get back in practice while I’m down there, and I’ll need something.” He pointed down at the weapon he’d just been using. “Something like this. I want to buy it on the island. I couldn’t very well travel with it—you know how it is. Any ideas?”
Bill glanced over at the door to the living area, making sure Claire was out of earshot. Then he stared down at the money, nodding. It was just as he’d suspected. Jorge had sent him a live one, God bless him! He didn’t know what the guy needed a piece for, and he wouldn’t ask. He looked up from the benign gaze of Benjamin Franklin into the unyielding stare of the ice-blue eyes across the counter, and smiled.
“I think I can help you with that, friend,” he drawled, whisking the money silently into the strongbox and snapping it shut. “I just have to make a few phone calls, talk to some people, and I’ll let you know later today.” With a jerk of his head toward the kitchen, he added, “Mum’s the word.”
The stranger nodded, and that was that.
—
Rodney Harper’s Diary
O CTOBER 9, 1958
Weapons:
2 knives
1 machete
1 bottle secobarbital
Only 1 machete, not 2. Wulf won’t be able to do it—he’s much too squeamish. I don’t have that particular problem, I’m glad to say. I’ll take care of that part myself.
I’ve been practicing on coconuts.
—
The hazy shape grew larger, resolving into a small island. In a matter of moments it seemed to fill the sea in front of her, a stretch of land much higher at one end than the other, arriving out of the mist, ringed by crashing water and angry clouds. As the boat drew nearer, Karen saw that they were headed toward a beach at the center, a strip of sand with a jungle of palm and mangrove and sea grape trees rising up the hills behind it. To her right, the forest continued along the rocky coast for perhaps two hundred yards, ending abruptly at a gigantic formation of rock half in and half out of the water.
On the island’s highest point, the sheer cliff face to the left of the beach, she could just make out the general outline and sloping roof of a gray house, a two-story stone structure with white-shuttered windows, perched at the edge, peeking down at her through the thick foliage. She couldn’t see much of it at first, but more was revealed as the boat moved closer to the inlet. Her first impression of the building on the cliff was of a seaside fortress.
Gabby shifted gears, the roar of the engine subsided, and their progress slowed as they approached. A short point of land jutted out from the right side of the long beach, tapering down into the water. This point and the cliff at the other end formed a crescent-shaped cove. The sound of breakers was all around them as the
Turnabout
glided toward a small stone dock that extended out from the left end of the beach, at the base of the high hill. The photographer had joined her now, taking pictures of the sand and jungle in front of them and the house that loomed a hundred feet above them on their left. There was a building behind the dock, a stone structure the size of a boathouse, which is what Karen supposed it was. Beyond it, the first steps could be seen, a wide stone staircase that curved up from the beach toward the house, disappearing in the thick overgrowth of trees.
The sun was no longer in evidence, and the air was thick with moisture as the
Turnabout
came up to the dock. Mr. Graves stepped off the boat and tied it, then turned to help Karen onto the pier. She smiled and thanked him. Don Price clambered up behind her, and they gazed around at the dense forest and gleaming white sand. Behind them, Graves spoke softly to their pilot, who consulted his watch and nodded.
“Lovely,” Karen murmured as she looked up from the beach to the trees and the sky, but she wasn’t at all certain that’s what she meant. As she stood there, on that tiny wharf on the tiny islet in the Atlantic Ocean, she had the odd sensation that they were cut off,
Bill glanced over at the door to the living area, making sure Claire was out of earshot. Then he stared down at the money, nodding. It was just as he’d suspected. Jorge had sent him a live one, God bless him! He didn’t know what the guy needed a piece for, and he wouldn’t ask. He looked up from the benign gaze of Benjamin Franklin into the unyielding stare of the ice-blue eyes across the counter, and smiled.
“I think I can help you with that, friend,” he drawled, whisking the money silently into the strongbox and snapping it shut. “I just have to make a few phone calls, talk to some people, and I’ll let you know later today.” With a jerk of his head toward the kitchen, he added, “Mum’s the word.”
The stranger nodded, and that was that.
—
Rodney Harper’s Diary
O CTOBER 9, 1958
Weapons:
2 knives
1 machete
1 bottle secobarbital
Only 1 machete, not 2. Wulf won’t be able to do it—he’s much too squeamish. I don’t have that particular problem, I’m glad to say. I’ll take care of that part myself.
I’ve been practicing on coconuts.
—
The hazy shape grew larger, resolving into a small island. In a matter of moments it seemed to fill the sea in front of her, a stretch of land much higher at one end than the other, arriving out of the mist, ringed by crashing water and angry clouds. As the boat drew nearer, Karen saw that they were headed toward a beach at the center, a strip of sand with a jungle of palm and mangrove and sea grape trees rising up the hills behind it. To her right, the forest continued along the rocky coast for perhaps two hundred yards, ending abruptly at a gigantic formation of rock half in and half out of the water.
On the island’s highest point, the sheer cliff face to the left of the beach, she could just make out the general outline and sloping roof of a gray house, a two-story stone structure with white-shuttered windows, perched at the edge, peeking down at her through the thick foliage. She couldn’t see much of it at first, but more was revealed as the boat moved closer to the inlet. Her first impression of the building on the cliff was of a seaside fortress.
Gabby shifted gears, the roar of the engine subsided, and their progress slowed as they approached. A short point of land jutted out from the right side of the long beach, tapering down into the water. This point and the cliff at the other end formed a crescent-shaped cove. The sound of breakers was all around them as the
Turnabout
glided toward a small stone dock that extended out from the left end of the beach, at the base of the high hill. The photographer had joined her now, taking pictures of the sand and jungle in front of them and the house that loomed a hundred feet above them on their left. There was a building behind the dock, a stone structure the size of a boathouse, which is what Karen supposed it was. Beyond it, the first steps could be seen, a wide stone staircase that curved up from the beach toward the house, disappearing in the thick overgrowth of trees.
The sun was no longer in evidence, and the air was thick with moisture as the
Turnabout
came up to the dock. Mr. Graves stepped off the boat and tied it, then turned to help Karen onto the pier. She smiled and thanked him. Don Price clambered up behind her, and they gazed around at the dense forest and gleaming white sand. Behind them, Graves spoke softly to their pilot, who consulted his watch and nodded.
“Lovely,” Karen murmured as she looked up from the beach to the trees and the sky, but she wasn’t at all certain that’s what she meant. As she stood there, on that tiny wharf on the tiny islet in the Atlantic Ocean, she had the odd sensation that they were cut off,
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