Bahama Crisis

Fourteen

It was dark when I woke up. I was lying on my back and staring into blackness and feeling no pain, at least not much. When I stirred I found that I was naked — lying on a bed and covered by a thin sheet — and my left thigh ached a little. I turned my head and saw a rectangular patch of dim light which, when I propped myself up on one elbow, appeared to be a window.

I tossed aside the sheet, swung my legs out of bed, and tentatively stood up. I seemed to be in no immediate danger of falling so I took a step towards the window, and then another. The window was covered with a coarse-fibred cloth which I drew aside. There was nothing much to see outside, just the darker patches of trees silhouetted against a dark sky. From the west came the faint loom of the setting moon. There were noises, though; the chirping of cicadas and the distant, deeper croaking of bull-frogs.

There were bars on the window.

The breeze which blew through the unglazed window was warm and smelled of damp and rotting vegetation. Even so, I shivered as I made my way back to the bed, and I was glad to lie down again. That brief journey had taken the strength out of me; maybe I could have lasted two seconds with Mohammed Ali, but I doubted it. I pulled the sheet over my body and went back to sleep.

When next I woke I felt better. Perhaps it was because of the sunlight slanting through the room, making a yellow patch at the bottom of the bed. The window was now uncurtained and next to the bed a tray was laid on a table which contained a pitcher of orange juice, an empty glass, a pile of thick-cut bread slices, a pot of butter and a crude wooden spatula with which to spread it.

The orange juice went down well and my spirits rose when I saw the pot of honey which had been hidden behind the pitcher. I breakfasted stickily, sitting on the edge of the bed with the sheet draped around me, and doing an inventory of the room. Against one wall was another table holding a basin and a water jug together with a piece of kitchen soap. And there was a chair with clothing draped over it — not mine. And that, apart from the bed and the bedside table, was all.

After breakfast I washed, but first looked through the uncurtained window. There was nothing much to see — just trees baking under a hot sun. The air was humid and dank and smelled of vegetable corruption.

After washing I turned to the clothing — a pair of jeans, a tee-shirt with the words HOUSTON COUGARS emblazoned across the chest, and a pair of dirty white sneakers. As I was putting on the jeans I examined the bruise on the outside of my thigh; it was livid and there seemed to be a small pin hole in the middle of it. It did not hurt much so I put on the jeans, then the shirt, and sat on the bed to put on the shoes. And there I was — dressed and almost in my right mind.

I might have hammered on the door then, demanding in highfalutin terms to be released, and what the devil is the meaning of this, sir? I refrained. My captors would see me in their own time and I needed to think. There is a manoeuvre in rugby football known as ‘selling the dummy’, a feint in which the ball goes in an unexpected direction. The Cunningham family had been sold the dummy and I would bet that Billy Cunningham would be spitting bullets.

I mentally reviewed the contents of the first and second ransom letters. The object of the first was to get me to Houston. The second was so detailed and elaborate that no one thought it would be the dummy we were being sold. It was a fake all the way through.

One thing was certain: the Cunninghams would be incensed beyond measure. To kidnap a Cunningham was bad enough, but to add a double-cross was to add insult to injury. Right at that moment the Cunningham Building would be like a nest of disturbed rattlesnakes; all hell would be breaking loose and, perhaps, this time they would bring in the police. Not that it would help me, I thought glumly, or Debbie.

Which brought me to Debbie. Was she here or not? And where the devil was here? There was a frustrating lack of information. I went to the window again and looked out through the bars and again saw nothing but trees. I tested the bars; steel set firmly in concrete, and immoveable.

I turned at a metallic noise at the door. The first man to enter held a shotgun pointing at my belly. He was dressed in jeans and a checkered shirt open almost to the waist, and had a lined grim face. He took one pace inside the room and then stepped sideways, keeping the gun on me. ‘On the bed.’ The barrel of the gun jerked fractionally.

I backed away and sidled sideways like a crab to the bed. The muzzle of that gun looked like an army cannon.

