edge of a small cliff that dropped straight into the sea. The Caribbean is notorious for its dicey landing strips and Manchineel had the reputation among pilots of being the diciest of all of them.

It was time to make contact with the airport. “Manchineel radio, this is November 115 Charlie. Position report, 20 out at 3,500 feet. Transponder squawking at 1,200. Landing at Manchineel. Request advisory.”

“Welcome home, November 115 Charlie.” Skye recognized the warm Caribbean accent of Henry Armbruster, the manager of Manchineel Air who doubled as the flight service operator. “Active runway 07, winds 130 degrees at 20, gusting to 30.”

Gusting to 30. Jesus Christ. The Cessna 180 was a high wing monoplane and very susceptible to crosswinds. Closing in on the northwest tip of the elongated, amoeba-shaped island, and dropping the vintage Cessna lower, Skye saw the figure of a man kneeling beside what appeared to be three bodies lying on the sand. It looked like there had been a multiple drowning. The man looked up and waved as Skye banked for another look. With the wind throwing his airplane around, he didn’t dare fly low enough to see who it was. He raised Armbruster again to ask what was going on. “Shark attack,” was the answer. “Bodies washed up on the beach. Haitian refugees most likely. Some kid found them about a half hour ago. We’re trying to keep a lid on it until we know more about it. Look, Skye, the wind velocity is increasing. You better bring her in.”

“Roger.” Skye gained altitude and headed for the airstrip. Landing the airplane in wind conditions like this required all his attention. He overflew the airstrip midfield at 1,500 feet. When he first started to take flying lessons, he wondered why anyone would fly directly over the field until an instructor pointed out that when other airplanes were taking off or landing, they used the ends of the runway, not the middle. On the downward leg, he dropped to one thousand feet. Up ahead the wind was really tossing the palm trees around on the top of Mount Morne. Armbruster had been right, the wind was stronger than 30 knots. He put on 10 degrees of flap. It would increase the airplane’s vulnerability to wind gusts but the short runway gave him no choice.

Over the water, he turned onto his final approach. The wind was playing havoc with the windsurfers in Maggins Bay, their rainbow-coloured sails lying flat on the water. As the Cessna 180 swept over Mount Morne, its wheels almost touched the tops of the towering coconut palms. Grazing goats didn’t even bother to look up as its shadow passed over them. As soon as he had the runway made, Skye retarded the throttle, but still kept some power on and held the 180’s nose down to prevent a stall. The wind buffeted the airplane, tossing it up, down and sideways. Skye dipped a wing and crabbed into the wind to stay lined up with the runway. Over the runway numbers he pulled the nose up. A stronger gust broadsided the Cessna as the wheels touched, pushing it toward the verge of the narrow runway. Skye applied power and the nimble 180 lifted off the ground, then immediately bounced back into the air. Skye held the control column as far back as it would go and the 180 touched down once more. But he couldn’t keep her on the ground. The wind was too strong, and she bounced once again, although this time only a few feet in the air. The bounces were using up too much precious runway, and as soon as she touched down again Skye rode the brakes, praying that he could bring her to a stop before they ended up in the drink. It was too late to abort the landing and take off again. Skye expelled a pent-up breath as the 180 slowed to a stop just short of the end of the runway. As he had so often in the past, he blessed the short landing capability of the ancient tail dragger. She wasn’t officially listed as a STOL airplane but she could handle short runways with the best of them.

Skye could feel the sweat trickling down his ribcage. He tried to persuade himself it was simply because of the heat that quickly invaded the cabin now that he was on the ground. Propping the door open, he taxied back to the small, thatched-roof building that served as both an open air passenger terminal and customs and immigration.

“I should charge you four landing fees for that one.” Henry Armbruster was smiling; but his large, blotchy freckles stood out more than usual. He was from Bequia, where many of the people were of mixed race, and he had lightly pigmented skin.

“It was more of a controlled crash than a landing,” Skye agreed ruefully as he jumped down onto the tarmac. “But I’ll take it.”

