The Devil's Trinity

Chapter 8

Helen felt the man’s hand encircle her mouth. With the other he took the phone from her hand and put it back in its cradle. Without any thought for her comfort he dragged her into a separate room and threw her on to a bed. Then without saying a word he turned round and walked out, closing the door behind him. She heard the key turn in the lock.

Although Helen was afraid and bewildered, she had been able to control her fear up until the moment she had heard the sound of Marsh’s voice on the telephone. It had affected her deeply, and now she was shaking badly. She squeezed her knees together and hugged them tight to her body until the shaking stopped. She knew that whatever was happening, she would not help herself by losing control.

Helen had no way of knowing who her kidnappers were or why they had taken her. They were both black and almost certainly local Bahamians. She didn’t know what they wanted because neither of them had spoken to her, but she suspected that it had something to with whoever had searched her villa.

Since his return, Marsh had been fairly withdrawn about the accident and how Greg had died. And his instant refusal at the boatyard to consider a job offer from Batista was not typical of Marsh; he would always have given it careful consideration before turning the work down. But whatever answers Helen tried to come up with, she knew that it was all guesswork and conjecture. The only thing that she kept coming back to was the sinking of the Ocean Quest, and she was certain that Batista and the men who had snatched her were connected with it.

As she sat huddled on the bed, Helen looked around the room. It was obviously a man’s room; the pictures of naked women were testament to that. There were a lot of books and magazines lying on top of a tallboy. A television at the end of the room was still on, but the sound was turned down. There was also a wardrobe with its doors half open, and Helen could see the paraphernalia associated with witchcraft hanging inside it.

Witchcraft, or Obeah as it was called in the Bahamas, was a powerful voodoo medicine that was sometimes used with devastating effect among the islanders. It was a practice that was feared by most of the native people. A lot of it was more ceremonial that sorcery, but there were times when it was used as an evil tool in the hands of unscrupulous Obeah priests.

There was also a window, which was shut. Not that it made any difference because the room was above ground level and Helen doubted if she would be able to open the window because it was probably locked. And if she decided to smash it, her kidnappers would be on her in seconds, so she decided against it.

It was all very odd, Helen thought to herself. Kidnap victims were normally confined in cellars, remote buildings or even holes in the ground. But this house was in a suburb, so why had she been brought here?

The thought teased her but she found no consolation in it, so she got off the bed and began pacing the room in an effort to make sense of it all. She kicked off her shoes thinking it might help her to reason more clearly. It was something she often did, but this time it didn’t help. An hour later she was no farther forward and had ended up lying on the bed, now very bored and getting frightened.

Despite her fear, Helen was asleep when the sound of a key turning in the lock startled her and she opened her eyes. One of her kidnappers stepped into the room. He was holding a gun which he was pointing at her. She got off the bed and stood up. The barrel of the gun followed her.

“Out!”

It was all he said.

As Helen went through the open doorway he pushed the nose of the gun barrel into the small of her back. She was taken to a garage at the back of the house. The Buick was parked there with its boot open.

“Get in the trunk,” he ordered.

Helen hesitated. “Please, I don’t have my shoes.”

“Where are they?”

“I kicked them off in the room upstairs,” she told him.

Another voice broke in. “Leave them, let’s get going.”

Again the gun was used as a pointer. “In the trunk.”

Helen climbed nervously into the trunk of the Buick and her kidnapper slammed it shut. The crashing noise of the lid coming down made her shake violently. The tears were on her cheeks before she realised it as she gave in to her fears and began crying.

The car moved off and Helen felt every bump and turn in the road. Each jolt was a stab of pain until she thought her body could take no more. Numbness settled in and moments of cramp attacked her body as she wondered if the journey would ever end and if she would ever survive.

Eventually the Buick slowed to a halt and the engine died. The silence pressed in on her and her fear returned. She heard the footsteps as the men got out of the car and then the lid of the trunk was flung open. Helen remained as she was, curled up in the foetal position, terrified. It was dark outside and she could not see the faces of the two men as they dragged her out of the trunk.

She was half carried and dragged to a building, which she could just barely distinguish in the darkness. It looked quite small and her own thoughts came back to her about kidnappers taking their victims to remote places. They opened a door and pushed her in. She fell on to a cold, stone floor. She wasn’t hurt but her nerves were screaming out like tautly strung wires.

