The water felt comfortably warm and the waves remained low. An early morning quarter-moon slipped over the horizon two hours ahead of the sun. With the added light Pitt could easily keep Jessie in view. She coughed as if she had taken in some water but appeared to be treading without effort.
"How's your backstroke?" he asked.
"Good." She sputtered and spit for a moment and said, "I took third in an all-state high school meet."
"What state?"
"Wyoming."
"I didn't know Wyoming had a swimming pool."
"Funny man."
"The tide is running in our favor, so let's get moving before it turns."
"It'll be light soon," she said.
"All the more reason to make shore and find cover."
"What about sharks?"
"They never breakfast before six o'clock," he said impatiently. "Now come on, no more talk."
They set off with the elementary backstroke, arms thrown back, legs thrusting in a whip kick. The incoming tide pushed them along at close to a knot, and they made good time. Jessie was a strong swimmer. She matched Pitt stroke for stroke, staying right alongside him. He marveled at her endurance after all she had been through the past six days and felt pity for the aches and exhaustion he knew she was suffering. But he could not allow her to slack off now, not until they reached shore and found a small measure of safety.
She had not offered a reason for forcing him to turn for Cuba, and Pitt had not asked. He didn't have to be clairvoyant to know she had a definite purpose in mind that went beyond mere insanity. This lady had very definite ideas and the stubbornness to back them up. He could have disarmed her by capsizing the Dasher during a fast turn on the down slope of a wave, and he was also reasonably certain she wouldn't have pulled the trigger if he had refused.
But it was business as usual for Pitt. "In for a penny, in for a pound / It's love that makes the world go round." Only he wasn't in love-- attracted, yes, but not swept away. Curiosity overrode any passionate urge. He could never resist sticking his foot through a door to the unknown. And then there was the lure of the La Dorada treasure. LeBaron's clue was meager, but the statue had to be somewhere in Cuba. The only snag was that he could easily get killed.
Pitt stopped and dove straight down, touching bottom at what he reckoned was ten feet. He reached out and accidentally brushed one of Jessie's legs as he surfaced. She shrieked, thinking she was being attacked by something big with a triangular fin, unseeing eyes, and a mouth that only a dentist could appreciate.
"Quiet!" he rasped. "You'll alert every guard patrol for miles."
"Oh, God, it was you!" she groaned in dazed fright.
"Keep it low," he murmured close to her ear. "Sound carries over water. We'll rest awhile and watch for signs of activity."
There was no answer from her, simply a light touch of her hand on his shoulder in agreement. They treaded water for several minutes, peering into the darkness. The dim moonlight softly illuminated the coastline of Cuba, the narrow strip of white sand and the dark shadows of the growth behind. About two miles to their right they could see lights from cars passing on a road that cut close to the shore. Five miles beyond an incandescent glow revealed a small port city.
Pitt could not detect any indication of movement. He gestured forward and began swimming again, using a breaststroke this time so he could keep his eyes trained ahead. Heights and shapes, angles and contours became nebulous silhouettes as they moved closer. After fifty yards he extended his feet downward and touched sand. He stood and the water came up to his chest.
"You can stand," he said softly.
There was a momentary pause, then she whispered tiredly, "Thank heavens, my arms feel like lead."
"As soon as we reach the shallows you lie still and take it easy. I'm going to scout around."
"Please be careful."
"Not to worry," he said, breaking into a wide grin. "I'm getting the hang of it. This is the second enemy beach I've landed on tonight."
"Are you ever serious?"
"When the occasion demands. Like now, for instance. Give me the gun."
She hesitated. "I think I lost it."
"You think?"
"When we went in the water--"
"You dropped it."
"I dropped it," she repeated in innocent regret.
"You don't know what a joy it's been working with you," Pitt said in abject exasperation.
They swam the remaining distance in silence until the low surf diminished and it was only a few inches deep. He motioned for Jessie to stay put. For the next minute Pitt lay rigid and unmoving, then abruptly, without a word, he leaped to his feet, ran across the sand, and vanished into the shadows.
Jessie fought to keep from nodding off. Her whole body was going numb from exhaustion, and she gratefully became aware that the pain from the bruises caused by Foss Gly's hands were fading away. The soothing lap of the water against her lightly clad body relaxed her like a sedative.
And then she froze, fingers digging into the wet sand, her heart catching in her throat.
One of the bushes had moved. Ten, maybe twelve yards away, a dark mass detached itself from the surrounding shadows and advanced along the beach just above the tideline.
It was not Pitt.
The pale light from the moon revealed a figure in a uniform carrying a rifle. She lay paralyzed, acutely aware of her naked helplessness. She pressed her body into the sand and slid backward slowly into deeper water, an inch at a time.
Jessie shrank in a vain attempt to make herself smaller as the beam from a flashlight suddenly speared the dark and played on the beach above the waterline. The Cuban sentry swept the light back and forth as he walked toward her, intently examining the ground. With a fearful certainty Jessie realized that he was following footprints. She felt a sudden anger at Pitt for leaving her alone, and for leaving a trail that led straight to her.
The Cuban approached within ten yards and would have seen the upper outline of her shape if he had only turned a fraction in her direction. The beam stopped its sweep and held steady, probing at the impressions left by Pitt on his dash across the beach. The guard swung to his right and crouched, aiming the flashlight into the bordering undergrowth. Then, inexplicably, he spun around to his left and the beam caught Jessie full in its glare. The light blinded her.
For a second the Cuban stood startled, then his free hand lifted the barrel of the automatic rifle that was slung over his shoulder and he pointed the muzzle directly at Jessie. Too terrified to speak, she clamped her eyes closed as if the mere act would shut out the horror and impact of the bullets.
She heard a faint thud, followed by a convulsive grunt. The bullets never came. There was only a strange silence, and then she sensed the light had gone out. She opened her eyes and stared vaguely at a pair of legs that stood ankle deep in the water, straddling her head, and through them she saw the inert body of the Cuban sentry stretched out on the sand.
Pitt leaned down and gently hoisted Jessie to her feet. He smoothed back her dripping hair and said, "It seems I can't turn my back for a minute without you getting into trouble."
"I thought I was dead," she said, as her heartbeat gradually slowed.
"You must have thought the same thing at least a dozen times since we left Key West."