Читать книгу Manchineel - John Ballem - Страница 9

God, the thought of his Jocelyn being made a part of that obscene ritual! Skye examined the outside of the case. It was unmarked. He twirled the dial of the combination lock that wouldn’t have lasted thirty seconds against someone with a hammer, and lifted the cover. The bronze urn rested in its bed of styrofoam. Skye took a deep breath and unscrewed the top of the urn. The grey-white ash and bits of bone were undisturbed. As always, he winced at the sight of some of her teeth mixed in with the ashes. But the important thing was that her remains had not been tampered with. He had not failed her completely. What would they have done if he had not intervened? What devilish purpose did they have in mind for the urn and its contents? Skye shuddered and pushed the thought away.

In its place came memories of the traumatic days after the accident on the ski slope. Unconscious, Jocelyn had been flown to Calgary in a helicopter ambulance and placed on a life-support system in the intensive care ward. At first, he had refused to admit the possibility that she would not recover. It was not until an intensive care doctor asked if he would like a pastoral visit that he began to face up to the awful possibility. Skye had been indignant when the doctor said that he was not the one in charge of Jocelyn’s case and thought of demanding to speak to the specialist who was treating her. Before he could say anything, however, he was informed that the specialist who was treating Jocelyn had a policy of never being in direct contact with the relatives of his patients.

Jocelyn’s widowed father, a retired physician, flew in from Scottsdale and was greeted warmly by the intensive care staff. Here was a fellow professional who would understand the situation and the decision that had to be made. Dr. Lewis listened gravely as the neurosurgeon showed them the CAT scan of Jocelyn’s brain, explaining that she had suffered a severe brain trauma. Skye had to swallow hard when the neurosurgeon, sympathetically but clinically, went on to say that her brain had swollen, closing the reservoir of spinal fluid. When he said there was no evidence of spinal fluid in her brain, and the monitor showed no sign of brain activity, Jocelyn’s father looked at Skye and sadly shook his head.

“We have to let her go, son,” he had said when the two of them were alone. “She’s brain dead, and you and I know she could never stand to exist like that.”

Unable to speak, Skye had nodded silent agreement.

Both Jocelyn and Skye had signed organ donor consents. It had been her idea. After reading some material put out by HOPE—the Human Organ Procurement and Exchange organization—she had said, “Skye, we’re both healthy and we lead kind of a high-risk lifestyle, with the airplane and horses.” Ironically, she hadn’t mentioned skiing. They signed the forms on the back of their driver’s licences that same afternoon.

She was kept alive for another forty-eight hours so that a team from Harvard could fly in to retrieve her heart. The computer network showed there was a potential recipient in Boston who was a perfect match. Local surgical teams retrieved her liver, kidneys, pancreas and corneas for patients in western Canada.

At first, Skye had been almost sickened by the thought of his adored wife being dismembered like that. But then he began to take comfort from the fact that she was helping others to lead longer and fuller lives. At least her death was not entirely in vain. As always, that thought was followed by an inner rage that the son-of-a-bitch who had killed her had gotten away with it. The Kelly power and influence had seen to that. There had never been the slightest expression of remorse or regret from the Kellys. The clan had closed ranks and took the position that whatever had happened had nothing to do with them. And now the former wife of that bastard was here on Manchineel.

A huge moth, as big as a bat, banged against the screen, waking Skye from his unhappy reverie. He picked up the case and carried it with him to the master bedroom suite where he shoved it under the bed. He knew what he would do in the morning.

Compared to the Manchineel airstrip, the runway of the Grantley Adams Airport in Barbados seemed to go on forever. Skye applied enough power to keep the 180 a few feet in the air before touching down halfway along the runway. He taxied over to the far end of the terminal where Manchineel Air was located. They knew him there; customs wouldn’t be a problem and, besides, he had the necessary papers for the ashes.

Inside the office, Donald Gillespie, who flew the left-hand seat on Manchineel Air’s Twin Otter, was conferring with a mechanic. After shaking hands, he asked a few desultory questions about the flying conditions between Manchineel and Barbados. Skye told him that, as usual, it was “Caribbean perfect”—unlimited visibility, high scattered cumulus clouds. Still chatting, Gillespie walked with Skye over to the “Air Crew Only” gate, where the customs officer glanced briefly at Skye and the knapsack he was carrying and waved him through.

“I know why you are here, my son. I got a call this morning.” Father Donahue led the way into the cluttered livingroom of the rectory. His name was as Irish as “Paddy’s pig,” but the portly priest was black.

“You’ve heard what happened, then.” Skye wasn’t surprised.

Although his parish was in downtown Bridgetown, Father Donahue went over to Manchineel every Sunday to celebrate mass in the little white church. One of his Manchineel parishioners, undoubtedly a scandalized one, had called to tell him about last night’s dark saturnalia.

The priest watched as Skye carefully placed the knapsack on the floor, undid the straps and lifted the black case out. “I am interested in why you came to me. Neither you nor Jocelyn are of the Catholic faith.” He smiled almost mischievously. “Maybe it’s because you think my ju ju is stronger than that of my Protestant brothers?”

“Something like that,” admitted Skye. “Will you bless her remains, Father?”

“Of course I will, Skye. She was a lovely woman. Come with me.” The priest held out his hands for the case.

A few solitary worshippers, women with scarves wrapped around their heads, knelt in prayer in the vast nave of the old stone church. Skye, his head bent in solitary meditation, sat in a front pew. A white-robed assistant entered from a side door and lit three white candles with a taper. Father Donahue entered from another door and began to celebrate mass. The solitary worshippers, realizing that they would have the unexpected benefit of communion, quietly moved up to the front benches. The priest delivered an extemporaneous eulogy that was as moving a tribute to Jocelyn as Skye had ever heard.