Another man came into the room and closed the door behind him. He was dressed in a lightweight business suit and could have been anybody. He had hair, two eyes and a mouth, with a nose in the middle — a face-shaped face. He was nobody I had seen before or, if I had, I had not noticed him. He was my most forgettable character.

‘Good morning, Mr Mangan. I hope you had a quiet night and slept well.’

English — not American, I thought. I said, ‘Where’s my wife?’

‘First things first.’ He gestured sideways. ‘This man is armed with an automatic shotgun loaded with buckshot. Anything that will kill a deer will kill a man — men die more easily. At ten feet he couldn’t miss; he could put five rounds into you in five seconds. I think you’d be chopped in half.’

‘Two seconds,’ said the shotgunner flatly and objectively.

I was wrong about him being English; at the back of those perfectly modulated tones was the flavour of something I could not pin down. I repeated, ‘Where’s my wife?’

‘She’s quite safe,’ he said reassuringly.

‘Where? Here?’

He shrugged. ‘No harm in you knowing. Yes, she’s here.’

‘Prove it. I want to see her.’

He laughed. ‘My dear Mr Mangan, you are in no position to make demands. Although...’ He was pensive for a moment. ‘Yes, my dear chap, that might be a good idea. You shall see her as soon as we have finished our initial conversation. I trust you are fit and well. No ill effects from the curious treatment we were forced to administer?’

‘I’m all right,’ I said shortly.

He produced a small cylinder from his pocket and held it up; it looked like a shotgun cartridge. ‘It was one of these that did the trick. Issued to NATO soldiers for use in nervegas attacks. You put one end against the arm or leg — so — and push. A spring-loaded plunger forces a hypodermic needle right through the clothing and into the flesh, then injects atropine. I admit that the needle going through clothing is not hygienic; there’s a small risk of tetanus — but that is preferable to heart failure from nerve gas, so the risk is acceptable. I don’t think you even felt the prick of the needle.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Of course we used something other than atropine,’ he said. ‘A muscle relaxant derived from curare, I believe; used when giving electric shock therapy. You’re lucky I wasn’t a Middle Eastern guerilla; they use something totally lethal. Very useful for street assassinations.’

‘Very interesting,’ I said. ‘But I can do without the technical lecture.’

‘It has a point,’ he said, and laughed. ‘Just like the needle. It’s to tell you we’re most efficient. Remember that efficiency, Mr Mangan, should you be thinking of trying anything foolish.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Does it matter?’ He waved his hand. ‘Very well, if you must call me something call me... Robinson.’

‘Okay, Robinson. Tell me why.’

‘Why you’re here? Rest assured I shall do so, but in my own time.’

He looked at a point over my head. ‘I was about to begin your interrogation immediately, but I have changed my mind. Don’t you think it is a mark of efficiency to be flexible?’

He had a formal, almost pedantic, way of speech which fitted well with the tone of the ransom letters, and could very well have typed ‘headlamps’ instead of ‘headlights’. I said, ‘I couldn’t give a damn. I want to see my wife.’

His gaze returned to me. ‘And so you shall, my dear chap. What is more, you shall have the privilege of seeing her alone so that you may talk freely. I am sure she will be able to tell you many things of which you are, as yet, unaware. And vice versa. It will make my later interrogation so much easier — for both of us.’

‘Robinson, quit waffling and get her.’

He studied me and smiled. ‘Quite a one for making demands, aren’t you? And in the vernacular, too. But I shall accede to... er... shall we call it your request?’

He put his hand behind him, opened the door, and backed out. The man with the shotgun went out, gun last, and the door closed. I heard it lock.

I thought about it. The man with the shotgun was local, a Texan. He had spoken only a total of five words but the accent was unmistakeable. Robinson was something else. Those cultured tones, those rolling cadences, were the product of a fairly long residence in England, and at a fairly high social level.

And yet... and yet... there was something else. As a Bahamian, class differences, as betrayed by accent, had been a matter of indifference to me, but my time in England had taught me that the English take it seriously, so I had learned the nuances. It is something hard to explain to our American cousins. But Robinson did not ring a true sound — there was a flaw in him.