The door slammed shut and she heard the key turn in the lock. Then she heard their footsteps fading away. The silence returned and she could hear the harsh sound of her own breathing. She pushed herself up and settled her back against the wall, breathing slowly in an effort to calm herself down. And as her breathing settled and became steadier, Helen heard another noise. It was a soft sound like something moving. She couldn’t figure it out at first, but as her eyes adjusted themselves to the darkness, she was vaguely aware of shapes in the room, and vaguely aware of movement.

Then something cold touched the edge of her hand where she was resting it on the floor. She snatched it away and whatever had touched her ran over her legs. She gave in to a piercing scream that bounced around the walls, and for the first time in her life, Helen knew the real meaning of terror.

Marsh found himself walking out of the Lucayan Beach Hotel like any guest would; as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He was accompanied by Batista and Malik. Apart from a few words in the hotel room, Malik had spoken very little. Marsh still wasn’t sure of the man’s nationality, although he looked like and Arab. Not that it mattered; the man looked tremendously fit and capable. He was also extremely quick when it came to reacting to a threat, and enormously powerful as Marsh could attest to.

They walked together to the parking lots and climbed into the car. It wasn’t long before Marsh realised they were heading towards the West End. The road followed the coast for almost twenty miles passing Gold Rock Creek, which used to be the home of the American missile tracking station. It was now undergoing a thirty million dollar transformation into a film studio and theme park.

The road crossed the peninsular towards the golf course and finally into the town of West End. Batista drove to a small cay where several boats were moored. He stopped the car. Malik got out and beckoned Marsh to follow. Batista stayed in the car. Marsh looked at him and was about to ask a question but thought better of it. He shrugged and followed Malik. Batista threw them a friendly wave and drove off.

“Where’s he going?” asked Marsh.

“To the airport,” Malik answered. “He’ll be taking the helicopter back to the Taliba.”

“So where are we going?”

“To the Taliba.”

They walked along the waterfront until they came to a small cruiser; the kind favoured by many tourists for their fishing trips. Malik stepped down into the cockpit and called out. A black face appeared from inside the yacht.

“This is Romulus,” Malik told him, and disappeared into the cabin.

Marsh stepped into the cockpit, said hallo to Romulus and followed Malik into the cabin.

“You want a drink?” Malik asked him.

“I’ll have a coffee. Thanks”

Malik took a bottle of clear water from the small refrigerator for himself. He then made Marsh a coffee from the percolator set on gimbals in the small galley.

The boat’s diesel engine suddenly burst into life somewhere beneath his feet and he heard Romulus break into song. He had a pleasant voice and it was a song that Marsh recognised as a local, Bahamian song. The cruiser moved slowly away from the quayside, edging its way along the waterfront until it turned and headed out to sea.

Marsh mentally charted their progress. It was not in the hope that he might learn where they were going, but more from habit. The sun was settling low on the horizon and he could just see faint shadows on the edge of the sea where it merged with the darkening sky.

Malik had said little but Marsh had tried to make a judgement of the man from his manner and behaviour. A couple of times he had caught Malik watching him, but when challenged, Malik shrugged it off. As much as he tried, he could get nothing out of the man, so he gave up trying. He settled back on one of the leather chairs in the stern of the boat and tried to figure out the events of the previous week.

He tried to fit it all into a sane, logical pattern, but there was no logic because he had nothing to go on other than the fact that Hakeem Khan was involved in something unseemly, and certainly crooked; crooked enough to warrant the death of Greg Walsh and Helen’s kidnap.

And it was staggering to think that Khan was quite willing, despite his international reputation and unblemished character to sanction Helen’s kidnapping just to get Marsh to pilot the Challenger. None of it made sense.

Marsh gave up the effort of trying to work out why all this was happening. He gave up and eventually fell asleep, but he dozed more than slept. He stirred as soon as he felt the speed of the cruiser fall away and the engine note change. He stood up and looked out over the sea. They were closing in on the Taliba.

Romulus angled the boat in skilfully and tied up alongside the ship. Malik beckoned Marsh and they clambered aboard the Taliba using the short rope ladder. He heard the cruiser pull away as Romulus increased power. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the boat moving off, gathering speed as it headed back to the mainland. He also noticed as he stood on the deck that the helicopter was on its landing pad, which meant Batista and Khan were probably now on board.

