it won't be. We stole papers from a dead man. At his instructions. That's no call for being shot at. Enough's enough, goddamn it!'
Barak laughed. 'You have a short memory, mon! Up in the tall grass there is a dead policeman. Without doubt, Floyd took at least one other life with him; Floyd was an expert shot... Your head will be blown off; the Falmouth police will not hesitate.'
Barak Moore was right. Where the hell was Whitehall?
'Was he shot? Do you know if he was wounded?'
'I think not, mon. I cannot be sure... Charley-mon did not do as I told him. He ran southwest into the field.'
A single shaft of light was seen a hundred yards upstream, streaking down through the overgrown banks.
'Look!' cried Alex. Moore turned.
There was a second, then a third beam. Three dancing columns of light, wavering towards the river below.
'No time now, mon! Get in and pole fast!'
The two of them shoved the raft towards the centre current and jumped onto the bamboo-rodded surface.
'I get in front, mon!' yelled Moore, scrambling over the platformed, high-backed seat used by tourists viewing the beauty of the Martha Brae. 'You stay in the rear, mon! Use the pole and when I tell you, stop and put your legs over the backside!'
McAuliff focused his eyes in the moonlight, trying to distinguish which was the loose pole among the strapped cylinders of bamboo. It was wedged between the low railing and the deck; he picked it up and plunged it into the waters, into the mud below.
The raft entered the rapids and began careening downstream. Moore stood up in the bow and used his pole as a deflector, warding the racing bamboo float off the treacherous series of flesh-cutting rocks that broke the surface of the water. They were approaching a bend in the river. Barak shouted.
'Sit on the backside, mon! Put your feet into the water. Quick, mon!'
Alex did as he was ordered; he soon understood. The drag created by his weight and his feet gave Moore that slightly slower speed he needed to navigate the raft through a miniature archipelago of hazardous rocks. The bamboo sides crashed back and forth, into and over the mounds of jagged stone; twice McAuliff thought the raft would list right out of the water.
It was the sound of the harsh scrapings and his concentration on the rapids that caused Alex to delay his realization of the gunshots. And then that realization was complete with the stinging, searing pain in his left arm. A bullet had grazed his flesh; the blood trickled down his sleeve in the moonlight.
There was a staccato-burst of gunfire.
'You get down, mon!' yelled Barak. 'Get flat! They cannot follow us; we get around the bend, there is a grotto. Many caves. They lead up to the Brae Road, mon... .Ayeee!'
Moore buckled; he let go of the pole, grabbed his stomach, and fell onto the bamboo deck. Alex reached down for the oblong archive case, crammed it into his belt, and crawled as fast as he could to the front of the raft. Barak Moore was writhing; he was alive.
'How bad are you hurt?'
'Pretty bad, mon!... Stay down! If we get stuck, jump out and push us off... Around bend, mon.'
Barak was unconscious. The bamboo raft plunged over a shallow, gravelled surface and then into the final curve of the bend, where the water was deep, the current powerful and faster than before. The sounds of gunfire stopped; they were out of sight of the Trelawny police.
McAuliff raised his shoulders; the archive case was cutting into his skin beneath his belt, his left arm stung with pain. The river now became a huge flat pool, the waters rushing under the surface. There were stone cliffs diagonally across, rising sharply out of the river bank.
Suddenly Alex saw the beam of a lone flashlight, and the terrible pain of fear pierced his stomach. The enemy was not behind - he was waiting.
Involuntarily, he reached into his pocket for his gun. The Smith & Wesson given him by Westmore Tallon. He raised it as the raft steered itself towards the stone cliffs and the flashlight.
He lowered himself over the unconscious body of Barak Moore and waited, his arm outstretched, the pistol aimed at the body beyond the flashlight.
He was within forty yards of the silent figure. He was about to squeeze the trigger and take a life.
''Barak, mon,' came the words.
The man on the river bank was Lawrence.
Charles Whitehall waited in the high grass