A boy picked his way across the deck, collecting fares. Burt drew out his wallet and removed a British West Indian dollar. “I get off at Isle de Trois.”
“I think we don’t stop there, sir.”
Burt looked up. The boy was shirtless and barefoot, with trousers cut off at the knees. “Why not?”
“Too much sea. The water very swift there, no good bottom to hold anchor.”
“Well, can you get me in close? Joss could send out a boat to pick me up.”
The boy nodded. “I ask the captain.”
As the boy started away, Burt called, “How old are you?”
“Fourteen year.” The boy squinted at Burt for a moment, then shrugged and started up the gangway.
Burt sighed and pulled a paperback book from the pocket of his white canvas trousers. The same age. Funny. And the kid that got sick on the plane looked around fourteen, too. Burt remembered the smell of fear in the darkened store, the roar of the other’s gun and the ripping pain in his thigh, then his own reflexive shot at the muzzle flash. He saw again the beardless face, curiously feminine in death, and the ugly redness where Burt’s slug had torn through his throat...
Burt closed the book and returned it to his pocket. There would be time to read on the island, time to dive in the air-clear water, fish, and walk on the salt-white sand and put strength in his leg, or just to sit at the top of the island’s lone hill and think. What about? Well, think about reaching the age of twenty-eight and deciding you’ve picked the wrong career. That would keep him busy for his entire month of sick leave. He wondered if he should’ve sent Joss a wire... but then she’d told him once that nobody came during the summer. He’d probably have the whole square mile of the island to himself.
The boy returned and said the captain wanted to see him. Burt planted his bamboo cane and rose. He was slightly less than six feet tall, heavy-set in a hard-muscled way which made him look average. He used the cane no more than necessary to steady himself on the rolling deck.
The wheelhouse swarmed with girls in bright-colored dresses. It was a mark of status for a girl to ride with the skipper, and Captain O’Ryan was notoriously free with his favor. He was a blue-black Negro who walked softly, talked slowly, and had a barrel-chested build.
He grinned as Burt entered. “Mister March. I din’ recognize you when you board. Man, you pale, lose weight.” He gripped his jaw to indicate hollow cheeks.
Burt held up his cane. “Had a little accident, so they handed me an extra vacation.”
“So you rest with Miss Joss, eh? If she leave you be. Maybe I stop off one day when the sea calm down, bring some rum.” O’Ryan looked at the deck, dipping and swaying below, then raised his eyes to the southeastern horizon. “I think a hurricane trying to work up.” He looked sideways at Burt. “You never been in one of our hurricanes?”
“No.”
“Ah, man, they come rare and small, but hard, hard.” He grinned as though looking forward to it. “Well, we get you close and see if Miss Joss will pick you up. You give her something for me?”
“Sure,” said Burt, then frowned as O’Ryan drew a smart, olive-green leather purse from beneath the binnacle. “That doesn’t belong to Joss.”
“No, a lady left it on my ship three days ago. She staying now with Joss.”
A twinkle in O’Ryan’s eye gave new significance to the expensive look of the purse and the seductive scent which rose from it. Burt suspected that if O’Ryan fulfilled his promise to stop on the island, it wouldn’t be to visit Burt.
“Pretty lady, huh?”
“Pretty, yes, but—” O’Ryan frowned. “Her eyes move about like butterflies, never still.” He shrugged and turned back to the wheel as the schooner approached a cluster of islands. “But you all that way, man, you live too fast up there.”
Back on deck, Burt sat on his coil of rope and dangled the purse thoughtfully between his knees. He felt an irritating urge to peer inside and learn something more about the girl. If he dropped it, perhaps it would spring open...
Put it away, March. You’re off-duty. Forget it.
He set it on the deck between his feet, then braced himself as the schooner heeled over abruptly. They were negotiating the swift frothy channel between two islands. Ten yards away a black jagged rock thrust up from the sea, bird droppings melting down its side like cake frosting. The schooner dipped, then soared sickeningly. It poised for a second, tilted, slid into the trough. There was a shuddering thump against the hull. A wall of white water plumed up and arched overhead. Burt put his head between his knees and felt the water drum against his back. Another swoop, a dip, and another shower, smaller than the first, the schooner righted itself and entered smooth water. Burt settled back and looked at the people sprawled on the streaming deck. A few of the girls were rising to their knees, throwing their dripping hair off their foreheads and, with a total lack of self-consciousness, raising their dresses and wringing out the water. Burt felt his feet squishing inside his white crepe-soled sneakers and decided that getting soaked was a part of inter-island travel, not at all unpleasant.
“Oh-oh, the purse. He looked down, felt a twinge of alarm, then saw it caught in a loop of rope, half-submerged in the runoff water. He picked it up and shook off the water. Better see if any got inside...
He paused with his hand on the catch, then shrugged.
The smell struck him again as he opened the purse; an exciting smell of perfume. Ladies’ soft leather wallet... Once started, he fell into an unconscious search pattern. The wallet’s plastic windows contained a social security card issued to Miss Tracy Dunn, and a Florida driver’s license for Mrs. Tracy Keener. Must have quit work after she got married, otherwise she’d have had her card changed. Age, twenty-eight. Well, well, she’s a Gemini too, and the same age. Address in North Miami. Evidence was stacking up. Her married status didn’t seem very important, since she’d come to the island alone. Where was Mr. Keener? Dead, divorced, separated, working... having a ball elsewhere. Weight one-oh-five, height five-four. A good build, provided the weight was arranged properly. Hair black, eyes brown. Folder of traveler’s checks, all fresh and new. Whee! Hundreds, tens of ’em. Poor little working girl struck it rich. Probably married the boss’s son, or the boss... Funny no pictures, probably meant she had no kids. Lipstick, bright red, a little garish for Burt’s taste. Well, nobody’s perfect, Can of talcum power, funny thing to carry in a purse. Or was it? He took it out and shook it, felt a soft rattle against his hand. Maybe the powder had gotten wet and lumpy...
The lid came off with a hard twist of his fingers. He shook out some powder and a capsule dropped into his palm. He felt a coldness at the back of his neck. He looked up quickly. The passengers were busy drying themselves. He cleaned off the capsule and saw the white powder inside. He didn’t bother taking it apart. What else comes in capsules which you have to hide inside a talcum powder can? There were fourteen in all. The girl had a heavy, heavy habit...
He put everything back in the can, replaced the lid, returned the can to the purse and closed it. She’d been nervous as a cat, and why not? Carrying a couple hundred bucks worth of heroin. But then, to walk off the boat and leave it...
Isle de Trois jutted abruptly from the sea to the south, humped up to a five-hundred foot prominence, then sloped gently to the north. As the schooner neared, Burt could make out the three black crags which gave the island its name. The upper slope was clothed in cedar, frangipani and shoulder-high citronella grass. At the water’s edge a line of palm trees overhung the thatched roof of the beach club. In front of the club curved a silver-white beach strewn with conch shells and bleached coral. A gentle swell disturbed the lagoon and caressed the beach.