The airport manager nodded. When conditions were almost outside the envelope, the wise pilot didn’t try to paint his airplane onto the runway, he was content to get it on the ground without bending it. “Andy Foster needed three tries before he made it,” he told Skye. “Lord and Lady Fraser chartered the 421 to fly over from Barbados. His Lordship kissed the ground soon as he got out and she swore they’d charter a boat to go back. I had to help her walk to the terminal.”

“The Frasers will get over it,” he assured Armbruster. “A few stiff whiskies and Lord Fraser will be dining out on it.” Skye was considerably cheered by this news. Foster was a commercial pilot with Manchineel Air. He flew in and out of the strip every day; and the twin-engine 421 was a lot more airplane than the 180. “Tell me about this shark attack.”

“There’s not much more to tell. All I know is what I’ve been told over the radio. Kids. Teenagers. Pretty well gutted.”

“I haven’t heard of shark attacks in these waters.”

“Probably happened well north of here.”

Skye walked over to where Overfine waited on the tarmac to help with the luggage. “It’s been a long time, Overfine,” said Skye as he shook his servant warmly by the hand.

“Too long, Mister Skye,” Overfine replied, a hint of reproach in his voice. Lifting two large soft-sided suitcases out of the luggage compartment, he placed them on the tarmac. He started to reach for a small black plastic case further back in the compartment, then withdrew his hand. Staring at Skye with a look of almost superstitious dread, Overfine asked, “Be that Mistress Jocelyn?”

“Yes. It’s okay. I understand your feelings. It’s best I handle her remains, anyway.” Skye reached in and picked up the black case with both hands.

Jason Carmichael was on duty behind the customs and immigration desk and Skye knew he was in for the full treatment. Jason took himself and his responsibilities very seriously and insisted on going by the book, despite pleas from the Manchineel Company that this was no way to welcome the rich and famous to the island. Skye had been coming to Manchineel for six years, but it was as if Jason had never seen him before. He peered suspiciously back and forth between Skye and his passport photo before stamping the passport with a loud thump. Overfine, who knew the drill, had already opened Skye’s suitcases for inspection. Jason sifted through them with expert thoroughness, held up the two bottles of vodka, glared accusingly at Skye before putting them back and nodding to Overfine to close the cases. When Skye placed the small plastic case on the table, Jason glared suspiciously at it and demanded to know what was in it.

“My wife’s ashes,” Skye replied evenly.

Jason recoiled, crossed himself, and waved Skye through.

Toting the suitcases, Overfine led the way to a Land Rover in the airport parking lot. Like all the other Land Rovers on the island, this one was Brazilian-made. It was ideal for coping with the steep and winding tracks that passed for roads on the island. In any event, the Manchineel Company, having struck a favourable deal with the Brazilian manufacturer, had decreed that it was the only passenger vehicle that would be allowed on the island. The edict also specified that all of them were to be painted white. Henry Ford in reverse. Although technically they were Land Rovers, they were never called anything but jeeps. A green tree frog painted on the doors and the hood identified Overfine’s vehicle as belonging to Skye’s rambling villa, the Whistling Frog.

Adrienne Jones, “the lady who fished for the hotel,” as she described herself, was walking up the road from the sea wall, balancing a basket of sea urchins on her head. Skye had been aimlessly thumbing through a dictionary of first names one day and had been struck by the aptness of her name. Adrienne’s brown eyes had blazed with excitement when he told her that her name meant “woman of the sea.” It confirmed her own belief that she was a special person. She was wearing a black one-piece bathing suit that so closely matched her skin that from a distance her taut, shapely body appeared to be nude. Skye hastily stowed the black case in the back of the jeep where it was out of sight. It was common knowledge that Adrienne was a mambo, a high priestess of voodoo who presided over the ceremonies when the drums began to beat in the native village. As she drew closer, Skye could see that she was visibly excited. Omitting any words of welcome, she demanded, “Hear about the bodies?”

Skye nodded. “I saw them on my way in.”

“I want you to take Adrienne there.”

