McAuliff and Whitehall lobbed rocks into the pool; the splashes were interspersed with the monstrous shrieks. A weird cacophony filled the air.
The shutters from the first floor room were thrown open. The guard could be seen behind the grillework, a rifle in his hand.
Suddenly a stone hit Alex's cheek. The blow was gentle, not stunning. He whipped his head towards the direction of the throw. Floyd was waving his arm in the tall grass, commanding McAuliff to stop hurling the rocks. Alex grabbed Whitehall's hand. They stopped.
The shrieks then became louder, accompanied by blunt thuds of pounding earth. Alex could see Barak and Floyd in the moonlight. They were slapping the ground like crazed animals; the horrible noises coming from their shaking heads reached a crescendo.
Wild pigs fighting in the high grass.
The door of Piersall's house crashed open. The guard, rifle in hand, released the dog at his side. The animal lurched out onto the lawn and raced towards the hysterical sounds and all-too-human odours.
McAuliff knelt, hypnotized by what followed in the Jamaican moonlight. Barak and Floyd scrambled back into the field without raising their bodies above the grass and without diminishing the pitch of their animal screams. The Doberman streaked across the lawn and sprang headlong over the border of the field and into the tall grass.
The continuing shrieks and guttural roars were joined by the savage barking of the vicious dog. And, amid the terrible sounds, Alex could distinguish a series of spits; the dart gun was being fired repeatedly.
A yelping howl suddenly drowned out the man-made bellowing; the guard ran to the edge of the lawn, his rifle raised to fire. And before McAuliff could absorb or understand the action, Charles Whitehall grabbed a handful of rocks and threw them towards the lighted pool. And then, a second handful hard upon the first.
The guard spun around to the water; Whitehall slammed Alex out of the way, raced along the edge of the grass, and suddenly leaped out on the lawn at the black patrolman.
McAuliff watched, stunned.
Whitehall, the elegant academic - the delicately boned Charley-mon - lashed his arm out into the base of the guard's neck, crashed his foot savagely into the man's midsection, and seized a wrist, twisting it violently so that the rifle flew out of the guard's hands; the man jerked off his feet, spun into the air, and whipped to the ground. As the guard vibrated off the grass, Whitehall took swift aim and crashed his heel into the man's skull below his forehead.
The body contorted, then lay still.
The shrieking stopped; all was silent.
It was over.
Barak and Floyd raced out from the high grass onto the lawn. Barak spoke.
'Thank you, Charley-mon. Indiscriminate gunfire might have found us.'
'It was necessary,' replied Whitehall simply. 'I must see those papers.'
'Then let us go,' said Barak Moore. 'Floyd, take this real pig inside; tie him up somewhere.'
'Don't waste time,' countered Whitehall, starting for the house, the receptacle under his arm. 'Just throw him into the grass. He's dead.'
Inside, Floyd led them to the cellar stairs and down into Piersall's basement. The cistern was in the west section, about six feet deep and five wide. The walls were dry; cobwebs laced the sides and the top. Barak brushed aside the filmy obstructions and lowered himself into the pit.
'How do you know which are the blocks?' asked Whitehall urgently, the black rectangular box clasped in his hand.
'There is a way; the Doctor explained,' replied Moore, taking out a small box of safety matches. He struck one and stared at the north centre line, revolving slowly clock-wise, holding the lighted match against the cracks in the blocks on the lower half of the pit.
'Ground phosphorus,' stated Whitehall quietly. 'Packed into the concrete edges.'
'Yes, mon. Not much; enough to give a little flame, or a sputter, perhaps.'
'You're wasting time!' Whitehall spat out the words. 'Swing to your left, towards the northwest point! Not to your right.'
The three men looked abruptly at the scholar. 'What, Charley-mon?' Barak was bewildered.
'Do as I say!... Please.'
'The Arawak symbols?' asked McAuliff. 'The... odyssey to death, or whatever you called it? To the right of the setting sun?'
I'm glad you find it amusing.'
'I don't, Charley-mon. Not one goddamn bit,' answered Alex softly.
'Ayee...' Barak whistled as tiny spits of flame burst out of the cistern's cracks. 'Charley, you got