Warring thunderheads muscled one another about out over the aquamarine Atlantic. The western skies were lead-blue and getting blacker. Seabirds mewled and swooped overhead. Bermuda Weather Service had forecast gale-force winds later in the day, with moderate to heavy chop in Hamilton Sound. Seas were expected to be running six to ten feet offshore, increasing to twelve to fifteen later in the day.
An exciting day to be offshore, Hawke thought, missing his pretty little twenty-six-foot sloop,
Wind never bothered him much at sea. As an old sailor once put it, the pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts his sails. “Reef in a blow” was one of Hawke’s favorite life mottos, and so far, it had served him well. Today he would put it to the test.
The approaching storm front was moving east-northeast, approaching Bermuda at twelve miles an hour. The temperature had fallen at least ten degrees since he’d left Teakettle on his motorcycle. He was wearing only his scuffed boat shoes with no socks, old khaki trousers, a grey Royal Navy T-shirt, and a faded blue wind cheater. Aboard the Norton on the coast road, it was cold as hell.
Eyeing the approaching squall line, he estimated perhaps an hour before the full force of the oncoming storm made landfall. He twisted the handlebar grip and leaned into the lefthand turn. Traffic was light, police presence was invisible or nonexistent, and if it continued, he could arrive at his destination on time and dry as a bone.
Hawke, pushing his treasured Norton motorcycle hard, was racing east along Harrington Sound Road. To his left now, there were whitecaps frothing in the small inlet locally known as Shark’s Hole. The little bay was swollen like a blister, bulging. As he leaned into a turn, the first drops of rain stung his face and hands like angry bees. Then, just as suddenly, the rain stopped, and the sun returned, warm on his face and turning the world green and gold again.
This road would lead to the causeway, round the north side of the airport, and from there out to the tip of St. George’s and his destination, Powder Hill. It was Tuesday. He had a one o’clock appointment with Asia Korsakova. He had no idea why he was going. Perhaps to tell her he’d changed his mind about the portrait. That was one of the reasons he told himself he was going. There were many others better left alone.
Suddenly, he was aware of another motorcycle hard on his tail. He darted a look over his shoulder and saw the rider accelerating, closing the gap. He had long, matted dreadlocks whipping around from beneath his black helmet. Hawke thought he caught a glint of gold chain at the fellow’s neck. One of King Coale’s riders, the Disciples of Judah? Entirely possible, he decided. The bike behind him was a red Benda BD 150. At 150 cc, it was the most powerful engine legal on Bermuda. But his machine, as the Jamaican would soon learn, was no match for the ancient Commando.
Hawke grinned and slowed his bike, allowing the Rastaman’s Benda to close within a few yards. He looked back at the rider and saw him smile, the sun catching the trademark gold teeth that filled his mouth. Hawke smiled back, then opened the throttle on the Norton. The acceleration was explosive, and he surged ahead, reaching the next turning along Harrington Sound flat out, probably doing eighty miles an hour. He braked, caught the apex perfectly, and accelerated again, quickly winding it up to ninety.
Rounding a wide bend, he came up suddenly behind a slow-moving taxi, filled with tourists headed for the airport. He swung out and around without slowing, passing the Toyota van and rapidly coming upon the turn for Blue Hole. The airport and his intended route to the east end of St. George’s were to his right.
Rather than bear right, however, Hawke swung left, racing up the improbably named Fractious Street. A few hundred yards later, he veered into the small petrol station looming up on his right. He braked hard, tires squealing, and tucked in behind a large commercial van topping off at the pump. He waited for his tail to appear.
“Lost him,” Hawke said to himself five minutes later, having seen no sign of the Disciple. He was almost disappointed. He wanted to know what these fellows wanted to know. When he had the time, he intended to find out. Find this King Coale and have a little
He backtracked and was soon racing across the narrow two-lane causeway and bridge that spanned Castle Harbour. At the opposite end of the bridge lay the island of St. George’s and Bermuda’s airport. A big Delta 757 was on final at the field, roaring just above his head as he negotiated the roundabout that would spin him off toward the easternmost tip of St. George’s.
HOODOO SMILED AS Hawke stepped aboard the launch. There was none of the security business this time, no pat-downs, wands, or metal detectors at the shore station; there was only a friendly greeting and a tip of the hat from the launch man who had been waiting at the dock when Hawke arrived.
“How do you do on this lovely day, sir?” Hoodoo said, leaning on the throttles and getting quickly up on plane. Across the water, Powder Hill seemed to hover, sunlit, a brilliant parrot-green isle against a backdrop of deep purple skies.
“Well, and you?” Hawke replied.
“Can’t complain, sir.”
“Hoodoo, isn’t it?”
“It is, Mr. Hawke. Pleasure to see you again.”
“And you,” he said, extending his hand. The man took it, and his handshake was strong and dry.
“Storm on its way, sir. Bad one, I’m afraid.”
Hawke nodded and said, “I’m curious, Hoodoo, and perhaps you can help me.”
“I’ll try, sir.”
“What do you know about the Disciples of Judah? I only ask because they seem to have taken an unhealthy interest in me. Following me about all over the damned island.”
Hoodoo looked at him a beat too long and said, “Jamaicans. Bad magic. Bermudians hate the Jamaicans, but what can you do, sir? We all brothers, right?”
“Ever hear of a Jamaican chap named Coale? King Coale?”
“Don’t recall that name. I steer clear of that bunch. I urge you to do the same.”
Hawke thanked him and kept his thoughts to himself for the rest of the short voyage to the island of Powder Hill. As the island grew larger, the knots in his stomach tightened. He knew he was on a fool’s errand, but by God, he was nothing if not a willing fool.
The feelings Hawke had for Anastasia Korsakova were about as unambiguous as a grizzly bear in a brightly lit kitchen.
21
Hawke arrived at Half Moon House, said good-bye to Starbuck, the estate caretaker, and watched the green Range Rover disappear up the muddy lane that wound into the banana grove. The little crescent bay beside her pretty stone house was riffled with whitecaps. Unlike on his last visit, the artist-in-residence was not waiting for him up on the verandah. He ducked under the portico, entered the cool darkness, and tiptoed up the wooden staircase. He paused on the landing a moment, waiting for his heart to cease its pounding.
Hawke had been deeply in love only once. He had married a beautiful woman whose name was Victoria Sweet, only to have her die in his arms on the steps of the wedding chapel. She had haunted his dreams for years but, thank God, no longer. He was alone. The depression had faded over time, leaving only sad remnants. There was not even a ghost left now to drift with through the remaining years. He could stretch out his arms as far as they could reach into the night without fear that they might brush a silken shoulder. He-
He decided the hell with it and entered Asia’s studio. He found her with her back to him, perched on a blue wooden stool before an easel. She was using a broad brush to cover a large canvas with white gesso.
She was all in white, a low peasant blouse pulled down around her shoulders and a long white cotton skirt that fell to her ankles. Below a hem embroidered with coquina shells, her tanned feet perched on a rung like a pair of small brown birds.
“Asia,” he said from the doorway.
In that split second before she replied, he noticed that the hair on his forearms was standing on end, ionized by