The peremptory request didn’t surprise Skye. He and Adrienne had developed a sort of working relationship in that he sometimes did favours for her in return for her letting him observe the voodoo rites over which she presided. Their friendship had been cemented four years ago with the incident of her only daughter’s almost fatal appendicitis attack. Penelope had come down with an attack of acute appendicitis that Adrienne—sure that she could cure it with white magic—had let go far too long. A panic-stricken Adrienne had finally asked Skye for help. He and Jocelyn had immediately flown the adolescent girl and her distraught mother to Barbados where an ambulance waited to rush Penelope to the hospital. They operated immediately and the surgeon said that the appendix had started to leak and would have perforated within the hour. Two weeks later, when Penelope was fully recovered, Skye had ventured to reprove Adrienne for relying on her magic and having put her only child at risk.

“You was my white magic,” she retorted.

“I will be happy to take you there, Adrienne. I was intending to go there myself. But what about your catch?”

“We drop it by the hotel on the way.”

“Let me put it in the back. The guests at the hotel will dine well tonight,” Skye said as he took the heavy basket from her and placed it in the rear of the jeep, rearranging the suitcases to hide the black case. She jumped nimbly over the tailgate and sat on the bench seat, her wet bathing suit leaving a mark on the plastic cover.

Catching Skye looking at her, Adrienne smiled wickedly up at him and slid a strap off one smooth shoulder. “Adrienne miss you, Skye. You stay away too long.”

“I missed you too, Adrienne.”

Besotted with his beautiful wife, Skye had managed to ignore Adrienne’s blatant sexuality and tempting body. But with Jocelyn gone.... He brushed the thought aside and climbed into the driver’s seat.

The road from the airstrip passed directly in front of the one-storey office building of the Manchineel Company. The Company ran the island with an iron hand. Everything was directed toward protecting the privacy of those holidaying on the island and preventing the outside world from intruding. To achieve that end, no cruise ships were allowed to call, private yachts had to receive special permission to anchor, and supply boats had to be on their way within four hours of docking.

Like many Caribbean islands, Manchineel suffered from a chronic water shortage. The landscape Skye gazed upon with such affection was mostly brown grass interspersed with clumps of coconut palms, banana trees, and a magnificent poinciana, whose bare branches would be laden with brilliant red flowers at the end of the dry season. Down by the beach manchineel trees grew, from which the island took its name. The manchineels produced a green fruit resembling an apple that was extremely poisonous, as were its leaves and its milky sap. The Company had posted signs warning of the dangers of the tree and painted red rings around the trunks to identify them.

Overfine brought the Land Rover to a halt at the Sugar Mill, a converted stone warehouse that was now a small but luxurious and very expensive hotel. Penelope, who worked there as a waitress, came out to greet Skye and take the basket of sea urchins from Adrienne. In the two years since he had last seen her, her budding beauty had more than fulfilled its promise. That much-maligned word “nubile” was the only one Skye could think of to describe her slender, long-waisted figure.

“She’s beautiful, Adrienne,” said Skye as they drove away from the hotel towards the site of the accident.

Adrienne sniffed. “She think she too big for this island.” Normally Adrienne spoke fairly grammatical English, but when she was upset, it fell apart. Among her own people, she spoke the patois that only those born and raised in the islands could understand.

Skye pulled in beside a jeep and a bicycle parked on the edge of a small cliff overlooking the beach. The jeep had a small red cross painted on the side. That was the medical clinic’s vehicle, fitted out as an ambulance. But there was nothing that Manchineel’s resident physician, Sir George Glessop, could do for the bodies splayed out on the sand. Sir George rose to his feet, dusted the sand from his tropical slacks, and came forward to intercept the little group. His eyes behind round pebble glasses were concerned, and his face was red and perspiring. He held up his latex-gloved hands as if to explain why he couldn’t shake hands with Skye.

“I wouldn’t come any closer,” he said. “It’s quite ghastly.”

“I think the damage has been done already,” Skye replied, looking past the doctor’s portly figure. He gagged as the cloying smell of putrefied flesh reached them. Overfine abruptly turned aside and was violently sick in the eelgrass growing at the foot of the cliff.

