in each hand was an aerosol can, clouds of mist spewing from both.
Tucker and the black aide had systematically sprayed the interior of the room.
Once finished, they crossed to the plastic bags, the case, and the large cylinder. They picked up the objects, spoke briefly again, and started for the lawn.
Out on the water, the fishing boat was halfway to the point of the cove. But something had happened. It had stopped; it bobbed gently on the calm surface, no longer travelling forward. Peter could see the now tiny figure of Lawrence standing up in the bow, then crouching, then standing up again. The skipper was gesturing, his movements excited.
The boat pushed forward once more, only to turn slowly and change direction. It did not continue on its course - if the point was, indeed, its course. Instead, it headed for the open sea.
Jensen lay on the moist sand for the next fifteen minutes, watching the small craft progressively become a black dot within a grey-black ocean splashed with orange sunlight. He could not read the thoughts of the two Jamaicans; he could not see the things that were happening on that boat so illogically far out on the water. But his knowledge of tides and currents, his observations during the last three hours, led his conclusions to one end.
The man on the stretcher had died. His corpse would soon be stripped of identification, weighted down with net lead, and thrown into the water, eventually to be carried by floor currents far away from the island of Jamaica. Perhaps to be washed ashore weeks or months from now on some Cayan reef or, more fortuitously, torn apart and devoured by the predators of the deep.
Peter knew it was time to call Julian, meet with Julian.
Immediately.
McAuliff rolled over on his side, the sharp pain in his shoulder suddenly surging through his chest. He sat up quickly, momentarily bewildered. He focused his thoughts; it was morning; the night before had been a series of terrifying confusions. The pieces would have to be put back together, plans made.
He looked down at Alison, beside him. She was breathing deeply, steadily, in complete sleep. If the evening had been a nightmare for him, it had been no less a torment for her. Perhaps worse. At least he had been in motion, constant, unceasing movement. She had been waiting, thinking; he had had no time for thoughts.
It was worse to wait. In some ways.
Slowly, as silently as he could, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. His whole body was stiff; his joints pained him, especially his kneecaps.
It was understandable. The muscles he had used last night were dormant strings of an unused instrument, called into play by a panicked conductor. The allusion was proper, thought Alex - about his thoughts. He nearly smiled as he conjured up the phrase: so out of tune.
Everything was out of tune.
But the notes were forming recognizable chords... somewhere. In the distance. There was a melody of sorts that could be vaguely distinguished.
Yet not distinguished. Hardly noble.
Not yet.
An odour assaulted his nostrils. It was not the illusion of spice and vanilla, but nevertheless sweet. If there was an association, it was south Oriental... Java, the Sunda Trench, pungent, a bit sickening. He crossed quietly to the terrace door, about to open it, when he realized he was naked. He walked silently to a chair by the curtained window, where he had thrown a pair of swimming trunks several days ago. He removed them from the wooden rim and put them on.
'I hope they're not wet,' said Alison from the bed. 'The maid service here is a touch lacking, and I didn't hang them up.'
'Go back to sleep,' Alex replied. 'You were asleep a moment ago. Very much asleep.'
'I'm very much awake now... Good heavens, it's a quarter past eight.'
'And?'
'Nothing, really... I just didn't think we'd sleep this long.'
'It's not long. We didn't get to bed until after three. Considering everything that happened, noon would have been too early.'
'How's your arm? The shoulder?'
'A little sore... like most of me. Not crippling.'
'What is that terrible smell?' Alison sat up; the sheet fell away, revealing a curiously prim nightgown, opaque cotton with buttons. She saw Alex's gaze, the beginning of a smile on his lips. She glanced down and laughed. 'My granny nightshirt. I put it on after you fell asleep. It was chilly, and you hadn't the slightest interest in anything but philosophical discourse.'