Malik took Marsh immediately to the bridge where Captain de Leon was waiting. He greeted Marsh rather formally and asked them both to follow him through to his cabin. When they were settled there, de Leon offered Marsh a drink. Marsh noticed that he had completely ignored Malik.

“Thank you for joining us, Marsh,” he said surprisingly. Marsh wondered if de Leon was fully aware of the facts, but chose not to say anything with Malik standing there. “I know of your reputation and I am sure it means we shall see our project through to a successful conclusion.”

“What’s the project?” Marsh asked him.

De Leon’s face showed just a trace of sympathy. “I’m sure Mister Khan will appraise you of everything you need to know. But with regard to the Taliba, you must understand that although this is Mister Khan’s boat, I am the captain and you, as a member of the crew are my responsibility. So you obey my orders. Now, unless you have any questions, Malik will show you to your quarters.”

Marsh smiled. “Captain de Leon, I have a million questions, but I doubt if you’ll answer any of them.”

De Leon became quite serious. “Your role here is quite important, but I can only answer questions relating to the Taliba. Anything else you must direct to Mister Khan.”

“I understand,” Marsh acquiesced, “believe me. But I do need some clothes and toiletries. I was obliged to leave in a hurry, you see.”

Whether de Leon saw or not, wasn’t quite clear to Marsh, but the captain agreed to supply him with everything he needed.

“Malik will show you to your quarters. We’ll talk another time.”

Marsh could feel the gentle throb of the Taliba’s engines beneath his feet as she got under way again. He put his glass down and followed Malik out of de Leon’s cabin. As they walked through the small bridge, Marsh looked forward. He could see the helicopter sitting forward on the prow of the ship. And on the open deck space between the foc’sle head and the bridge, he could make out the shape of the Challenger, the sister ship to the Helena.

He felt a small sensation in the pit of his stomach. It was the thrill of anticipation that he would soon be piloting the submersible. He was trying to view it all with a professional detachment, allowing only those feelings to hunt around his senses, but he was aware of a strange excitement coupled with an edge of fear.

He thought about Helen and wondered if they would both have the strength and courage to see this reckless, dangerous adventure through and come out of it alive.

Inspector Bain stood in the driveway of Helen’s house looking at her orange pick-up truck. There seemed to be police officers everywhere. Some were dusting the Chevrolet with fingerprint powder, others scouring the vehicle and the surrounding area, all looking for minute clues. From time to time, one of them would pick something up and drop it into a small, plastic bag. There were others inside the villa. And as usual there was a group of curious onlookers standing beyond the line marked out by fluttering police tape.

A witness to Helen’s abduction had come forward and was talking to a police sergeant. Bain walked over to them and interrupted their conversation, smiling in a rather condescending manner.

“Mister Rackham,” he said to the witness, “would you mind telling me again exactly what happened?”

“Of course,” Rackham answered. “I didn’t see a great deal actually; I just happened to glance across the road when Helen, ah Mrs. Walsh,” he corrected himself, “drove in.”

“And where were you sir?” Bain asked.

Rackham pointed to a villa across the road from Helen’s house. “I was on my roof. Some work I had to do,” he explained unnecessarily. “I saw Mrs. Walsh get out of her car and then this Buick raced up the drive. They grabbed her.”

“Who grabbed her, Mr. Rackham?”

“Two men. One jumped out of the Buick and grabbed her and threw her into his car while the other one held the door open. It all happened very quickly.”

“Would you recognise the two men again?

Rackham shook his head. “I’m not sure.”

“Were they black or white?” Rackham said they were black. “And what about the number plate of the Buick? Did you get that?”

He shook his head. “Sorry, no. I didn’t think about that. You don’t, do you?”

Bain said ‘no you don’t’ and thanked him. “Would you give the sergeant your personal details, please? He’ll want a statement signed. You can do it at the station.”

He spun on his heels and walked over to his official car. He was furious because Rackham had failed to take the details of the car and wasn’t sure if he would be able to identify the kidnappers either. How could a witness be so blind, he wondered?

But more worrying for the inspector was why Helen Walsh had been kidnapped. He was quite sure that it couldn’t be for money, although that was more of an educated guess. It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with her late husband’s dreadful accident. And gang warfare was out of the question as were drugs. So what was it?

Bain walked down the drive and ducked beneath the police tape. He paused for a moment, imagining exactly what had happened. Then he shrugged and climbed into the back of his police car. He ordered the driver to take him back to police headquarters, and wondered if he would ever see Helen Walsh again.