Enraged at the delay Neil crossed quickly to Rick and drove his fist into his face, sending him crashing back against the bureau and down to the floor. He grabbed the pistol from the drawer and, carrying the automatic rifle in one hand like a handgun, rushed back to the head of the stairs. 'PHIL!' he shouted down.
There was no answer. Michael's legs were still visible at the foot of the stairs, his torso and head in the living-room. The silence brought forth from Neil a low moan of anguish. Two shots and silence: Philip must have been hit by some newcomer. He edged himself to the banister at the top of the stairs and peered down. Still no sound.
`You down there,' Neil shouted. 'I . . . I . . . I know you got Phil so I want to surrender. I never wanted to be part of this . . .' Neil wanted to get the man - Larry was it? - to talk, to focus his attention on Neil. Perhaps he didn't know Jeanne was in the kitchen. Oh, dear Lord please don't let him have shot Jeanne...
`Throw your gun down the stairs!' a deep male voice commanded from some place in the living-room.
Neil took out Rick's gun and tossed it down the stairs. It bounced twice and came to rest near Michael's feet. Neil noticed that the door to the other downstairs room opposite the living-room was now open. Come on, Jeanne, he's talking to me. Shoot the bastard.
`Now come down with your hands held high up over your head,' Larry commanded next. At what point will I become visible to him? Neil wondered. He took a step down the stairs. Then another. Where are you, Jeanne? he wondered, prayed. A third step. Two more and my legs will be in sight. He won't shoot until he can hit my belly. A fourth step. No more. Something, pray it not be death, must be stopping Jeanne from shooting from the kitchen. He had to get Larry to move. He took a fifth step down, then leapt the last seven steps in two long strides, and threw himself into the room opposite the livingroom, rolling away from the door opening. Two shots whizzed past him, pounding into the stairway wall.
Neil got to his knees, glanced quickly around the room and stopped, stunned. Katya was sitting on the bed only six feet. away, naked. She looked at him with as much surprise as he guessed he must be looking back.
`Can you see anyone?' Neil whispered. She responded with a barely perceptible nod. 'Is Lisa here?' he asked next.
Katya shook her head and whispered, 'They never got her.'
Remembering the layout of the living-room Neil next asked, 'Is he behind the couch near the front door?' Again Katya gave a barely perceptible nod. Positioning himself at the edge of the door opening, he adjusted the rifle in both hands, then reached around the corner and sprayed off a three-second blast towards where he remembered the couch to be. He heard a muffled scream, then the sound of movement.
`He went towards the kitchen,' Katya whispered.
Neil stood up, took two quick strides across the hallway to the entrance to the livingroom and hesitated. As he started to peer into the room the bam-bam-bam of three quick shots blasted from the kitchen area. He ran into the living-room, rifle at the ready, and crouched behind one of the ornate wooden chairs. He saw two bodies on the far side of the room near the kitchen, one partially hidden behind the end of the second couch, only the bare legs visible. The first, he saw sickeningly, was Philip, and for a horrifying moment the bare legs of the second looked feminine. A movement at the kitchen door caught his eye and Jeanne stood there, her automatic at waist level, her eyes on the man she had apparently shot, blood spreading in a wide red splotch on the white cotton material at the shoulder of her blouse.
From the minute he and Olly began trying to barter for food Frank sensed that something was wrong. As they made their way from the docks the streets seemed strangely empty. The few people in the doorways of homes or bars or at street corners all seemed to be standing for the sole purpose of staring at Frank and 0lly as if they were enemy agents. Black food vendors with whom they'd bartered half a dozen times were now either gone or refused even to talk to them. They entered the nearest bar to find out what was happening.
Even at five in the afternoon Bosso's was packed. People were standing two and three deep at the long bar running along one wall, and the dozen small tables along the other were all filled. Almost everyone was drinking either water or a special post-war punch spiked with rum. Imported alcohol had disappeared. Frank and 0lly stood awkwardly in the crowded space between the bar and the tables. Everyone in the bar was white except at the far end where three black men stood, surrounded by a halo of conspicuous space. Many of the men in the bar kept glancing nervously at the entrance as if expecting an important but feared visitor.