I looked with greater interest at my prison. The walls were of concrete blocks set in hard mortar and whitewashed. There was no ceiling so I could look up into the roof which was pitched steeply and built of rough timbers — logs with the bark still on — and covered with corrugated iron. The only door was in a gable end.

From the point of view of escape the wall was impossible. I had no metal to scrape the mortar from between the blocks, not even a belt buckle; and they had carefully not put a knife on the tray with which to spread the butter, just a flat piece of wood. As Robinson had said — efficiency. A careful examination of the furniture told me that I was probably in a rural area. The whole lot had not a single nail in them, but were held together by wooden pegs.

Not that I was intending to escape — not then. But I was looking at the roof speculatively when I heard someone at the door. I sat on the bed and waited, and the door opened and Debbie was pushed in, then it slammed behind her quickly.

She staggered, regained her balance, then looked at me unbelievingly. ‘Tom! Oh, Tom!’ The next moment she was in my arms, dampening the front of my Houston Cougars’ teeshirt.

It took some time to get her settled down. She was incoherent with a mixture of relief, remorse, passion and, when she understood that I, too, was a prisoner, amazement, consternation and confusion. ‘But how did you get here?’ she demanded. ‘To Texas, I mean. And why?’

‘I was drawn into it by bait,’ I said. ‘You were the bait. We were all fooled.’

‘The family,’ she said. ‘How are they?’

‘Bearing up under the strain.’ There were a few things I was not going to tell Debbie. One was that her father had just suffered a heart attack. Others would doubtless occur to me. ‘How were you snatched?’

‘I don’t know. One minute I was looking in the window of a store on Main Street, then I was here.’

Probably Robinson had used his NATO gadget; but it did not matter. ‘And where is here? You’re the local expert.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Somewhere on the coast, I think.’

I disentangled myself, stood up, and turned to look at her. The dress she was wearing certainly had not come from a plushy Main Street store — it was more reminiscent of Al Capp’s Dogpatch and went along with my jeans and teeshirt. From where I stood it seemed to be the only thing she was wearing. ‘All right, Daisy-Mae, has anyone told you why you were kidnapped?’

‘Daisy-M...?’ She caught on and looked down at herself, then involuntarily put a hand to her breast. ‘They took my clothes away.’

‘Mine, too.’

‘I must look terrible.’

‘A sight for sore eyes.’ She looked up at me and flushed, and we were both silent for a moment. Then we both started to talk at the same time, and both stopped simultaneously.

‘I’ve been a damned fool, Tom,’ she said.

‘This is not the time — nor place — to discuss our marital problems,’ I said. ‘There are better things to do. Do you know why you were kidnapped?’

‘Not really. He’s been asking all sorts of questions about you.’

‘What sort of questions?’

‘About what you were doing. Where you’d been. Things like that. I told him I didn’t know — that I’d left you. He didn’t believe me. He kept going on and on about you.’ She shivered suddenly. ‘Who is this man? What’s happening to us, Tom?’

Good questions; unfortunately I had no answers. Debbie looked scared and I did not blame her. That character with the automatic shotgun had nearly scared the jeans off me and I had just arrived. Debbie had been here at least three days.

I said gently, ‘Have they ill-treated you?’

She shook her head miserably. ‘Not physically. But it’s the way some of them look at me.’ She shivered again. ‘I’m scared, Tom. I’m scared half to death.’

I sat down and put my arm around her. ‘Not to worry. How many are there?’

‘I’ve seen four.’

‘Including a man whose name isn’t Robinson? An English smoothie with a plummy voice?’

‘He’s the one who asks the questions. The others don’t say much — not to me. They just look.’

‘Let’s get back to these questions. Was there anything specific he wanted to know?’

Debbie frowned. ‘No. He asked general questions in a roundabout way. It’s as though he wants to find out something without letting me know what it is. Just endless questions about you. He wanted to know what you’d told the police. He said you seemed to spend a lot of time in the company of Commissioner Perigord. I said I didn’t know about anything you might have told Perigord, and that I’d only met Perigord once, before we were married.’ She paused. ‘There was one thing. He asked when I’d left you, and I told him. He then commented that it would be the day after you’d found Kayles.’

