many occasions I had escaped death in airplanes, and a few times since. Again, I felt the strangeness, and wondered how it would feel? Would I die bravely? Would it be painful? There was nothing to do but wait.
Two of the men walked away, leaving the others to tend to me.
'Untie his legs, Mon,' one of the men ordered. 'I ain't gonna carry him all the way up to the lighthouse. He's too big.'
They cut the ropes from my legs and hands. I was too weak to give them any trouble. Hardly able to stand, my vision was continuing to clear. A good sign. Asking one of the men for water, he said I was gonna die anyway, so they might as well let me have a drink. He was small and dressed only in shorts, sandals, and a sun-bleached sailcloth hat that had a ragged patch on it that read, 'Albury's sail loft, Man-O-War Cay.' His skin color was that of a chestnut and deeply creased on his face, but smooth and taut as that of a youth on his arms and chest. It was hard to tell his age.
The water was cool, wet, and tasted as good as any in my life. For that sip, I silently thanked him. They led me into one of the shacks and made me sit on the dirt floor. It was dark inside and several other people were seated around a long, rough-hewn table. Stacked on top was at least fifty kilos of Snowpowder.
A shadow covered the doorway. 'Hey, what's going on?' a voice growled. 'Who's the mess on the floor? I thought there weren't going to be any problems on this trip?'
The voice had a familiar ring, but I was unable to see him as my eyes were still adjusting to the dim light of the shack.
One of the men said, 'The boss caught him snooping around his boat down in Nassau. Say he's a peeper- mon. Want him buried up by the lighthouse.'
'Peeper, huh? I hate peepers. They're always sticking their nose somewhere it can get chopped off. Let me take care of this. It'll give me much pleasure.'
'Okay, Mon. The boss said no mistakes with dis'en, though. He still unhappy about them Cubans washing up down at Land's End.'
Everybody laughed with a nervous cackle.
The man with the familiar voice came and stood over me. Reaching down, he grabbed me by the hair, pulled my head up, and stuck a pistol barrel in my mouth. If he was going to shoot me here, he would splatter teeth, hair, skin, skull, blood, and brains all over them. At least my epitaph would read, 'His end was abrupt.'
He did not shoot. Dropping my head, he turned around and roared a maniacal laugh. My face hit the dirt floor. It smelled of urine, tobacco, and fecal matter. Except for the horrible pounding in my head, I was starting to gain some strength. The water had helped.
'Get up, peeper. We're going for a little walk.' He kicked me in the ribs, causing me to double up into the fetal position. 'Get this slime-bucket up.'
Two of the men picked me up. The heat was now oppressive. Turning, I looked at the man who was to kill me. The light from the sun hit his face from above. His eyes and mouth were drawn in lines of endurance and an oddly solemn resignation. It was Dave Billingsly. Sally said he was on Abaco Island. Off to the side stood Will Strange, Karl's oldest boy. My brain took a moment to comprehend what it saw. The relief was such that I almost laughed.
Dave pushed me roughly toward the path leading up the hill to the old lighthouse on the northeast corner of the island. His hands and arms were thick and powerful, not what you'd expect from his lanky frame.
Nearly as tall as me, Dave kept in excellent physical shape. A full head of wavy, graying hair and thick eyebrows accented his dark features. In his early fifties, he looked much younger. His eyes were brilliant and dry. He had a long, square face, and his facial muscles knotted and moved abruptly when he spoke, then the movement would vanish, having conveyed no expression.
'Come on, Will,' Dave growled loudly. 'Help me carry this piece of garbage up to the pig pens.'
Little Will came over and helped drag me along. My head was starting to pound again, and I felt like throwing up. The sharp coral cut my feet, and they began to bleed as we climbed the hill. Looking down, I realized I wore no shoes. Then I remembered.
Out of range of the others, Will tried to hold me off the sharp rocks as best he could. He was a young man with a boyish face and perfect white teeth. The last time I saw him he was an innocent child, the delight of a proud father.
Dave looked at me with a comical grin. 'Well, pal, we have to stop meeting like this.'
'You kick awfully hard for an old man.'
'Had to make it look good. We're in with a bad bunch. They are plenty smart and do not trust anyone, especially me. There is no time to go into details, but Will's in a jam and, as a favor to his papa, I'm trying to help. I don't even want to know what you're doing in Johnston's Harbor in the middle of a big dope operation.'
'It's all your fault.'
He looked at me with a quizzical expression.
'The client you sent to me, the Renoir woman. Her missing sister turned up dead. The trail led to Nassau and that boat lying offshore, the Sun Dog.'
Dave shook his head from side to side. 'We might be able to get all of us out of this alive if you think you can swim?'
'I can swim.'
'You remember Family Beach? Over next to the small reef?' I nodded. 'We'll help you get into the water below the lighthouse. Swim around the north end of the point. There's a dinghy there. Get under it and stay until dark, then row up to Lynyard Cay. You remember B.J., the FedEx pilot? Go to his house, it's the green one. Hold up there until I can figure out the rest.' His face had the look of a smile, though he was not smiling. It was the quiet look of victory, the look of a man's pride in the price he paid, and that which made it worth paying.
'I can handle that.'
'It'll be rough rowing until you get past the Bight of Old Robinson. Abeam Bridges Cay, you should be okay. The key to B.J.'s house is in the pelican-shaped flowerpot next to the front door. Good luck, Jay. I've got to shoot you, now, and dig your grave. Hang tough, old son.'
'I'll do my best. And Dave…thanks.'
'Yes…' He looked off across the blue ocean toward Africa as if at some sight that he had studied for years, but which had remained unchanged and unsolved, his face with an odd, questioning look of an uncertain outcome.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Dave and Will helped me down the sharp coral ledge to the water's edge. The lighthouse, where the Johnston's kept their pigs, was on the highest point of the island. The view was spectacular. To the east was the vast Atlantic Ocean. Southward stretched other cays, all the way to the end of Abaco Island at a desolate place called Land's End. To the north, the tiny cays lay like pearls dropped at random by a playful child. Seaward we were surrounded by bluish-purple ocean. Leeward by green, turquoise, and sparkling clear water.
The mainland of Abaco lay a mile to the west. It is situated roughly in a north-south line a hundred and twenty-five miles in length, and shaped like a dogleg.
There was no sand beach where I was entering the water, only hard coral washed razor-sharp by millions of years of pounding surf. The wave action carved out a huge cave and fish of every species swam in and out with each surge of the sea.
We waited until a swell rose slowly up the coral. Then, with careful timing, Dave and Will eased me into the water. The sharp coral sliced deeper cuts into my feet, but there was nothing to be done about it.
Entering on the ocean side, the only thing between Africa and me was three thousand miles of open water and sharks. It was about a mile swim to round the point, then another mile after crossing the bar to Family Beach.
Two shots rang out from Dave's magnum and echoed like claps of thunder. He had just killed me. It was an eerie feeling to know that the bullets, but for a small stroke of luck, would have terminated my life. I hoped Dave could get away with the ruse, as it wouldn't be healthy for him if he were caught faking my death.