True to form, Adrienne, black mambo eyes glowing with excitement, brushed past Sir George and walked over to where the bodies were splayed out on the sand and squatted beside them.

Sir George stood aside, muttering, “Well, I did my best to warn you.” He fell into step beside Skye. “Welcome back, Skye. It’s good to have you back on the island.” Skye, struggling to hold back the gorge rising in his throat, nodded his thanks. Up close, he smelt the usual mixture of whisky and peppermint on the surgeon’s breath.

The three bodies were little more than skeletons, and two were missing a leg. Looking down at them, Sir George said, “They must have gotten hung up on the reef. The crabs have almost stripped them clean. But the sharks got them first. Look at this.” He pointed to a serrated wound on a strip of flesh that still clung to the chest of one of the bodies. “She’s a female,” he added, “although you might not know it at first.”

Skye nodded mutely. The initial shock had passed and he could look at the mutilated remains without revulsion. He leaned over to inspect the wound that Sir George was pointing out. Straightening up, he asked, “Where’s Edwina? Is she still with the clinic?”

“Of course she is. I couldn’t function without her invaluable assistance.” That was true enough, thought Skye as Sir George continued, “Today is her day off, and she flew down to Grenada to see some relatives.” Calling out to the policewoman who had been standing guard on top of the cliff, he said, “There’s nothing more to be done here, Constable. If you agree, we should remove the bodies.”

Constable Phillips came down to join them. As always, she eyed Adrienne with suspicion. She said she would contact Mr. Armbruster once more and he would kindly radio the message to the authorities in Kingstown.

“There’s a body bag in the ambulance,” said Sir George. “Unfortunately, I only have one, but it should hold what’s left of this lot.”

“I’ll get it, Sir George.” Overfine, eager to make amends for what he thought had been a display of weakness, volunteered.

Sir George smiled approvingly, handed him the keys and told him where to find the body bag.

There was no way the portly, sixtyish doctor could handle the cadavers by himself. Swallowing hard, Skye took hold of the largest one, supporting the shoulder blades with one hand and holding the skull with the other. Walking backwards, gripping the pelvis and the one remaining leg, Sir George tripped and fell down on the sand. Wordlessly, Overfine took his place. As he and Overfine were laying the smallest cadaver on top of the other two, Skye bent down for a closer look. A pale white piece of gristle was still attached to the rear of the ribcage. Beckoning Sir George over, he said, “Look at that cut. That doesn’t look like a shark bite to me.”

The surgeon smiled patiently. “I can see why you might think that, Skye. It does look like a sharp and clean line. But no, I wouldn’t say surgical incision. I know them well, as you know.”

There was a bad moment when the body bag refused to close. “Press down on them a bit,” said Sir George. “If need be, I can sort them out later.”

The body bag had handles and Constable Phillips helped them carry it up to the ambulance. It was disturbingly light.

“You will keep the remains under lock and key, Sir George?” said Constable Phillips with a meaningful glance at Adrienne.

“Of course. When will the authorities collect them?”

“In the morning.”

“We better go back down and wash our hands off in the sea,” Skye said to Overfine.

“I can do better than that.” Sir George reached into his medical bag and took out a plastic vial. “Use this. It’s a mild disinfectant. That was quite a homecoming, Skye,” he went on as the three of them rubbed the disinfectant on their hands. “I’m very grateful to you and Overfine.”

“This is bound to keep people from swimming in the ocean. They’ll be thinking of Jaws all over again.”

“Not after I put out the word that the attack took place hundreds of miles from here. Most likely between Haiti and the U.S. mainland. There’s no cause for alarm.”

Word about the bodies that had washed ashore spread. As the little cavalcade of jeeps with its gruesome cargo drove away from the beach, they encountered jeeps coming in the opposite direction. “They’re too late,” Skye said to Overfine. When they dropped Adrienne off at the hotel, guests were clustered on the front lawn, talking excitedly among themselves.

As usual, a smooth-billed ani was perched on the stone wall by the school. Skye smiled as he remembered how thrilled Jocelyn had been when she finally identified the strange-looking bird with its glossy black plumage and large, parrot-like beak. She had refused to let him tell her what it was, insisting on tracking it down herself. The two ladies who ran the vegetable stand under a huge, fern-like jacaranda tree were doing a brisk business and Overfine frowned in concentration as he steered around the parked vehicles. Traffic on the island drove on the left in the English fashion, although all the jeeps were left-hand drive, which made things a little awkward. Most of the shoppers were staff from the villas; some of them wore T-shirts bearing the name of the villas they worked for. Overfine had once hinted that he wouldn’t mind wearing a T-shirt like that, but neither Skye nor Jocelyn had cared for the idea. Instead, Jocelyn designed a neat little logo of a green frog. Overfine wore it on his shirts with great pride.

“How were the last guests? The ones who just left,” asked Skye. Like most villa owners, he rented out Whistling Frog during the tourist season when he was not in residence himself. Whistling Frog, which was one of the smaller villas, was also one of the most popular, and rented for more money in a week than a New York apartment in a month. That meant Skye could own and run the villa virtually free of cost. For the past two years, Whistling Frog had been rented out for the entire season.

“They be good tippers,” Overfine muttered, his tone making it clear that that was the only thing that could be said in their favour. “You know they be two men?” he asked as he geared down for the road that led up to the large villas perched high in the hills. Whistling Frog was about a third of the way up. It overlooked the airstrip, a feature that had done much to sell Skye on it.

Skye shook his head. “I had no idea. The Company looks after renting the place. My God,” he exclaimed as he suddenly thought of Agatha, his fanatically religious cook. “How did Agatha take it?”

“She very vexed. She make them sleep in different rooms.”

“The hell she did!” Skye grinned to himself; he could picture the formidable Agatha terrorizing the two hapless guests into doing what she thought was proper. As they approached the island’s riding stable, he asked Overfine to pull up. Elizabeth Mallory, who managed the stable on behalf of the Manchineel Company, was watching as her groom, a Rastafarian complete with wool cap and dreadlocks, led a small group of inexperienced riders out through the gate. Her full breasts moved underneath her thin cotton shirt as she dogtrotted across the paddock to greet Skye. Elizabeth was a small, blond Englishwoman with a slender waist and astonishing breasts. Skye sometimes wondered if they had been augmented. Augmented or not, he was acutely conscious of them as she gave him a welcoming hug. “It’s so good to have you back,” she said a little breathlessly. “I was beginning to think we had lost you.”

Skye gave her a reassuring squeeze, but said nothing. He didn’t know the answer to that himself. Not yet. He dropped his arms and she stepped back. Looking at her, he was struck anew by the flattened bridge of her nose. It gave her otherwise attractive face the look of a boxer who has absorbed too many blows. It could have been a riding accident, but more likely it was a memento from her succession of ill-chosen lovers. Elizabeth was an expert sailor and a superb horsewoman, but she was loosely wrapped when it came to men.

Smiling up at him, she said, “I’ve got a new horse who is perfect for you. I just brought him over from Barbados. He’s an ex-race horse but he’s got lovely manners.”

“Great. I’ll try him out the first chance I get.”

“Skye.” She looked up at him. “I want you to know how sorry I am about Jocelyn. Everybody is. She was awfully well-liked on the island.”

“Thank you. And she loved it here.”

Wrinkling her nose, the stable manager said, “What’s that hospital smell? Did you have a fall?” Skye knew she meant over a jump.

“Nothing like that,” he said and told her about the bodies, emphasizing that the attack had taken place hundreds of miles away. Then assuring, her that he would come around in the next few days to try out the new horse, he climbed back into the jeep.

Agatha and the new housemaid, who had been hired since Skye was last here, had heard the jeep grinding in low gear up the driveway and were waiting, in freshly pressed and starched uniforms, outside the front door to greet the “master.” It was a bit too baronial for Skye’s taste, but that was how things were done on the island. It was the first time he had arrived at the villa alone, without Jocelyn. Agatha’s eyes studied Skye as he took both her hands in his. Satisfied, she pronounced, “You look good in de face.”