I sat upright. ‘Kayles! He mentioned him by name?’

‘Yes. I thought he’d ask me about Kayles, but he didn’t. He went off on another track, asking when we were married. He asked if I’d known Julie.’

‘Did he, by God! What did you say?’

‘I told him the truth; that I’d met her briefly but hadn’t known her well.’

‘What was his reaction to that?’

‘He seemed to lose interest. You call him Robinson — is that his name?’

‘I doubt it; and I don’t think he’s English, either.’ I was thinking of the connection between Robinson and Kayles and sorting out possible relationships. Was Robinson the boss of a drug-running syndicate? If so then why should he kidnap Debbie and me? It did not make much sense.

Debbie said, ‘I don’t like him, and I don’t like the way he talks. The others frighten me, but he frightens me in a different way.’

‘What way?’

‘The others are ignorant white trash — corn-crackers — but they look at me as a woman. Robinson looks at me as an object, as though I’m not a human being at all.’ She broke down into sobs. ‘For God’s sake, Tom; who are these people? What have you been doing to get mixed up in this?’

‘Take it easy, my love,’ I said. ‘Hush, now.’

She quietened again and after a while said in a small voice, ‘It’s a long time since you’ve called me that.’

‘What?’

‘Your love.’

I was silent for a moment, then said heavily, ‘A pity. I ought to have remembered to do it more often.’ I was thinking of a divorce lawyer who had told me that in a breaking marriage there were invariably faults on both sides. I would say he was right.

Presently Debbie sat up and dried her eyes on the hem of her dress. ‘I must look a mess.’

‘You look as beautiful as ever. Cheer up, there’s still hope. Your folks will be skinning Texas to find us. I wouldn’t like to be anyone who gets on the wrong side of Billy One.’

‘It’s a big state,’ she said sombrely.

The biggest — barring Alaska — and I could not see the Cunninghams finding us in a hurry. The thought that chilled me was that Robinson had made no attempt at disguise. True, his face was not memorable in the normal way, but I would certainly remember it from now on, and so would Debbie. The rationale behind that sent a grue up my spine — the only way he could prevent future identification was by killing us. We were never intended to be released.

It was cold comfort to know that the Cunninghams were roused and that sooner or later, with the backing of the Cunningham Corporation, Robinson would eventually be run down and due vengeance taken. Debbie and I would know nothing of that.

Debbie said, ‘I’m sorry about the way I behaved.’

‘Skip it,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t matter now.’

‘But you could be a son of a bitch at times — a real cold bastard. Sometimes you’d act as though I wasn’t there at all. I began to think I was the invisible woman.’

‘There was no one else,‘ I said. ‘There never was.’

‘No one human.’

‘Nor a ghost, Debbie,’ I said. ‘I accepted Julie’s death a long time ago.’

‘I didn’t mean that — I meant your goddamn job.’ She looked up. ‘But I ought to have known because I’m a Cunningham.’ She smiled slightly. ‘“For men must work and women must weep.” And the Cunningham men do work. I thought it might be different with you.’

‘And the sooner it’s over, the sooner to sleep.’ I completed the quotation, but only in my mind; it was too damned apposite to say aloud. ‘Why should it have been different? The Cunningham men haven’t taken out a patent on hard work. But maybe I did go at it too hard.’

‘No,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘You did what you had to, as all men do. The pity is that I didn’t see it. Looking back, I know there’s a lot I didn’t see. Myself, for one thing. My God, you married an empty-headed ninny.’

That was a statement it would be politic not to answer. I said, ‘You had your problems.’

‘And piled them on your back. I swear to God, Tom, that things will be different. I’ll make an effort to change if you will. We’ve both, in our own ways, been damned fools.’

I managed a smile. The likelihood that we would have a future together was minimal. ‘It’s a bargain,’ I said.

She held out her hand and drew me down to her. ‘So seal it.’ I put my hands on her and discovered that, indeed, she wore nothing beneath the shift. She said softly, ‘It won’t hurt him.’

So we made love, and it was not just having sex. There is quite a difference.