As he turned the corner into the outside alcove where the machine was situated, he was suddenly aware of a figure behind the latticework that fronted the lawn. The figure had moved quickly; there had been no sound of footsteps.
McAuliff rapidly scooped the cubes into the small bucket, closed the metal door, and walked back around the corner into the hallway. The instant he was out of sight, he silently placed the ice at his feet and pressed his back against the wall's edge.
There was movement.
McAuliff whipped around the corner, with every intention of hurling himself at whoever came into view. His fists were clenched, his spring accurate; he lunged into the figure of Lawrence. It was too late to regain his footing.
'Eh, mon! cried the black softly as he recoiled and fell back under Alex's weight. Both men rolled out of the alcove onto the lawn.
'Christ!' whispered McAuliff, next to Lawrence on the ground. 'What the hell are you doing here?'
Lawrence smiled in the darkness; he shook his hand, which had been pinned by Alex under his back. 'You're a big fella, mon! You pretty quick, too.'
'I was pretty damned excited... What are you doing out here?'
Lawrence explained briefly, apologetically. He and Floyd had made an arrangement with the night watchman, an old fisherman who prowled around at night with a shotgun neither guerrilla believed he knew how to use. Barak Moore had ordered them to stand evening patrols; they would have done so whether commanded to or not, said Lawrence.
'When do you sleep?'
'Sleep good, mon,' replied Lawrence. 'We take turns all the time.'
Alex returned to his room. Alison sat up in bed when he closed the door.
'Is everything all right?' she asked apprehensively.
'Better than I expected. We've got our own miniature army. We're fine.'
On the afternoon of the ninth day, McAuliff and Tucker reached the Martha Brae River. The geodometer charts and transit photographs were sealed hermetically and stored in the cool vaults of the equipment truck. Peter Jensen gave his summary of the coastal ore and mineral deposits; his . wife, Ruth, had found traces of plant fossils embedded in the coral, but her findings were of little value, and James Ferguson, covering double duty in soil and flora, presented his unstartling analyses. Only Alison's discovery of the lignite strata was unexpected.
All reports were to be driven into Ocho Rios for duplication. McAuliff said he would do this himself; it had been a difficult nine days, and the tenth was a day off.
Those who wanted to go into Ochee could come with him; the others could go to Montego or laze around the Bengal Court beach, as they preferred. The survey would resume on the morning of the eleventh day.
They made their respective plans on the river bank, with the inevitable picnic lunches put up by the motel. Only Charles Whitehall, who had done little but lie around the beach, knew precisely what he wanted to do, and he could not state it publicly. He spoke to Alex alone.
'I really must see Piersall's papers. Quite honestly, McAuliff, it's been driving me crazy.'
'We wait for Moore. We agreed to that.'
'When? For heaven's sake, when will he show up? It will be ten days tomorrow; he said ten days.'
'There were no guarantees. I'm as anxious as you. There's an oilcloth packet buried somewhere on his property, remember?'
'I haven't forgotten for an instant.'
Separation of concentrations; divided objectives.
Holcroft.
Charles Whitehall was as concerned academically as he was conspiratorially. Perhaps more so, thought Alex. The black scholar's curiosity was rooted in a lifetime of research.
The Jensens remained at Bengal Court. Ferguson requested an advance from McAuliff and hired a taxi to drive him into Montego Bay. McAuliff, Sam Tucker, and Alison Booth drove the truck to Ocho Rios. Charles Whitehall followed in an old station wagon with Floyd and Lawrence; the guerillas insisted that the arrangements be thus.
Barak Moore lay in the tall grass, binoculars to his eyes. It was sundown; rays of orange and yellow light filtered through the green trees above him and bounced off the white stone of Walter Piersall's house, four hundred yards away. Through the grass he saw the figures of the Trelawny Parish police circling the house, checking the windows and the doors; they would leave at least one man on watch. As usual.
The police had finished the day's investigation, the longest investigation, thought Barak, in the history of the parish. They had been at it nearly two weeks. Teams of civilians had come up from Kingston: