Gates Of Hades

PART III
Chapter Thirteen

North Caicos, Turks and Caicos Islands

British West Indies

The next morning

Jason was the only white or male in the line outside the cinder-block building that Barclays Bank shared with Island Hair and Beauty. Although he had stood in this very spot more times than he could count, he already felt like a stranger here. He had spent last night in a resort hotel on Providenciales, the islands' tourist destination, where he knew no one. This morning, he had hired a stranger to bring him to North Caicos by boat.

After leaving Dr. Kamito yesterday, Jason had taken Pangloss to one of those high-end kennels found in cities where a large segment of the wealthy population were frequently unable to take their pets on their excursions abroad, a place where treatment of four-legged guests was designed to soothe the consciences of two-legged owners. Jason had stayed in hotel rooms-nice hotel rooms-that cost less per diem than Pangloss's temporary home. Of course, hotel rooms rarely came with soundproofing, regularly scheduled exercise, or personal attendants. The dog's quarters were even video monitored so separation-anxiety-racked owners could view their pets on closed-circuit TV accessible from the establishment's Web site.

Despite the glory of a tropical morning, Jason was in a black mood not entirely attributable to Pangloss's absence. Generally the homeless had a cardboard box, a street corner, a bridge, some familiar place that included that sense of belonging that tethered the human soul to reality. Jason was truly homeless. He was domiciled no place at all, had no location where he belonged. Annoyed at his own self-pity, he reached in a pocket to make sure he still had his real passport and bankbook. The homeless weren't standing in line to move a high six-figure account. He felt a little better.

He could have simply had Barclays wire-transfer the money, but anything done by computer was theoretically subject to hacking. If his new enemies, Eco or whoever they were, knew he had been living here, it would be logical for them to watch for the transfer of funds to learn his new location-of which, at the moment, even he was uncertain.

He'd had a couple of other details to clear up, too. Jeremiah would sell the Whaler for him and reap the political profit of donating the proceeds equally to the island's four or five churches. He had succumbed to a compulsion to sift through the charred remains of the house to make sure there was nothing of Laurin's that was salvageable.

There wasn't.

He planned to spend no more than half a day in the Turks and Caicos before beginning a convoluted series of international flights. Even if the islands were being watched, he should be able to get in and out before his enemies could muster an attack.

The door opened and a dozen or so native women queued up inside. He was the sole bank customer.

The solemn-faced teller dolefully counted out the money, a large stack of hundred-dollar bills, as Jason had specified by a phone call to the bank's main branch in Grand Turk. The request was facilitated by the fact that the U.S. dollar was the currency of the islands, rather than pounds sterling. He was leaving when he spotted Felton, the island's constable and entire police force.

It was not unusual to see Felton in his uniform of starched white jacket and red-striped navy trousers. It was unusual for the policeman to have an old Welby revolver stuck in his shiny black belt. Since most crime on North Caicos involved drunkenness, fighting, or petty theft, there was little or no need for Felton to be armed. Sentences, imposed by Felton acting as prosecutor, judge, and jury, consisted of confinement for a day or two in the constable's guest room, which doubled as the jail. The prisoner served his time by playing endless rounds of dominoes with his jailer.

More unusual yet were the two young men walking beside Felton, two men whose uniforms identified then as police from Grand Turk.

Someone was in trouble, and Jason had an uncomfortable feeling he knew who.

Felton and his two companions stopped, blocking Jason's path.

"'Lo, Jason," the constable said, his eyes refusing to lock onto Jason's.

"Morning, Felton," Jason replied. "There a problem?"

Felton, clearly unhappy to be the harbinger of ill tidings, nodded. " 'Fraid so. Police over to Grand Turk got a 'nonymous call day or two ago, say some folks were killed 'fore your house blew up."

The coffee and island fruit Jason had eaten for breakfast felt like a cannonball in his stomach. He didn't have to guess at the source of the call.

Felton continued, "Police from Grand Turk came over, looked 'round. Sure 'nough, there be human remains where yo' house was. Police figger you burned the house to hide the evidence."

"Why would I do that? If I had killed someone and wanted to hide a body, I'd dump it in the ocean or bury it, not burn down my house."

Felton nodded, acknowledging the logic of Jason's argument. "Mebbe so, but they wants to talk to you over to Grand Turk." He produced a pair of rusty handcuffs. "Sorry, Jason. I hates this, but you gonna haff to go wid' dese here fellas."

Jason thought about making a run for it and discarded the idea. Even if he succeeded, where on the island could he hide?

"If I'm being arrested, I get a telephone call, right?"

"You can call from Grand Turk," one of the policemen said.

Felton snapped the cuffs closed around Jason's wrists and handed the key to the man who had spoken, visibly relieved to no longer be in charge. "Like I say, Jason, I hates this."

As he was marched away, Jason turned his head and spoke over his shoulder. "Not your fault, Felton. I'll be back and kick your black ass at dominoes."

The constable's face lit up. "Dat'll be de day!"

Jason hoped Felton believed the match would take place more than he did.