Most who talked spoke in low voices or whispers, as if at a wake. There was no boisterousness or joy. The one loud drunk who made an effort at jollity sounded insane and soon lapsed into gloomy mumbling. Captain 0lly wedged himself between customers to press against the bar.
`Say, fella,' he asked the nearest bartender, 'who died?'
The bartender, a big man with thick glasses and wearing a cowboy hat, came towards Olly with a frown. The subdued bar had hushed even more at Olly's loud outburst.
`What d'ya mean, "who died?"' the bartender sullenly asked Olly.
`The way I figure it,' Captain 0lly replied, 'everyone's mother just got run over by a steamroller. Never been in such a dreary place. You got a law against talking in a normal voice?'
`You a stranger here?' the bartender countered. The two other bartenders, although still mixing drinks, were half-turned, listening.
`Hell, I've lived here for days,' 01ly said. 'You fellas acting as if you'd just learned that your blind date was a Russian missile.'
`You want a drink?' the bartender asked.
`The price of drinks these days being what it is I think I'll make water last into my next incarnation.'
The bartender shrugged his big shoulders and moved away to another customer. Unabashed, 01ly turned to the man to his left.
`What's bothering everybody, fella, huh?' he asked the tall, slender man who stood there. The man turned and looked coldly down at Olly. He shrugged.
`The blacks may be going to riot,' he said.
Ì see. What's their gripe?'
Ì wouldn't know,' the tall man said, looking away and lifting his almost empty glass to his lips.
`You don't seem much bothered,' said Olly.
Ì'm leaving tomorrow morning,' the man said neutrally. `Well, ain't that nice,' said Olly. '
Where you headed?' The man placed a silver dollar on the bar and then brushed past Olly and left. 01ly returned to Frank.
`You give it a try, Frank,' he said. 'I guess I ain't got the personality I once did.'
A big black man, with glittering white eyes and a sweat-covered face, abruptly stood before them. He was dressed in a neat brown suit totally inappropriate in the sweltering heat.
`You want to know why it's so gloomy in Bosso's today?' he asked, smiling, his gleaming eyes either stoned or mad.
`Yeah,' Frank said. 'We'd appreciate it,' and, glancing at Olly, followed the man over to the empty space near his friends. The other two men were dressed in the casual and unpretentious style more usual among Virgin Islanders, white and black.
`These people want to know what's going on,' the first man said, grinning absurdly at his two friends. 'I've promised to tell them.'
The other two blacks, subdued and sullen compared to the man who introduced himself as Mr Sutter, looked at him and then turned back to the bar and their drinks, which were water.
Èveryone's a little touchy these days,' Mr Sutter said. `Why?' Frank asked.
`Well, you see,' said Mr Sutter, turning his glittering eyes on Frank, 'the obliteration of San Juan has had a certain depressing effect on everyone. We all thought we were safe here and then "boom" we find we're not. Five days ago the small cruise ship, St Augustine, loaded with almost a thousand passengers, most of them white, sailed away from the white enclave at Canneel Bay on St Johns. Tomorrow the Norway does the same.'
`Where are they going?' Frank asked.
`The St
Augustine is going to Rio de Janeiro, and the Norway, ah, the beautiful Norway, is sailing to, ah, yes, South Africa.' `Jesus,' said Frank.
`This mass exodus of whites to South Africa is having a certain alienating effect upon some of the blacks,' Mr Sutter went on, grinning as if telling a dirty story. 'Certain resentments seem to have arisen. A feeling, as you mainlanders would put it, of being screwed.'
Àre most of the people in here planning to sail tomorrow on the Norway?' Frank asked. Àll but my two friends here,' Mr Sutter replied, gesturing at the two blacks next to them at the bar. 'They lack both gold and the belief that South Africa is Nigger heaven.'
`You're going?' asked Frank.
`You're goddamned right. Forced to choose between my identity as a live rich man or a dead black man, I've had no trouble in opting for the .Norway and Capetown. The South Africans may not like the colour of my skin but they've always liked the colour of gold.'
A commotion at the entrance of the bar distracted Frank: the people nearest the door began to talk loudly and, as if a plug had been pulled at the door, everyone in the room began to be sucked towards the entrance.