After communion, of which Skye did not partake, Father Donahue asked Skye to come forward and hold the case. After reading a lengthy prayer, he raised his arms in benediction and blessed both the departed and her grieving husband.

“Thank you, Father. Now she can rest in peace,” said Skye as he bade the priest goodbye.

“Bless you, my son.” A frown darkened the priest’s round, cheerful face. “My Manchineel brothers and sisters are going to hear from me come Sunday, I can tell you.”

Jason Carmichael was on duty at the Manchineel customs desk. His eyes were bloodshot and there was a greyish cast to his black skin. What had the self-righteous customs official been up to last night? He wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead with a large red handkerchief that also effectively hid his eyes, and motioned Skye to be on his way.

The wall safe was too small to hold the case, but it would take the urn. Skye removed the bronze urn from its plastic carrying case and placed it inside the safe. He should have done that right from the start. But the villas were supposed to be inviolate. Strictly off-limits. Whistling Frog, like many of the other villas, had been designed by a renowned English architect who made them airy and open to take advantage of the constant trade winds. It made for delightful living—at the cost of security. The place was a sieve. Security wasn’t supposed to be a problem on the island, especially back when the villas were designed. It hadn’t mattered—until now.

With the ashes safely stowed, Skye went looking for Adrienne. If she was not too exhausted to work, he knew where to find her. She was there, standing on the reef, plucking sea urchins, the white ones with soft spines, from the rocks and placing them in a pail floating beside her. Skye climbed out of the jeep and walked out on the little jetty. A number of small boats, including his eighteen-foot Boston whaler, bobbed gently against the pilings. Looking down, he smiled at the green frog logo painted on the whaler’s transom. There would be work for the little boat that night. Adrienne, anchored the floating pail and waded through the knee-high water toward him. Reaching the edge of the reef, she dove in, swam across the narrow channel, and porpoised onto the jetty.

She said nothing as she stood, dripping, beside him, seemingly fascinated by the distant, mist-shrouded horizon. The only sign of fatigue or stress was a nerve twitching under her right eye. Skye let the silence build before saying, “I thought you and I were friends, Adrienne.”

“Adrienne, the lady who fishes for the hotel, and you are friends. Adrienne, the mambo, has no friends, only the gods.”

“What you did last night was wrong.”

“With the gods there is no right or wrong,” she murmured, still staring at the horizon.

“You and I are no longer friends, Adrienne.”

She turned to face him. “If we are not friends, we are enemies. Adrienne can be a dangerous enemy.”

The mambo, who was also a boucor, an adept at black magic, could be a dangerous enemy indeed—to her credulous followers who believed in the power of black magic. Skye had heard of cases where strong, healthy men, learning that a curse had been placed on them, sickened and died. Adrienne herself had told him of an instance where a man had gone mad searching the jungle for a doll with a string around its neck that day-by-day was gradually drawn tighter and tighter. The hapless man had died of suffocation, unable to breathe. Skye knew that this was due to the power of suggestion. But, the thought of the angry mambo secretly collecting something from his person, a fingernail clipping, a few strands of hair, and working it into a doll fashioned in his image, was not a particularly pleasant one. Once the doll was made she could do with it as she wished—stick pins in it, break its limbs, strangle it, or condemn it to whatever fate she could devise.

“I can be dangerous too, Adrienne,” said Skye. “Remember that.”

She gave him another haughty stare, then turned her back on him and dove off the jetty.

With time to kill, Skye decided to drive over to the stables and check out the new horse Elizabeth Mallory was so keen on. His route took him past the tennis courts. Erin was playing singles with Gordon Rastok. Watching her lithe, athletic figure bouncing around the clay court, smashing the ball back to her opponent, it was hard to believe that once she had been in the depths of alcoholism and self-hatred. Mary Rastok was standing on the sidelines, next to a small boy and another woman. She waved at Skye to stop. Skye was fond of Mary. Her features were plain but pleasant; there was a good-natured, down-to-earth quality about her. He braked the jeep to a halt and climbed out. Walking over to join Mary, he saw that the boy had to be Patrick Kelly III—he was a spitting image of his father. No wonder he was so important to the Kelly dynasty.

Leaving her two companions behind, Mary stepped forward to greet Skye.

“The local grapevine was working well this morning. I’ve heard the wildest stories about last night,” she said. “Our houseboy is walking around like a zombie.”

“It had its moments.”

“So they are true. I gather you arrived in the nick of time, like the U.S. Cavalry.”

“You could say that.”

“Skye, I am terribly sorry about last night. When I invited Erin to Louella’s party, I didn’t think that you would be there. It’s been so long since you’ve been to Manchineel. And, well, you know. Please do accept my apologies.”

“It’s okay, Mary. It’s not the end of the world. I admit that I was taken by surprise, but—I can’t hold her responsible for her husband’s actions.”

“Her ex-husband, Skye. She’s very much divorced from Patrick Kelly. You’ve no idea how difficult it was to get Erin to come—and to bring young Patrick along, too.”

“Who’s that woman with the boy? His nanny?”

“A bit more than that. Her name is Brenda Fewster. She’s a trained social worker. She’s the only reason the Kellys let Patrick come. By the way, he’s a great admirer of yours. He’s seen your little plane and heard how you fly it all the way from Connecticut.”

For the first time Skye smiled. “When I file my flight plans, the meteorologists look at me like I’m Lindberg. Does the boy know about the connection between me and his father?”

“Are you kidding? The official line is that it never happened.”

The tennis match was over. Erin and Gordon were shaking hands at the net. Skye turned away, and Mary said to his retreating back, “Remember, Skye. She didn’t do it.”

The words struck home. He turned to face her. “I will try, Mary. I will really try.” Deep in thought, he switched on the ignition and drove off. The visit to the stables could wait for another day.