He felt the point of the knife press at the base of his neck and heard Ronald say, “Up.” He closed the window.
They approached a traffic circle, where signs pointed to the right for Hamilton, straight ahead for Warwick and Southampton. A policeman stood in the center of the circle, directing the early-evening traffic. Sanders wondered if, as the driver slowed for the circle, he would have time to open the door, roll out, and yell for help. Then he saw the driver wave at the policeman, and the policeman smiled and waved back.
It was growing dark, and as they drove along South Road, never exceeding the 20 mph speed limit, Sanders could barely decipher signs for Elbow Beach, the Orange Grove Club, Coral Beach, and the Princess Beach Club.
High on a hill he saw the huge Southampton Princess Hotel and then the Gibb’s Hill lighthouse. They had traveled almost the whole length of the island.
The stuffy silence increased Sanders’ nervousness.
“How much farther?” he asked.
“Shut up,” said Ronald.
They crossed Somerset Bridge, and another fact from his
Gail did not answer. Sanders’ escape attempt had shaken her, and she did not want to encourage another confrontation.
Ronald motioned with his knife for Sanders to face front.
“For whatever that’s worth,” Sanders said, turning back.
The car went left off the main road, onto a dirt track, following a sign that said “Public Wharf.” They entered a clearing-a crowded square, filled with flsh-and-vegetable stalls and ramshackle shops. At the far end of the square was a rickety dock to which half a dozen weathered, patched boats were moored. There were no other cars in the square, and children scampered so carelessly in front of the Morris that the driver had to creep along in first gear. He parked in front of what seemed to be a grocery store. Canned goods and fruit were piled high in the window. A penciled placard advertised bait and pork rind. Faded letters on the gray limestone said, “Teddy’s Market.”
Two young black men were lounging by the doorway. One was casually flipping a hunting knife into the dirt.
The other leaned against the door jamb, arms folded, watching the green car; his shirt was open to the waist, displaying a fresh red scar that ran from his right clavicle to below his left pectoral muscle-macho graffiti. There was something familiar about the man; Sanders tried to place him, but couldn’t.
“Yon come quiet,” said Ronald. “No smart stuff, or they fillet you.” He jerked his head toward the men at the door, then got out of the car and held the back door open for Gail.
Sanders opened the front door and stepped out onto the dirt. A breeze was blowing across Ely’s Harbour, and it felt cool as it dried the sweat on his face.
“Inside,” Ronald said. He followed them through the door, saying to the man with the scar, “What’s doin’?”
“Waitin’ on you, man.”
It was the inflection on the word “man” that made Sanders realize who the bearer of the scar was: Slake, the waiter from Orange Grove.
Reflexively, Sanders turned to look at him, but he was pushed forward into the store.
Stepping into the darkness of the store, David could see nothing. There seemed to be rows of merchandise on both sides of an aisle. Gradually, as his pupils adjusted, he saw a faint light shining under a door at the rear of the store. “Where?”
Ronald brushed past him. “You follow me.” When he reached the door, he rapped once, then twice.
A voice inside said, “Come.”
Ronald opened the door and motioned Gail and David through. He followed them, shut the door, and leaned against it.
On the far side of the room was a desk, and behind it sat a young man-in his late twenties or very early thirties, Sanders guessed. The sweat on his forehead caught the light and made his black skin shine. He wore gold- rimmed spectacles and a starched white shirt. There was no jewelry on his hands, but around his neck was a thin gold chain that held an inch-long gold feather. Two burly men comolder than the ones outside the store-flanked him in formal symmetry, arms folded, beside the desk. The room was cluttered with cartons and boxes and file cabinets, and smelled of fish and dirt and sweat and overripe fruit. Two bare light bulbs hung from the ceiling.
The man behind the desk stood up. “Mr. and iVI-RS. Sanders,” he said, smiling. “I am glad you agreed to come.”
Sanders recognized the man’s accent; he had heard it in Guadalupe; the accent of one whose native language is Caribbean French and who has learned English in a church school.
“We weren’t exactly invited,” Sanders said.
“No. But I’m glad you chose not to resist. I am Henri Cloche.” He paused, expecting the Sanderses to recognize
the name. When they did not react, he went on. “The name means nothing? So much the better.” He looked at Gail. “Forgive me, madam. You would like a chair?”
“No.” Gail looked directly at Cloche, hoping he would not see she was afraid. “Why are we here?”
“Of course,” said Cloche. He held out his hand.
“The ampule.”
Sanders said, “We don’t have it.”
Cloche looked back and forth, from David to Gail, smiling, holding out his hand. He snapped his ringers.
Sanders felt strong hands grip his arms and pin his elbows back. One of the men beside the desk stepped over to him, grabbed the collar of his shirt, and tore it open, stripping the buttons away. The hands behind him pulled the shirt off his back.
The other man made a move toward Gail, but Cloche stopped him with a wave of his hand. “Take your clothes off,” he said. “Both of you. Now.”
Gail forced herself to keep looking at Cloche.
Slowly, she unbuttoned her blouse and dropped it to the floor. One of Cloche’s men picked it up and examined it, feeling along the seams, bending the built-in collar stays. She unhooked her short, wrap-around skirt. The man held out his hand for it, but she dropped it on the floor at his feet. Still looking at Cloche, her eyes locked on his, she undid her bra and dropped it. The man caught it before it hit the floor, and he picked through the cups, checking the thin padding.
Sanders undressed less meticulously, shedding his clothes and letting the hands behind him take them from him.
It was not until he was naked that he noticed Gail staring at
Cloche. Her thumbs were hitched in her bikini underpants. He tried not to look at her, but the palpable excitement of the gawking men was contagious, and he sensed heat rushing into his groin. He closed his eyes, fighting the absurd tumescence.
Cloche had not taken his eyes off Gail’s face.
“Nothing,” said the man behind Sanders.
The word broke the trance, and Cloche’s eyes dropped down Gail’s body. He looked away.
“Put your clothes on,” he said.
Gail bent over to gather her clothes.
“I could conduct a proper examination of you both,”
Cloche said testily, “but never mind. I assume Romer Treece has the ampule. One alone is of no importance.”
“Then why all this cloak-and-dagger stuff?” Sanders said as he pulled on his trousers.
“Do you know Bermuda, Mr. Sanders?”
“Some.”
“Then you will recall, perhaps, the ex-governor—the late governor, I should say—the one who was so fond of