`THEY'RE COMING!' someone shouted and several men produced guns. A man now stood a few feet away aiming a .38 at the three blacks still at the bar. Mr Sutter, sweating, grinned grotesquely.
Ì assure you,' he said to the thickset white man with the gun. 'I am not part of the revolution.' The other two blacks were looking sullenly at the white but appeared unperturbed.
Ì want you three to turn around,' the white man said, 'and lean against the bar with your arms outstretched. I'm going to check for your weapons.'
Captain Olly had left for the entrance, where the sound of gunshots could be heard, but Frank stood watching the confrontation.
Ì'm sailing on the Norway,' Mr Sutter insisted, trying to establish his connection with the
'good guys'. 'And although it makes me gag, I must confess that essentially I'm on your side.' None of the three blacks had moved.
Ì said turn around,' repeated the white man, looking nervous. 'And get your arms extended to the bar. NOW' He poked his gun in Sutter's ribs and gave him a show_
`My dear man,' Mr Sutter began, but even as he spoke_ one of the other blacks had leapt forward and grabbed the elm arm of the white and began wrestling with him. The other leapt to help, while Frank stood tensely in surprise and indecision. Within three or four seconds the white man staggered back against Frank, and one of the blacks, crouching, aimed the gun at them and backed towards the rear door of the bar. An explosive roar from the bar sent the man staggering backwards and falling in a heap to the floor, his shirt shredded. The other black fled. Frank turned to see one of the bartenders crouched behind the bar with a shotgun smoking. A distant explosion was heard from outside.
`FRANK!" Let's go!' Olly shouted from the front entrance.
`Get out of here, Sutter,' the bartender with the shotgun said.
`Yes,' said Mr Sutter, and, tight-lipped and terrified, he darted out the back exit. When Frank left the bar with Olly the bright afternoon sunlight blinded him and he could only see a few figures moving rapidly from left to right, towards the docks. The gunfire was from off to the left and from behind the buildings across the street. There was another loud explosion and the ground trembled under their feet. As his vision improved he saw smoke rise above the boutique across the street. As he and Olly turned right to hurry towards the docks Frank saw a huge brown tank rumbling down the street towards them, a handful of soldiers running crouched alongside and behind it. He and 01ly scurried along the sidewalk watching the big tank and the half-dozen soldiers - mostly black, Frank noted in surprise - chug past them in the direction of what Frank thought were the black rioters. A small Datsun heading towards the docks with a cracked windshield careened up on the kerb near them to avoid the soldiers and tank; the white driver, bleeding from a head-wound, looked terror-stricken. At the end of the first street, still a block from the docks and the marina where Mollycoddle was tied, a cluster of white civilians were crouched behind two overturned empty vegetable carts looking up the street where the tank had now stopped and from whence the shots were coming. Most of the men had either a rifle or handgun. Another explosion rocked the pavement and Frank turned to see that the tank had turned around and its smoking
cannon was now aimed down the street at them. Half the soldiers had disappeared, but the others were visible crouched behind parked cars; two were firing at the whites.
`The bastards are firing at us!' someone shouted.
`Let's go!' another yelled and two of them began running towards the docks, soon followed by the other four.
A piece of sidewalk popped up in front of Frank as he and Olly followed. It took him two strides to realize that it was a bullet.
They were all running now and within a minute had arrived at the dock area where cars were being overturned as barricades, while a few soldiers - here mostly white - looking bewildered, made half-hearted efforts to direct the flow of people. Along the three blocks of waterfront Frank could see only a single additional tank; it sat with its cannon aimed incongruously and ominously out to sea.
At the marina where Mollycoddle was kept were dozens of men, women and children and mounds of luggage. Most were gathered near the small boat dock, trying to get out to the Norway, still at anchor a half-mile out in the harbour. There was no crowd around Mollycoddle, and as he approached, Frank saw why: Macklin and Sheila stood aboard facing the dock each with an automatic rifle held at the hip and aimed at the dock. Although Sheila looked as if she could probably handle her gun, Macklin looked as if he wanted to use his, and his grim look alone would discourage most people. The ground in the marina parking lot abruptly exploded less than fifty yards away, sending people running in all directions and leaving four or five men sprawled on the ground. When Frank turned back he saw that rafted seaward to Mollycoddle was Scorpio, so low in the water compared to the Hatteras he hadn't seen her at first. With a surge of joy he saw Jim and Lisa emerge from the main cabin with empty boxes for transferring Mollycoddle's food to Scorpio. Jim waved and shouted: 'We found Lisa on Scorpio.'
