around his neck.”
“What does it mean?”
“Finding it? Not anything, necessarily. Chances are, a ship went up on the rocks out there, somewhere-God knows where-and the tide washed this and the coin you found in over the reefs. Or a survivor might have tried to swim to shore and didn’t make it. This is personal stuff, not ship’s treasure.” Treece seemed to ponder his own words. “But, dammit, those answers don’t sit right.”
“Why?”
“I’ve been all over those reefs for twenty years and more. I’m not saying I know every inch of every Bermuda reef, but because of
“How old is it?” Sanders said.
“The cameo? A couple of hundred years.”
Treece turned it over in his hand. “It’s Spanish. And damn fine workmanship. Very carefully made.”
“If it’s a couple hundred years old, Bermuda would have been inhabited when the ship went down-if there is a ship. There could be records.”
“It depends: if anyone saw it go down, if anyone survived, or if anyone’s salvaged it since. That’s the likeliest—salvage.”
“Why?”
“The incident would be over and done with. No need to prolong it with searches or detailed survivors’ accounts, so no pile of records. If I had to guess at the story, I’d say the ship heaved up on the rocks during a storm, but didn’t sink. Maybe a few people—this E.f. included-were washed overboard. When the wind died, they might have caulked her and refloated her. Or, if they couldn’t, they’d’ve stripped her clean-guns, cargo, personal effects, everything-and left her on the rocks. Next big wind’d hash her up and scatter the pieces all over the place. There’d be damn little left of her to spot.”
Sanders was disappointed. “So you think we’ve found all there is?”
“That’s just a guess.” Treece handed the cameo to Gail. “What do you plan to do with it?”
“I hadn’t thought. Can I keep it?”
“Aye, but legally you can’t take it off Bermuda, not unless you offer to sell it to the Bermuda Government and they decline.”
“I don’t want to sell it; I want to keep it.”
“Then, girl,” Treece said with a smile, “you have two options: You can smuggle it out or you can become a Bermuda resident.”
Sanders said, “When do you want to go tomorrow night?”
“Come up around sunset. My boat’s in a cove below. We can be on
They rode down the hill, through St. David’s, and across the Severn Bridge. On the causeway separating St. George’s Island from Hamilton Parish they were overtaken by two taxis coming from the airport, but otherwise the road was empty. As they passed signs directing tourists to the dolphin show at the Blue Grotto, a green
Morris Minor pulled out of a dirt alley and closed to within twenty yards of them.
The car had been behind them for several minutes when Sanders first noticed it in his rear-view mirror.
He pulled as far to the left as he could without striking the coral wall by the side of the road. Ahead, the road bent to the right. As he rounded the turn, Sanders saw two motorbikes and a small truck coming toward them. He put out his right hand and signaled the green car to stay back.
The vehicles passed, and now David and Gail were on a straight stretch of Harrington Sound Road.
There was no oncoming traffic, so Sanders waved the green car ahead. But the car stayed back. Sanders heard the honk of a horn, and he looked in his mirror. A black taxi was behind the green car. The taxi driver honked again, and Sanders waved it forward. The taxi pulled out and passed the green car and the two motorbikes.
Sanders throttled down and dropped back parallel with Gail. “That jerk won’t pass!” he called to her.
“I know. There’s a driveway up ahead. Let’s pull over and let him go by.”
Fifty yards ahead, Sanders saw a break in the thick bushes and a narrow road that led up a hill to a house; there was a sign, “Innisfree.” He put out his arm to indicate a left turn and cut the motor until his bike was barely moving. He expected the green car to pull out and pass, but it slowed with him.
Sanders and Gail stopped at the entrance to the driveway. The Morris moved ahead and turned sharply left, nosing into the bushes and cutting off any avenue of escape. A tall black man in a mechanic’s outfit opened the left-hand door and stepped out. The driver, another black man, stayed in his seat.
“What do you want?” Sanders said.
“Man want to see you,” the tall man replied.
“Whatman?”
“Make no mind. Get in the car.”
Sanders heard an engine noise, and he glanced down the road to his left. A station wagon was rounding a bend, coming toward them. It was heavily loaded and moving slowly.
“Move!” said the man.
The station wagon was about twenty yards away; in a couple of seconds, it would be abreast of the Morris. As if obeying, Sanders took a step toward the Morris, then suddenly darted sideways, sprang onto the hood of the Morris, and, before the man could stop him, leaped into the air at the oncoming station wagon.
He had a quick glimpse, through the windshield of the station wagon, of the driver’s shocked face. He heard the squeal of skidding tires.
The station wagon was barely moving when Sanders landed on its hood, so he was not hurt by the concussion. But his momentum prevented him from stopping; he rolled off the hood and struck his face on the pavement. He tasted blood.
Sanders scrambled to his feet and yelled, “Help!”
The station wagon was full of cricketers, all dressed in white. The driver, a young black, stuck his head out the window and screamed, “You crazy, man!”
Sanders pointed to the Morris. “They’re kidnaping us!”
“What?”
The tall man, now standing next to Gail, called, “Don’t pay him no mind, man. He’s smokin’ bad shit.”
“No!” Sanders said. “Help us! They’re-was “Crazy bastard!” the driver yelled. “You gon’ get killed one day.” Then he said to the tall man, “You tourin’ some crazy bastards, Ronald.” He ducked his head inside the window and pressed the accelerator to the floor.
Sanders reached for the station wagon as it lumbered by him, but his hand slipped off the steel. The road was empty in both directions. He debated running, but he did not want to leave Gail.
The tall man, Ronald, snapped a switchblade knife open and held it at his waist, pointing at Sanders. “Move!” he said. “Or I cut your ass.” He took Sanders’ arm and roughly pushed him toward the Morris.
Sanders said, “At least let her go.”
“Her, too.” Ronald opened the front door of the car and shoved Sanders inside.
“What do I do with this?” Gail said, holding the handle bars of her motorbike.
“Drop it.”
She released the handle bars, and the motorbike clattered to the pavement. She climbed into the back seat of the car.
Ronald pushed both motorbikes into the underbrush, got in the back seat next to Gail, shut the door, and, cradling the knife in his lap, said, “Okay.”
The driver pulled out onto the road.
V
They traveled in silence. The windows were shut, and the air in the car quickly grew acrid with breath and sweat. As they passed a sign for the botanical gardens in Paget, Sanders rolled his window down.
