will remain. Keep the outside doors open when you can. Lawrence will make sure no one enters.'
Alex slid off the wall and leaned against it. 'Doctor? I gather you're part of Barak's organization, if that's the word.'
'It is too precise at this juncture.'
'But you know what's going on.'
'Not specifically. Nor do I wish to. My function is to be available for medical purposes. The less involvement otherwise, the better for everyone.'
'You can get word to people, though, can't you?'
The doctor smiled. 'By "people" I assume you mean Barak's followers.'
'Yes.'
'There are telephone numbers... public telephones, and specific hours. The answer is yes.'
'We're going to need at least one other man. Floyd was killed.'
Alison Booth gasped. Her eyes riveted on Alex; her hand reached out for his arm. He covered it gently. 'Oh my God,' she whispered.
The doctor looked at Alison but did not comment on her reaction. He turned back to McAuliff. 'Barak told me. There may be a problem; we do not know yet. The survey is being watched. Floyd was part of it, and the police will find out. You will be questioned, of course. Naturally, you know absolutely nothing; wear long sleeves for a while - a few days, until the wound can be covered with a large plaster. To replace Floyd now with one of our men could be a self-induced trap.'
Reluctantly, Alex nodded. 'I see,' he said softly. 'But I need another man. Lawrence can't do triple duty...'
'May I make a suggestion?' asked the doctor with a thin smile and a knowing look in his eyes.
'What's that?'
'Use British Intelligence. You really should not ignore them.'
'Get some sleep, Sam. Lawrence, you do the same,' said Alex to the two men on the terrace. The doctor had left; his assistant remained with Barak Moore. Alison had gone into McAuliff's room and shut the door. 'Nothing will happen tonight, except possibly the police... to ask me questions about a crewman I haven't seen since early afternoon.'
'You know what to say, mon?' Lawrence asked the question with authority, as if he would provide the answer.
'The doctor explained; Barak told him.'
'You must be angry, mon! Floyd all the time a nigger thief from Ochee. Now you know: supplies stolen. You drum-drum angry, mon!'
'It doesn't seem fair, does it?' said Alex sadly.
'Do as he says, lad,' countered Sam Tucker. 'He knows what he's talking about... I'll nap out here. Hate the goddamn bed, anyway.'
'It isn't necessary, Sam.'
'Has it occurred to you, boy, that the police may just come here without announcing themselves? I'd hate like hell for them to get the rooms mixed up.'
'Oh Lord...' McAuliff spoke with weariness. It was the exhaustion of inadequacy, the pressure of continually being made aware of it. 'I didn't think about that.'
'Neither did the goddamn doctor,' replied Sam. 'Lawrence and I have, which is why we'll stand turns.'
'Then I'll join you.'
'You do enough tonight, mon,' said Lawrence firmly. 'You have been hurt... Maybe policemen do not come so quick. Floyd carry no papers. Early morning Sam Tuck and me take Barak away.'
'The doctor said he was to stay where he is.'
'The doctor is a kling-kling, mon! Two, three hours Barak will sleep. If he is not dead, we take him to Braco Beach. The ocean is still before sunrise; a flat-bottom is very gentle, mon. We take him away.'
'He makes sense again, Alex.' Tucker gave his approval without regret. 'Our medical friend notwithstanding, it's a question of alternatives. And we both know most wounded men can travel gentle if you give 'em a couple of hours.'
'What'll we do if the police come tonight? And search?'
Lawrence answered, again with authority. 'I tell Tuck, mon. The person in that room has Indie Fever. The bad smell helps us. Falmouth police plenty scared of Indie Fever.'
'So is everybody else,' added Sam, chuckling.
'You're inventive,' said McAuliff. And he meant it. 'Indie Fever' was the polite term for a particularly nasty offshoot of encephalitis, infrequent but nevertheless very much a reality, usually found in the hill country. It could swell a man's testicles many times their size and render him impotent as well as a figure of grotesque ridicule.
'You go get sleep now, McAuliff, mon... please.'
'Yes. Yes, I will. See you in a few hours.' Alex looked at Lawrence for a moment before turning to go inside. It was amazing. Floyd was dead, Barak barely alive, and the grinning, previously carefree youngster who had seemed so naive and playful in comparison to his obvious superiors was no longer the innocent.