`For Christ's sake dont; stand there!' Macklin shouted. 'Get aboard! We've got to get away!'
`Where's Jeanne and Neil?' Frank asked, boarding Mollycoddle behind Olly.
`They're not back,' Macklin shouted. 'They'll never get back through this. Get us out of here.'
Frank looked at Sheila who, pale, looked back at him questioningly. Glancing at his watch Frank realized that Neil and Philip were already half an hour overdue. Oscar ran up to Frank from Scorpio. `Pull us out of here,' he said, his small eyes wider than normal. 'They'll sink us!' `Tony!' Macklin shouted.
The glass in Mollycoddle's main windshield ten feet away shattered in three neat holes; Macklin crouched and Oscar threw himself to the floor. Frank, standing numbly, now realized there was gunfire all around them.
Tony sprang from Scorpio and in a crouching run joined Macklin huddled behind Mollycoddle's combing.
`Get us out of here!' Macklin shouted at him.
Tony crawled over to the controls and, glancing fearfully around, finally stood up and turned on the engine.
`Get the dock lines!' Macklin shouted at Frank and Oscar.
Another explosion boomed behind them and Frank turned to see the dock one channel away burst into fragments and a body go flying off and into the water. Sheila clutched his ann. `We can still wait,' she said. 'We can't desert them.'
`GET THE GODDAMN DOCK LINES!' Macklin shrieked at Frank and Oscar. Jim appeared beside Frank, slightly hunched over. 'We're not leaving yet, are we?' he asked. The smoke from the recent explosions, although it was blowing away from them, prevented them from seeing much of what was happening in the streets. Along the docks people were running, crouching, stampeding on to boats to get out to the Norway, occasionally shooting with seeming randomness back into the smoke.
-No . no, we're not,' Frank said in a low vo
ice.
Macklin, wild-eyed, suddenly jumped and ran forward along Mollycoddle's side and, with a knife, slashed the forward dockline. With the wind blowing the yacht against the dock, Mollycoddle remained where she was but when the two aft lines were cut, Tony would be able to motor off. As Frank, Sheila and Jim watched, Macklin next ran aft and cut the two other docklines.
`GO! Tony,' he shouted.
But Frank and Jim both came alive, at once, going to the wheel where Tony crouched.
`Not yet,' said Frank.
Tony stared back at him, his usually placid face filled with fear, then looked to Macklin for support.
`Get out of the way, Frank,' Macklin said, loudly, but with the calm coldness he usually manifested. Ì'm saving our lives. Get us out of here, Tony.' Macklin's automatic rifle was aimed directly at Frank and Jim. Ìf you're so hot to be with Neil and Jeanne and Philip, get off the boat. You too, Sheila.'
Sheila, still holding her automatic rifle - aimed vaguely shoreward - looked at Frank, then Macklin and finally back to the dock area. 'Oh, my God,' she said. When Frank let his eyes follow hers he saw emerging through the smoke in the parking lot, one pulling a garden cart, the other pushing a wheelbarrow, Neil and Katya. Escaping from the estate had been a nightmare. Philip had been shot twice, one bullet passing relatively harmlessly through the fleshy part of his side and the second into his back just to the right of the fifth vertebra without exiting. Jeanne had taken a bullet into and through her shoulder but, amazingly, after they had staunched the flow of blood, worked with one arm to help transport food with Katya, dressed again in her shorts and tee-shirt. When the car wouldn't start, Neil found in the garage a wheelbarrow and a large garden cart. He carried Philip outside and placed him in the two-wheeled cart. Jeanne and Katya brought out boxes, cartons and plastic bags of food and put them gently around the wounded Philip. They put the heavier foodstuffs in the wheelbarrow. With Neil towing the garden cart like a dray horse and Katya pushing the wheelbarrow, they fled. Jeanne, insisting that she was still strong enough, bicycled one-armed on ahead.