Myra, the housemaid, dropped a little curtsy and shyly welcomed Skye home. With Agatha leading the way and Overfine bringing up the rear with the luggage, Skye was ceremoniously ushered into the villa, fragrant with oleander blossoms.

Like most villas on Manchineel, Whistling Frog was built out of the local coral stone. Jocelyn had the pale stone painted a cool yellow, except for the corners where alternate stone blocks had been left unpainted to provide contrast. The roof line consisted of a series of individual tiled roofs over each section of the villa, creating an attractive tented effect. Like the servants’ quarters, the master bedroom suite stood apart in its own separate building. While Overfine unpacked the suitcases and hung Skye’s clothes in the closets, Skye went back to the jeep to retrieve the black case that held the bronze urn containing Jocelyn’s ashes. He waited until he saw Overfine leaving the bedroom suite with the empty suitcases. As soon as Overfine was safely out of sight in the main building, Skye cut across the lawn and entered his bedroom. With reverent care, he placed the plastic case on the top shelf of a closet.

The staff had taken all the things he kept there—lightweight tropical shorts and shirts, riding clothes and boots, scuba equipment, and other personal items necessary for island life—out of storage and put them in the closets. He had left instructions that Jocelyn’s belongings were to be distributed where there was the greatest need for them. But not on Manchineel. He didn’t want to encounter someone wearing one of the outfits she wore with such casual elegance. Skye waited for the sudden stab of longing to subside before stepping out of his clothes and walking over to a closet for his bathing suit. As he opened the door he saw himself reflected in the floor-length mirror. He paused for a moment to take stock. At thirty-eight, his hair was still thick and brownish-red. Jocelyn had loved to run her hands through it. His six-foot-one frame was lean and toned. He could probably thank the horses for that. The face that looked back at him was Hollywood handsome. He would have to be blind not to be aware of the burning second looks many women gave him. Jocelyn, who attracted more than her share of second looks herself, had taken it in stride. Turning away from the mirror, he pulled on his swimsuit and stepped out onto the lawn.

The stubbly grass was rough on his bare feet as he headed for the pool. Another week and he wouldn’t notice it. Myra came out of the villa to intercept him and give him a note that had just arrived from Star Spray.

Louella Harper owned Star Spray and her note welcomed Skye back to Manchineel and invited him to a party she was giving at Casuarina Bay that night. “Sevenish” was the appointed time. The “sevenish” made Skye smile. Louella had been born and raised in Iowa and had lived all her adult, married life in Grosse Pointe, Michigan. She had been left a wealthy widow when her workaholic husband, a top executive at Ford, dropped dead from a heart attack in his office. The year before his death they had purchased Star Spray, and Louella spent six months of every year there. Except for last year when failing kidneys made her a slave to the dialysis machine and she had to remain at home. Consciously or otherwise, she had adopted some of the mannerisms and speech patterns of the English aristocrats who flocked to Manchineel every winter. It didn’t quite come off, but nobody minded. Everybody liked Louella. Besides, she threw great parties.

Skye frowned slightly as he read the postscript. “Princess Helen has graciously consented to attend.” So “The Highness,” as Princess Helen was invariably referred to, was in residence. The easy-going ambience of the island was always a little diminished when the Royal Flight arrived. Security officers from Scotland Yard lurked about—Skye wondered if Inspector Foxcroft was still in charge of the security detail—one of the best swimming beaches was cordoned off, and a certain protocol was imposed on the casually elegant social events that were so much a part of the island lifestyle. Weighting the note down on a table with a chunk of coral, Skye dove into the pool. Twenty brisk laps later, he hoisted himself onto a submerged concrete seat and smiled at the whistling frog painted on the end wall of the pool. Although the island was semi-arid, the pool overlooked a sea of green—rows of palm trees, their fronds rustling and tossing in the wind like the manes of spirited horses. Skye’s smile faded at the memory of the eviscerated remains of the three young people.